The camera flashes blindingly as Mary Jane shifts her pose on the silk-draped chaise lounge. Her
body is barely covered by the sheer, red lingerie that leaves little to the imagination. The studio
lights are hot against her skin, making beads of sweat form along her spine despite the air
conditioning.
"More arch in your back, MJ! Give me that classic Watson sizzle!" shouts the photographer, a
man half her age who treats her like a piece of meat. His name is Derek—or maybe Daniel—she
can't remember anymore. They all blend together after a while.
Mary Jane complies, feeling hollow inside despite the practiced smile on her face. At 36, this
wasn't where she'd imagined her career would be. After Paul disappeared, after peter wanted
nothing to do with her and her legitimate acting roles dried up, she'd been forced to take
increasingly explicit photoshoots just to pay the bills.
"That's it! Now lose the top. The subscribers are paying premium for the full package."
She hesitates only briefly before unhooking the flimsy bra. The studio feels cold against her
exposed skin, but she's become numb to the shame. This is what her once-promising career has
devolved into—selling her body piece by piece to stay relevant.
"Perfect! Now give me that look... you know the one. Like you're thinking about someone
special." Derek circles her, camera clicking rapidly.
Mary Jane lets her mind drift to Peter. She wonders what he's doing right now—probably on
that ridiculous luxury cruise with Emma Frost, surrounded by beautiful women who would do
anything for him. The thought makes her stomach twist with regret.
"Jesus, MJ, not like you're at a funeral. We're selling fantasy here!"
She forces her lips into a seductive pout and thinks about how different things could have been.
Four years ago, she'd walked away from the most loyal man she'd ever known. Now Peter was
engaged to a billionaire telepath who was carrying his children, while Mary Jane was posing
nearly naked for strangers on the internet.
"Let's wrap this up. The lighting's perfect for the shower sequence."
Mary Jane's heart sinks. "I thought we weren't doing that until next week."
"Schedule change. The subscribers want it now, and frankly, we need the boost in numbers."
Derek doesn't even look at her as he adjusts his equipment. "There's a robe behind the screen.
Five-minute break, then we need you wet and ready."
She nods mechanically, wrapping herself in the thin robe as she checks her phone. No messages
except a reminder about tonight's dinner with Gerald Hoffman. At least that gave her something
to hope for—a potential way back to legitimate work.
..........................
Later that evening, she sits across from Gerald Hoffman in a hotel suite, the powerful director
who's promised to resurrect her mainstream career. The restaurant portion of their meeting
had gone well enough—expensive food she barely tasted, wine that didn't quite dull the ache in
her chest.
"You understand what I need from you, Mary Jane," Gerald says, his hand sliding up her thigh in
the private booth of the exclusive restaurant. His wedding ring catches the dim light. "My new
film needs a mature beauty with... flexibility. Both on and off screen."
She feels the weight of his gaze on her body, assessing her like merchandise. At fifty-eight,
Gerald Hoffman still has the power to make or break careers in Hollywood. His last three films
won major awards, and landing a role in his next project could pull her out of the spiral she's
been in.
"I've done all the auditions, Gerald," she replies, trying to maintain her dignity. "My
performance speaks for itself."
Gerald laughs, his breath reeking of expensive scotch. "In this business, talent is common.
Loyalty is rare. I need to know you're... committed."
The implication hangs heavy between them. Mary Jane takes a long sip of her wine, thinking
about the lingerie shoot earlier today. About the shower sequence where she'd posed with
water cascading down her naked body while Derek shouted directions. About how each
compromise led to another, until she could barely recognize herself anymore.
"Let's go upstairs," Gerald suggests, though it isn't really a suggestion. "I have the Presidential
Suite. We can discuss your... character development in private."
Mary Jane follows him to the elevator, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. She watches
their reflection in the mirrored walls—Gerald's confident stance, her own uncertain posture.
When had she become this person?
In the suite, Gerald pours more drinks while Mary Jane stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows,
looking out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, Peter is happy with his new life. She
wonders if he ever thinks about her anymore.
"Beautiful view, isn't it?" Gerald approaches from behind, his hands finding her waist. "Not as
beautiful as you, of course."
She feels nothing as his lips press against her neck. No excitement, no desire—just empty
calculation. This is a transaction, she tells herself. A necessary step to reclaim what she's lost.
"I've wanted you since I first saw you on Broadway," he murmurs. "Such a waste of talent, what
you've been doing lately. I can fix that, Mary Jane. Make you a star again."
Mary Jane hesitates for a moment before leading him to the bedroom. As she reaches for the
light switch, Gerald stops her.
"No, leave them on. I want to see you."
She swallows hard, nodding as she begins to unzip her dress. This is what her life has become—
trading pieces of herself for promises that grow increasingly hollow.
As Gerald's hands reach for her, Mary Jane closes her eyes and thinks of Peter. Of what he
would think if he could see her now. Of how far she's fallen since she walked away from him.
And for the first time in years, she allows herself to cry.
Six months later, Mary Jane Watson-Hoffman walks carefully down the red carpet, her elegant
maternity gown flowing around her heavily pregnant belly. The twins she carries have become
Hollywood's most anticipated arrivals, almost as celebrated as her triumphant return to the
spotlight. Her left hand rests protectively over her stomach, the enormous diamond on her ring
finger catching the camera flashes.
"Mary Jane! How does it feel to be back on top?" a reporter shouts.
She smiles that famous Mary Jane smile—the one that once graced Broadway marquees and
magazine covers. "It feels like coming home," she says, the practiced line rolling off her tongue
with perfect sincerity.
Gerald appears at her side, his arm possessively around her waist. At fifty-nine, he looks
distinguished in his tuxedo, playing the devoted husband for the cameras. His thumb strokes
small circles against her hip—a reminder of their arrangement rather than a gesture of
affection.
"My wife is extraordinary," he tells the press. "Her performance in Broken Reflections is already
generating Oscar buzz, and rightfully so."
The film—Gerald's most ambitious project to date—has Mary Jane playing a former addict
rebuilding her life, a role critics are calling "hauntingly authentic" and "career-defining." What
they don't know is how she prepared for the scenes of degradation and despair.
Later that night, after the premiere's standing ovation, Mary Jane sits in a hotel suite
surrounded by studio executives. Gerald's hand rests on her shoulder, squeezing slightly.
"Gentlemen, my wife needs to rest in her condition," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his
eyes. "But she wanted to personally thank you for your continued support of our projects."
The men exchange knowing looks as Mary Jane rises from the sofa with practiced grace. One of
them, balding with a paunch stretching his expensive suit, approaches her.
"That scene where your character breaks down—absolutely riveting," he says, his hand already
sliding to the small of her back. "I'd love to discuss your technique... privately."
Mary Jane feels Gerald's eyes on her. "Just one more time," he whispers in her ear as he guides
her toward the bedroom. "The financing for your next film depends on it."
She nods, her face a perfect mask of compliance as the door closes behind them.
..............................
"Push, Mrs. Hoffman! One more big push!" the doctor urges.
Mary Jane grips the sides of the hospital bed, her body drenched in sweat as she brings her
daughters into the world. Gerald stands nearby, phone in hand, occasionally glancing up when
the medical staff addresses him directly.
"They're beautiful," the nurse says, placing the first newborn in Mary Jane's arms. "Perfect little
girls."
Mary Jane looks down at her daughter's face, so tiny and pure. Tears stream down her cheeks—
not entirely from joy. The second baby joins her sister, and for a moment, holding these
innocent lives against her chest, Mary Jane feels a flicker of hope.
"Sophia and April," she whispers, names she'd chosen herself. Names Gerald had actually
allowed her to choose.
Gerald finally puts his phone away, approaching to inspect his daughters with clinical
detachment. "They'll photograph well," he says, as if appraising props for his next film. "Good
for the family image."
That night, alone in her private hospital room while Gerald attends a "business dinner," Mary
Jane cradles her sleeping daughters and makes them a silent promise: I'll protect you from this
world. From your father. From becoming what I've become.
It's a promise she knows, even then, she might not be able to keep.
.............................
"Smile for Vanity Fair, Mary Jane! Over here!"
The flashbulbs are blinding as she poses on another red carpet, her post-pregnancy body back
to its camera-ready perfection through brutal workouts and restrictive diets. Her Oscar
nomination for Broken Reflections has catapulted her back to A-list status. Magazine covers, talk
show appearances, and lucrative contracts flow in faster than she can track them.
At home, nine-month-old Sophia and April gurgle in the care of round-the-clock nannies while
Mary Jane fulfills her obligations—both public and private.
"You're a miracle worker," a studio head tells her in the back of his limousine, zipping up his
pants as she discreetly wipes her mouth. "That franchise we discussed? It's yours."
The pattern becomes routine. For every film offer, every magazine spread, every step up the
ladder of her resurrected career, there's a price paid in hotel rooms and private parties. Gerald
orchestrates it all with the precision of a master director.
"Just smile and make them happy," he instructs before leading her into a producer's beach
house where three men wait, drinks in hand and hunger in their eyes. "Remember what we
talked about—the international distribution rights."
She performs as directed—on her knees servicing multiple men simultaneously, bent over
furniture while they take turns with her body, using her mouth in ways that leave her voice
hoarse for days.
"Such a good girl," one executive groans as he finishes on her face, others waiting their turn. "So
much more accommodating than those young starlets."
Mary Jane has learned to detach, to float somewhere above her body while it's being used. She
thinks about her daughters, about the trust fund she's secretly building for them, about the day
she might finally break free.
.............................
"Mommy, look what I drew!" Three-year-old April holds up a crayon drawing of their family—
stick figures with red and blonde hair.
Mary Jane kneels down, genuinely smiling for the first time in days. "It's beautiful, sweetheart.
Is that all of us?"
April nods enthusiastically while Sophia adds more color to her own drawing. These moments—
stolen between film shoots, press junkets, and Gerald's "special arrangements"—are what keep
Mary Jane going.
"When are you leaving again?" Sophia asks without looking up from her artwork.
The question stings. "Tomorrow morning, baby. But I'll be back in a week."
"Daddy says you're very busy because everyone loves you," Sophia says with the innocent
cruelty of a child. "He says that's why you can't read us bedtime stories."
Mary Jane swallows hard. "I'll read you two stories tonight, okay? Any ones you want."
Later, after tucking the girls in, she finds Gerald in his study reviewing contracts.
"I want to cut back on appearances," she says, standing in the doorway. "The girls need me here
more."
Gerald doesn't look up. "We've discussed this. Your momentum is everything in this business.
Besides, we have commitments."
"They're growing up without me."
Now he meets her eyes, his expression cold. "Need I remind you of our arrangement? Of where
you were when I found you? Selling nude photos online to pay rent?"
Mary Jane feels the familiar shame wash over her. "No."
"Good." He returns to his papers. "The Westfield party is tomorrow night. Wear the blue
dress—the one that shows off your ass. And don't bother with underwear. Makes things more...
efficient."
She turns to leave, defeat settling over her like a shroud.
"Oh, and Mary Jane?" Gerald calls after her. "Remember to smile. You're living the dream, after
all."
...........................
Five years into her marriage, at the height of her renewed fame, it all comes crashing down.
"HOLLYWOOD'S DIRTIEST SECRET: THE TRUTH ABOUT MARY JANE WATSON-HOFFMAN"
The headline screams from every gossip site, every entertainment program. A former assistant
of Gerald's—a young woman he'd impregnated and then paid to disappear—has published a
tell-all exposé, complete with high-resolution photos and videos that leave nothing to the
imagination.
Mary Jane stares at her laptop in horror as images of her most private humiliations play out on
screen. There she is on her knees before studio executives, there performing degrading acts at
private parties, there being passed between men like a party favor—all while Gerald watches
from the sidelines, sometimes directing like it's just another film.
Within hours, the videos are uploaded to every major adult site. By nightfall, "Mary Jane
Watson Sex Tape" is trending worldwide.
The phone rings incessantly—her agent, her publicist, journalists seeking comment. She ignores
them all, sitting motionless as her carefully reconstructed life disintegrates around her.
Gerald storms into their Bel Air mansion, face contorted with rage. "Do you have any idea what
this has done to my reputation?" he shouts, as if he's the victim. "My investors are pulling out of
the new project!"
Mary Jane looks at him, really looks at him, perhaps for the first time in years. "Get out," she
says quietly.
"What did you say to me?"
"GET OUT!" she screams, hurling a crystal vase at his head. It misses, shattering against the wall
in a shower of glass and water. "Get out before I call the police and tell them everything—
including what you've been slipping into my drinks before your special parties."
His face pales. They both know there are lines even Hollywood power players can't cross.
"This isn't over," he threatens, but he leaves nonetheless.
Mary Jane sinks to the floor, surrounded by shattered glass that mirrors her shattered life, when
she hears a small voice from the doorway.
"Mommy?"
She looks up to see eight-year-old Sophia standing there, clutching a tablet. Behind her, April
peers around the doorframe, tears streaming down her face.
"How could you?" Sophia spits, holding up the tablet with a tabloid headline blazing across the
screen. "Everyone at school is talking about it! They showed us pictures!"
Mary Jane reaches for her daughters, but they back away. "Girls, please, I can explain—"
"Explain what?" Sophia demands with a child's terrible directness. "That you let those men do
those things to you? For movies?"
"It wasn't like that," Mary Jane says desperately, though she knows it was exactly like that.
April, always quieter than her sister, doesn't speak. She simply turns her tablet around, showing
a news segment: "Parker-Frost Industries revolutionizes medicine again! Peter Parker and wife
Emma celebrate the birth of their seventh child while distributing their cancer cure worldwide."
"At least someone from your past did something meaningful with their life," April mutters, her
young face twisted with a disappointment no child should have to feel for their parent.
The words cut deeper than any headline, any exposed secret. In that moment, Mary Jane
Watson—once America's sweetheart, now America's cautionary tale—truly breaks.
........................
The divorce is ugly, public, and expensive. Gerald employs every dirty trick to paint Mary Jane as
unstable, unfit, morally corrupt. But the evidence against him is too damning, the public
sympathy unexpectedly tilting in Mary Jane's favor as the full extent of his manipulation
emerges.
She walks away with joint custody of the girls, the Malibu house, and enough money to never
work again. But the damage to her career is irreparable. Studio doors that once opened eagerly
now remain firmly shut. Former friends cross the street to avoid her. The industry that built her
up tears her down with savage glee.
For a while, she tries to rebuild. She hires crisis management teams, gives tearful interviews
about being coerced and manipulated. Some believe her; many don't. The offers that do come
her way are exploitative at best—reality shows promising to document her "redemption
journey," low-budget films hoping to capitalize on her notoriety.
The girls spend weekends with their father, returning increasingly distant and judgmental.
Despite the court-ordered therapy, despite Mary Jane's desperate attempts to explain in ageappropriate ways what happened, the wedge between them grows.
By the time Sophia and April are teenagers, their visits become perfunctory, their conversations
stilted. Gerald has remarried a twenty-six-year-old actress, and the girls prefer the
uncomplicated normality of his new family to the weight of their mother's infamy.
"We're going to spend Christmas with Dad and Melanie," fifteen-year-old Sophia announces
during a November visit. "They're taking us to Switzerland."
Mary Jane nods, swallowing her disappointment. "That sounds wonderful. I'll miss you, but—"
"It's just easier there," April interrupts, not unkindly but with finality. "People don't stare at us
or ask questions."
After they leave, Mary Jane opens a bottle of wine and studies her reflection in the window
overlooking the Pacific. At forty-five, she's still beautiful—perhaps more so than in her youth,
with a depth and character to her features that transcends conventional prettiness. But the
industry has no use for beautiful women with scandalous pasts, not unless they're willing to
lean into the scandal.
Which, eventually, she does.
.......................................
The offer comes through a former makeup artist—a high-end adult film studio looking for a
mature, experienced actress for a series of "sophisticated erotic features." The pay is
extraordinary: six figures per film, creative input, top-tier production values.
"It's not pornography," the director assures her over lunch at a discreet restaurant. "It's adult
cinema. Artistic, sensual, aimed at discerning audiences."
Mary Jane almost laughs at the euphemisms. "Let's be honest—you want me because of the
scandal. Because people have already seen me doing these things for free."
The director, a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and intelligent eyes, doesn't deny it.
"I want you because you're beautiful, compelling on screen, and yes—because your name
carries a certain... anticipation. But I also think you deserve to take control of your narrative. To
be paid fairly for your work, to have agency in how your sexuality is portrayed."
Mary Jane considers the offer for weeks. She consults therapists, lawyers, even calls a women's
advocacy group for perspective. In the end, what decides her is a conversation with her
daughters during one of their increasingly rare visits.
"We're changing our last name," Sophia announces over dinner. "To Wilson—Mom's maiden
name. Dad thinks it's a good idea, to distance us from... everything."
Mary Jane sets down her fork. "I see."
"It's not personal," April adds quickly, though of course it is. "It's just for college applications and
stuff."
That night, after they've gone to sleep in rooms that increasingly resemble guest quarters rather
than their own spaces, Mary Jane signs the contract with the adult film studio.
If she's going to be defined by scandal anyway, she might as well profit from it. Might as well
have control over it. Might as well embrace the scarlet letter rather than futilely trying to scrub
it away.
...................................
At fifty-five, Mary Jane Watson looks thirty thanks to the Parker-Frost youth serum available to
all. She lives alone in her sprawling Malibu mansion, financially secure despite being blacklisted
from mainstream entertainment. Her daughters, now successful young women in their
twenties, rarely call.
Her adult film career has made her infamous—"The most beautiful woman in the genre,"
according to industry awards she keeps in a closet rather than displaying them. She works
selectively now, commanding extraordinary fees for performances that blur the line between
pornography and art.
Between films, she travels—Paris, Tokyo, Buenos Aires—places where she can be anonymous or,
at least, where her notoriety carries less weight. She dates occasionally, mostly younger men
who are intrigued by her experience and reputation, but the relationships never last.
On a rain-soaked Tuesday evening, alone in her house with only the sound of waves crashing
against the cliffs below, Mary Jane opens a drawer she hasn't touched in years. Inside is an old
photo album, its corners worn, its pages yellowed with age.
Pictures of her and Peter from college. From their apartment in Queens. From happier times
when she was just a struggling actress and he was just a struggling photographer—before
Spider-Man complicated everything, before she walked away from the most loyal man she'd
ever known. Before Paul.
There's Peter with his arm around her waist, both of them laughing at something now
forgotten. There they are at Coney Island, sticky with cotton candy and sunburned. There's
Peter asleep on their secondhand couch, a textbook open on his chest.
Mary Jane traces his face with her fingertip, then reaches for the small wooden box beside her.
Inside are designer pills—the latest synthetic experience, promising euphoria without the crash.
She swallows two with expensive scotch.
As the drugs take effect, softening the edges of her loneliness, she makes a decision.
"Computer, load Stark Memories program," she commands.
The room transforms around her, high-tech holographic projectors creating a perfect recreation
of Peter's old apartment—their old apartment—down to the water stain on the ceiling and the
perpetually broken radiator.
A holographic Peter materializes by the kitchenette, smiling that slightly crooked smile she once
knew better than her own. The AI construct, built from photos, videos, and her own memories,
is remarkably lifelike—a technological ghost of what might have been.
"Hey MJ," it says with his voice, his mannerisms. "Red looks good on you today."
She watches as the hologram moves around the apartment, going through the motions of
Peter's old routine—checking his camera equipment, thumbing through a textbook,
complaining good-naturedly about his job at the Bugle. The programming is sophisticated
enough to carry on basic conversations, to respond to her questions with phrases culled from
her memories.
The holographic Peter finishes his tasks and comes to sit beside her on the recreated sofa, just
as he used to do after a long day. He lays his head in her lap, looking up at her with those eyes
that always saw the best in her.
Mary Jane reaches out, her hand passing through his face like smoke. A tear slides down her
cheek, falling through the projection to land on her own leg.
"I should have never left you," she whispers.
The hologram smiles, programmed to respond to emotional cues. "It's okay, MJ. We've got
time."
But they don't. They never did. And as the drugs heighten the simulation's realism while
simultaneously reminding her of its artificiality, Mary Jane Watson—once an aspiring actress,
once a star, once a wife and mother, now a cautionary tale—allows herself to mourn the life she
might have had with the man who loved her unconditionally, the man she left behind for a
dream that became a nightmare.
Outside her window, a Parker-Frost Industries billboard illuminates the rainy night, showing
Peter and Emma surrounded by their children, their faces radiant with genuine happiness as
they promote their latest miracle cure. A family united not just by biology but by purpose, by
genuine love, by the shared mission of making the world better.
Everything Mary Jane once could have had, if she'd only made a different choice.
Five days later, Mary Jane sits alone on the patio of a small café in Santa Monica, nursing a cup
of coffee gone cold. The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and possibilities, but she barely
notices. Her mind is trapped in the cycle of what-ifs and might-have-beens that has consumed
her since seeing Peter again.
She stares at the script on her tablet—another "sophisticated adult feature" with a six-figure
paycheck attached. The role requires her to play a mature woman initiating a college student
into sex. Her agent had called it "empowering." Mary Jane calls it what it is: exploitation of her
notoriety.
Her finger hovers over the "Accept" button when a familiar voice freezes her in place.
"Mary Jane? I thought that was you."
The voice is cultured, crisp, with just a hint of British boarding school refinement. Mary Jane
doesn't need to look up to know who it belongs to, but she does anyway.
Emma Frost-Parker stands before her, radiant in a white and ice-blue designer dress that
probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. Diamond droplets cascade from her ears,
matching the enormous stone on her ring finger. An expensive nursing blanket is draped
elegantly over her shoulder, beneath which she's clearly feeding her newest baby.
Her blue lips curve into a gentle smile that reaches her eyes. "Please, don't run off," Emma says,
sliding into the seat across from Mary Jane with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to
commanding attention. "It's been so long, darling."
Mary Jane's throat tightens. Up close, Emma is even more intimidating—flawless skin, platinum
blonde hair styled in an elegant bob, and those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through
any pretense. Despite clearly having given birth multiple times, her figure remains enviably
perfect.
"What do you want, Emma?" Mary Jane asks bitterly, closing her tablet. "Come to gloat? Twelve
children now, I hear. Ambassador to the stars now that Parker-frost is colonizing planets. The
perfect life."
Emma adjusts the nursing infant beneath the blanket with practiced ease. "Thirteen, actually.
This little one is Alexander. He's just six weeks old." Her expression softens as she gazes down at
the hidden bundle. "But no, I'm not here to gloat."
"Then why track me down?"
"I didn't track you down," Emma replies. "I have a home nearby. This café makes excellent
croissants." She pauses, studying Mary Jane's face. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something. My
daughter Aurora is dating Orion—Peter and Ororo's son. They're talking about marriage."
Mary Jane feels a strange hollowness spread through her chest. Peter's children with other
women are getting old enough to marry. Time has truly moved on without her.
"I thought you should know," Emma continues, her voice surprisingly gentle, "since you were
once so important to Peter."
"And why would that matter to me now?"
Emma shifts the baby to her other breast beneath the blanket with smooth efficiency. "There's
more. Your daughter April has been seeing Erik—Peter and Wanda's son—for several months
now. There's talk of engagement there too."
Mary Jane's coffee cup clatters against its saucer. "What? How would you know about my
daughter?"
"I know many things, darling. It's what I do." Emma's expression remains compassionate,
without a hint of the smug superiority Mary Jane expected. "Our families are becoming
intertwined whether we planned it or not. I thought you should hear it from me rather than
through gossip."
Mary Jane laughs bitterly, the sound harsh even to her own ears. "Why would I care about your
perfect extended family? Peter's moved on. With you, with Storm, with Wanda, with who
knows how many others."
"Seven," Emma says matter-of-factly. "Peter has children with seven women, including
me…..well seven and counting. All consensual, all with my blessing, all part of saving mutantkind
from extinction." She sighs, a flicker of something—perhaps regret?—crossing her features. "He
was broken when you left, you know. It took years to put him back together."
She meets Mary Jane's eyes directly. "And if I'm being completely honest, I didn't want you near
him after you chose Paul. I was... protective. Perhaps overly so."
"Jealous, you mean," Mary Jane corrects her.
"Yes," Emma admits without hesitation. "Fiercely so. But that was years ago, and we've all
grown since then. I just thought—"
"Save it." Mary Jane stands abruptly, gathering her things. "Your concern is wasted on me. My
daughters barely speak to me, my career is a joke, and the last thing I need is your pity."
Emma's eyes widen slightly. "That's not what this is—"
"Isn't it?" Mary Jane snaps. "The perfect Emma Frost-Parker, slumming with the fallen star?
Taking time from your important ambassadorial duties to check on poor, pathetic MJ?"
"Mary Jane, wait—"
But she's already moving, pushing past other patrons, ignoring Emma's calls to wait. Outside,
she breaks into a run, tears blurring her vision as she flees down the boardwalk.
In her mind, she's screaming for Peter to save her, just like he used to do—swinging in at the last
moment to catch her when she was falling. But Peter isn't coming. Not anymore. Not ever again.
..........................
Back at her Malibu mansion, Mary Jane paces the empty rooms like a caged animal. The walls
seem to close in despite the soaring ceilings and ocean views. Her phone rings—her agent,
probably with news about the film offer.
She lets it go to voicemail, then listens as the message confirms her suspicions.
"Mary Jane, darling, they've upped the offer to seven figures. It's the most explicit project yet—
they're calling it 'The Education of Young Men.' Five scenes, full creative control, and they've
agreed to your rider about lighting and camera angles. Call me back ASAP—they need an
answer by morning."
She deletes the message and pours herself a double scotch, neat. The amber liquid burns her
throat, a welcome distraction from the pain in her chest. Seven figures to perform sex acts on
camera with actors young enough to be her sons. Creative control over which positions will best
flatter her aging body under the unforgiving lights.
This is what her life has become.
She wanders through the house, past the awards she keeps hidden in closets, past the fan mail
she never answers, past the photos of her daughters that become more outdated with each
passing year. They're both in their twenties now—Sophia pursuing a law degree at Columbia,
April studying fashion design in Paris. They call on holidays, sometimes. Send generic gifts on
her birthday.
Mary Jane finds herself in her bedroom, staring at the drawer she rarely opens. Inside is the old
photo album—Peter and her in happier times. She pulls it out, fingers trembling as she flips
through the pages.
There they are at Coney Island, cotton candy stuck to Peter's nose while she laughs beside him.
There's Peter asleep on their old couch, textbooks scattered around him. There they are dancing
at Harry Osborn's birthday party, looking at each other like they were the only two people in the
world.
Something inside Mary Jane finally breaks—a dam holding back years of regret and selfloathing. She clutches the album to her chest and stumbles to her rooftop terrace, the
expansive deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The night is clear, stars twinkling above like
distant, uncaring witnesses to her pain.
She sets the photo album down on the glass table and walks to the edge of the terrace. The
railing is low—a design choice she'd insisted on when purchasing the property, wanting
unobstructed views. Now it seems like fate.
Forty feet below, waves crash against the cliffs, the sound hypnotic in its rhythm.
"I'm sorry, Peter," she whispers to the night sky. "I chose wrong. I always chose wrong."
Mary Jane takes a deep breath and steps onto the lower rung of the railing. One more step and
it would be over—the humiliation, the loneliness, the endless parade of meaningless
encounters with men who want her body but not her heart.
She closes her eyes, feeling the ocean breeze against her face. It would be so easy...
"MJ, DON'T!"
The voice is so clear, so distinctly Peter's, that for a moment she thinks she's hallucinating. But
when she turns, there's no one there—just the empty terrace and the photo album lying open
to a picture of them from college, young and full of hope.
Her foot slips, and for one terrifying moment, she teeters on the edge. Her arms windmill
frantically as gravity pulls her forward—
Mary Jane bolts upright in bed, screaming, her body drenched in sweat. Her heart hammers
wildly against her ribs as she gasps for air, clutching the sheets around her.
The luxurious suite aboard the Aurora Invicta comes into focus around her—plush carpets,
ornate furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the moonlit ocean beyond. It was just a
nightmare—a terrible vision of what her life could become.
She presses a trembling hand to her mouth, the dream still vivid in her mind. The loneliness, the
degradation, the despair—it had felt so real, so possible.
"I won't let that happen," she whispers fiercely to the empty room. "I'll make it right with Peter.
Whatever it takes."
...........................
Sunlight filtered through the panoramic windows of the master suite aboard the Aurora Invicta,
casting golden rays across the rumpled silk sheets. Emma straddled Peter, her heavily pregnant
belly a perfect globe between them as her hips rolled in a hypnotic rhythm. Her platinum
blonde hair caught the morning light like spun silver, and her ice-blue painted lips had left a
constellation of marks across his face, neck, and chest—a possessive map of her territory.
"You were magnificent with Natasha," Emma purred, her inner muscles clenching around him
with expert control. She leaned back slightly, hands resting on his thighs for balance, putting her
swollen breasts and rounded belly on full display. "The way you filled her with your cum... she
couldn't stop praising your stamina. Even the Black Widow was nothing but a trembling and
bred mess by the end."
Peter gripped Emma's perfect ass, giving it a firm smack that echoed through the cabin and
made her moan—a sound that still drove him wild after all these years together. The sound of
skin against skin filled the room as their bodies moved together in perfect harmony.
"Only for you, Em," Peter groaned, thrusting upward to meet her movements. His hands
caressed the curve of her belly, feeling their twins shift beneath his touch. "Everything I do is for
you—for us."
Emma leaned down, her heavy breasts pressing against his chest as she captured his mouth in a
deep kiss that tasted of love and desire. Her tongue explored his mouth possessively, and when
she pulled back, her eyes gleamed with mischievous delight.
"Felicia's next on our list, daddy," she whispered, grinding herself against him in slow, deliberate
circles. The wet heat of her cunt gripped him like a vise as she rocked. "I've already arranged
everything. Tonight, after the dinner party."
Peter's rhythm faltered slightly. His hands stilled on her hips. "Felicia? I still don't know, Em.
There's a lot of history there."
Emma cupped his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones as she left another blue lipstick mark on
his cheek. "Exactly," she said, her voice dripping with honey-coated venom. "Remember how
she left you hanging when Mary Jane was with Paul? How she played with your heart and then
disappeared? All for some thieving 'girlfriend' in Europe?"
She rolled her hips in a particularly delicious way that made Peter groan, his cock throbbing
inside her. "Wouldn't it feel good to work out all that frustration? To make her beg for
forgiveness while you pound that tight pussy of hers?"
Peter's hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave marks.
The memory of Felicia's betrayal still stung, even after all these years. The way she'd vanished
without a proper goodbye, only to return months later with stories of a girlfriend in Paris who'd
never materialized.
"I want to watch you hate-fuck her, daddy," Emma continued, her voice husky with desire as she
ground against him. "I want to see you make her scream until she's hoarse. Until she knows
exactly what she gave up when she chose to play with your heart."
The telepathic images Emma sent into his mind were explicit and filthy—Felicia on her hands
and knees, mascara running down her face as Peter took her from behind while Emma watched,
directing his movements.
"You're terrible," Peter said with a roguish grin, smacking her perfect ass once more before
flipping them over in one smooth motion so Emma was beneath him, her pregnant belly cradled
safely between them. He drove into her with renewed vigor, careful of her condition but giving
her exactly what she needed. "And I love it. I'll do it for you, Em. Only for you."
Emma wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "That's it, daddy. Give me every
fucking drop." Her nails raked down his back, leaving red trails that would heal within hours
thanks to his enhanced metabolism. "Show me how you'll fuck that little kitten tonight."
Their movements became frantic, desperate. Peter's hand moved to Emma's belly, both their
hands caressing the large swell of their soon-to-be-born twins. Through their bond, he could
feel their children's minds—already forming, already powerful.
"I love you, Emma," he groaned as his release approached, his hips pistoning into her with
precision that made her gasp with each thrust. "More than anything in this world."
"I love you too," she gasped, her body arching as pleasure overtook her. Her telepathy slipped,
broadcasting her climax throughout the entire ship, causing several crew members to suddenly
find themselves inexplicably aroused. "Always and forever, my love."
As they climaxed together, Peter buried himself to the hilt, flooding Emma's already pregnant
womb with his seed. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, nuzzling each other's faces
affectionately, their bodies still joined as they basked in the afterglow of their passion.
"Do you really think Natasha could be pregnant?" Peter asked after several minutes of
contented silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on Emma's back.
Emma smiled against his chest. "I felt something shift in her mind when you came inside her.
The Web of Life responded to you, darling. I believe you've overcome the Red Room's
sterilization."
Peter shook his head in amazement. "That's five women carrying my children. Six if Felicia...
Jesus, Em, how did this happen? Five years ago I was barely making rent in that shitty
apartment."
"Because you deserve this," Emma said fiercely, pushing herself up to look him in the eyes.
"You've sacrificed everything for others for years. Now it's time for the universe to give back."
She kissed him deeply, then pulled back with a wicked smile. "Besides, I've always wanted a
large family. And what i want i always get."