Chapter 11: Thrones in the Park
The stone thrones rose from the earth in a moonlit clearing north of the reservoir, a place where jogging paths twisted away into darkness. The rock was veined with something that glistened like obsidian, shaped not by tools but by will. They were cold to the touch, even through the humid New York night.
Scott Summers sat in one, his back rigid against the unyielding stone. Naked. The bat brand on his chest was no longer a temporary glow but a permanent scar, a violet tattoo that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the city’s subdued heartbeat. His cock stood achingly erect against his stomach, a testament to a need that was no longer his own, flushed and dripping lightly onto his thigh. His ruby quartz visor was gone. His eyes, normally shielded, were closed. He didn’t need to see. His world was reduced to touch, to scent, to the weight in his lap.
That weight shifted. Morrigan, draped only in the shimmer of moonlight, settled herself onto him. She didn’t impale herself immediately. She ground the wet, soft heat of her against the head of his shaft, smearing her own slickness over him in slow, torturous circles. A low sigh escaped her, a contented hum that vibrated through his bones.
“You feel that, Scott?” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “That’s the pulse of eight million dreams. All of them… mine. And you’re the conduit.”
She sank down, taking him inside her inch by deliberate inch. He was already so hard it was a pain, a beautiful, submissive ache. Her inner walls clenched around him, a velvet fist. She began to move, a lazy, rolling rhythm of her hips, using him like a living throne.
To their right, on an identical throne of wrought stone, Peter Parker was less rigid. His body slumped slightly, head lolling back, mouth agape. The paw brand on his chest shone with a steady blue light. His erection was just as relentless, jutting upward, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Felicia perched on him, her tail swishing through the air behind her. She wasn’t grinding. She was bouncing, a quick, playful, demanding rhythm that made wet, slapping sounds echo in the clearing.
“C’mon, Peter-Peter,” she chirped, her claws digging lightly into his shoulders. “You can do better than that. Push up. Meet me.” Her voice dropped to a filthy whisper. “Fuck up into your queen’s perfect pussy.”
Peter’s body obeyed, his hips giving a feeble upward jerk, driving himself deeper into her with a choked gasp. A ghost of his old self tried to surface—a wince, a flicker behind his eyelids—but it was drowned by the blue glow, by the pleasure-pain she commanded.
“Good boy,” Felicia purred, leaning down to lick a stripe up his neck.
Around the perimeter of the clearing, the citizens of New York moved in a silent, shuffling parade. A businessman in a torn suit carefully arranged pebbles into a pyramid. A woman cradled a dead pigeon, rocking it like an infant. A group of tourists stood facing the thrones, their phones held up not to take pictures, but as mute offerings. Their eyes were empty wells, reflecting the moonlight and the colored glow from the central spectacle.
Morrigan watched them over Scott’s shoulder, her hips never ceasing their slow, deep undulations. She reached a hand down between their bodies, her fingers finding Scott’s shaft where it disappeared into her. She stroked the base of him, feeling the frantic throb of his pulse there.
“They build statues to heroes,” she said, her voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “But this is better, isn’t it? This is truth. This is what your strength is really for. To hold me up. To feed me.”
Scott’s jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. A single tear tracked through the grime on his face. Not of sadness, but of overwhelming, obliterating sensation. He was a dam holding back an ocean of repressed want, and she had blown the gates wide open.
“Jean…” The name was a breath, a dying prayer.
Morrigan’s rhythm hitched, then became harder, punishing. “She’s gone, darling. A whisper in a furnace. I’ve seen your dreams of her. All that polite, telepathic love.” She leaned in, her teeth scraping his earlobe. “You dreamed of fucking her on the War Room table. Of bending her over the Blackbird’s fuselage. You dreamed of making the righteous Jean Grey scream. Admit it.”
She punctuated each sentence with a sharp, downward slam of her hips. A ragged, broken sound was torn from Scott’s throat.
“Say it,” she commanded, her own breath starting to quicken.
“I… I dreamed…” he forced out, the confession laced with agony and a terrifying relief.
“Louder.”
“I DREAMED OF FUCKING HER!” he roared, the sound raw and torn from the core of him. As he shouted it, his body convulsed, his release pumping into her in hot, helpless bursts. The violet brand blazed like a star.
Morrigan cried out, her spine arching, her wings snapping open to blot out the moon. She milked him through it, clenching and fluttering around his pulsing cock, drawing every last drop of his submission into herself. The psychic wave that emanated from them was a localized shockwave. The circling civilians shuddered in unison, a few collapsing like marionettes with cut strings.
As Morrigan shuddered through the last waves, catching her breath, she looked over at Felicia. “Having fun, sister?”
Felicia’s pace had become frantic, animalistic. She was riding Peter hard, her claws leaving red trails on his chest. Peter’s hands had come up to clutch her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight, his face buried between her breasts.
“He’s… he’s thinking about the redhead again,” Felicia gasped, though she was grinning. “I can feel it. A little knot of guilt. Right… there.” She slammed down, forcing a pained grunt from Peter. “But it just makes him fuck me harder. Trying to drown her out.”
She threw her head back and yowled, her body seizing up as her climax took her. Peter, triggered by her convulsions and the overwhelming feedback through the bond, followed with a wordless, shuddering groan, his hips stuttering up into her wet heat until he was spent.
For a long time, the only sounds were their slowing breaths and the distant, meaningless rustle of the obedient city.
Felicia finally climbed off Peter, leaving him slumped and glistening on the throne. She padded, naked and unselfconscious, to the edge of the clearing, accepting a proffered bottle of water from a vacant-eyed vendor. She drank, then poured the rest over her head, the water slicking down her white fur.
Morrigan remained where she was, still joined to Scott, feeling him still hard inside her. She traced the lines of his face.
“This is forever, you know,” she said softly, almost kindly. “The ritual is complete. The gateway is sealed behind us. This world is our preserve. And you…” she kissed his sweaty forehead, “…are my favorite fixture.”
She lifted herself off him with a soft, wet sound and stood, stretching her limbs toward the sky. The symbols in the clearing—the thrones, the empty-eyed citizens, the two broken heroes serving as eternal, living monuments to their pleasure—was a painting she never tired of.
The painting was complete, but the canvas was alive, and Morrigan intended to keep adding brushstrokes. She ran a fingernail down Scott’s sternum, watching him twitch. “You haven’t earned the privilege of softening,” she whispered. His cock, still slick from her, gave a pathetic jerk against his stomach as if responding to a command his mind could no longer process.
“Hey, M,” Felicia called, shaking water from her fur. She nodded toward Peter, who was staring blankly at the sky, his chest rising and falling too fast. “His mind’s looping. Keeps hitting a wall labeled ‘Mary Jane.’ It’s kinda sad.”
“Then break the wall,” Morrigan said, her tone dismissive. She turned her attention to a young man in delivery driver shorts who had wandered too close to her throne. “You. Kneel.”
The man dropped instantly, his forehead pressing into the cool dirt. Morrigan casually rested a bare foot on the back of his neck, applying just enough pressure to make him whimper. She savored the simple, granular control.
Felicia sighed, a theatrical sound, and slunk back to Peter’s throne. She climbed onto his lap again, but sideways this time, straddling one of his thighs. His head lolled toward her. She took his face in her hands, her claws pricking his skin. “Look at me, Peter. Only me.”
His eyes, clouded with blue energy, tried to focus. “I… I was supposed to…”
“You were supposed to be happy,” Felicia interrupted, her voice softening into a cruel parody of warmth. She ground her soaked pussy against his thigh, smearing her essence on him. “You were supposed to be free. All that weight? The bills, the promises, the fucking radioactive guilt? Gone. I ate it.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his. “Now there’s just this. My taste. My smell. My tight little hole begging for you. Isn’t that easier?”
A tremor ran through him. The conflict was a physical war under his skin. “Yes,” he breathed, the word barely audible.
“Prove it,” Felicia hissed, her playful veneer vanishing. She shifted, positioning herself over his renewed, aching hardness. She didn’t lower herself. “Tell me you love this. Tell me you love my cunt more than you ever loved her.”
Peter’s mouth worked soundlessly. A tear escaped, cutting a clean line through the grime. Felicia lowered herself an inch, letting just the head of him stretch her opening. The sensation made him gasp. “Say it.”
“I…” he choked.
She dropped another inch, a brutal, sudden descent that forced a cry from his throat. “SAY IT!”
“I LOVE IT!” he screamed, the sound shredding the last of his resistance. “I LOVE YOUR FUCKING PUSSY!”
“Good boy,” she purred, and sank the rest of the way down, taking him to the hilt in one smooth, punishing motion. She set a ruthless pace, bouncing on him so hard the stone throne rocked. Each drive upward knocked a broken sob or a choked grunt from his lungs. She fucked him with a focused, violent intensity, her eyes locked on his, making him watch her own pleasure contort her features.
“You’re mine,” she grunted, her rhythm becoming erratic. “Every drop of come, every twitch, every pathetic thought. You’re my good, dumb fuck-toy forever.”
Her orgasm slammed into her, a silent, shivering contraction that made her claws dig deep into his shoulders. She clenched around him, milking his own release which followed instantly, a hot, helpless flood that spurted deep inside her. She collapsed against him, licking the salt from his neck as they both shuddered.
Across the clearing, Morrigan smiled. She pressed her foot down harder on the delivery driver’s neck, feeling the satisfying crunch of a vertebra giving way under her heel. The man went limp. She glanced at Scott, whose tear-streaked face was a masterpiece of shattered discipline. The city’s hum was a lullaby in her veins. No more portals, no more countdowns, no more fleeting fears of dissolution.
This was permanence. This was dominion. The obedient thrum of eight million souls was the only clock that mattered now, and it ticked in rhythm with her heartbeat. Felicia’s contented purr was the melody. The two heroes, broken and bound on their cold thrones, were the foundational pillars.
The end.