Chapter 3: The Cat's Clumsy Stalk
The rain had started as a fine mist, graduating to a persistent drizzle that painted the rooftop’s jagged ledges in slick, dark tones. Queens sprawled below, a grid of amber and neon bleeding into the wet black. Peter Parker landed with a soft thwip, the smell of damp gravel and ozone filling his nostrils. His shoulders ached. Another long night.
A muffled cry, deliberately pitched, cut through the drone of the city.
He spun, lenses widening. A figure—pale, slender—was clinging to the rusted ladder of a broadcast tower, one foot slipping on a rung.
“Whoa, easy there!” he called, webbing a safety line to the tower before launching himself over.
Up close, she was… bizarre. White fur, a tail that twitched with apparent anxiety, eyes the color of a shallow tropical sea. Not a mutant he recognized. Not a villain, either. Just a woman—creature?—looking utterly out of her depth.
“I… I think I’m stuck,” Felicia said, forcing her voice into a higher, breathier register. She’d practiced this. Morrigan had said to be a damsel. It felt absurd.
“Yeah, I can see that. Here, just take my—” Peter began, reaching out.
In her nervousness, Felicia over-rotated, her tail accidentally whipping around and smacking against a loose cable. She yelped, genuinely startled, and her grip failed. She dropped.
“Oh, come on!” Peter groaned, diving. He caught her around the waist three stories down, the momentum swinging them into the side of a brick building. He absorbed the impact with a grunt, his knees complaining. He held her, suspended by a single web-line. “You okay?”
Felicia blinked. His reflexes were insane. And his chest, pressed against hers, was solid muscle under the suit. A different heat than Morrigan’s, more… human. Grounded. She forgot her lines.
“I require… saving?” she tried, the line sounding as rehearsed as it was.
Peter’s head tilted. His lenses narrowed slightly. “You require saving? That’s a new one. You from a Renaissance Faire? Or, wait, let me guess—reality TV. Is there a camera?” He looked around, mock-serious. “Am I being punk’d?”
Shit. It wasn’t working. He was laughing at her. Frustration and a spike of panic cut through Felicia. Morrigan’s timer was ticking in her mind. She had to close this. Now.
Forgetting subtlety, she leaned in, pressing her body fully against his. She nuzzled the junction of his mask and neck, and let her pheromones flood out.
It wasn’t a scent so much as a physical wave. Sweet, like overripe peaches and clover honey, but underneath it was something musky, feral. It bypassed the rational brain and went straight to the lizard stem.
Peter’s quipping died in his throat. His breath hitched. The world softened, the edges blurring. The ache in his shoulders melted away. The constant, gnawing guilt about the rent, about May, about the people he couldn’t save yesterday—it all went quiet. There was only this warmth, this delicious, inviting scent promising absolute release.
“Oh… wow,” he slurred, his grip on her loosening, becoming more of an embrace.
Felicia felt the change. The tension bled from his limbs. His head lolled toward her. Yes. This was the tool. Simple. Effective. She guided his gloved hand to her breast, pressing it against the soft fur and the firm curve beneath. He groaned, his fingers flexing instinctively.
“You work too hard, Spider,” she whispered, her voice a purr now, genuine in its triumph. “Don’t you want a break? Just… let go.”
He was nodding, a slow, dreamy motion. “Yeah… break sounds… god, you smell amazing.”
She kicked off the wall, swinging them both up onto a higher, secluded section of roof hidden behind a massive, groaning ventilation unit. The shadows were deep, the only light the erratic pulse of a faulty neon sign across the street, painting everything in strokes of crimson and deep blue.
She pushed him down onto a dry patch of tar paper, his back against the warm metal of the vent. Her claws—small, retractable things—snicked out. They weren’t for violence. Not here.
“Let’s get you out of this,” she murmured, and before his fogged mind could protest, she was slicing. The razor-sharp tips parted the resilient suit material like it was tissue paper. A long tear from collarbone to navel, then down each arm. She peeled the top half away, revealing his torso, lean and defined, heaving with ragged breaths.
“Wait…” Peter mumbled, but his hands came up to grasp her hips, not to push her away, but to pull her closer. The pheromones saturated his brain, rewriting his priorities. MJ’s face surfaced for a second—her smile, her fire—but it was drowned in a tidal wave of biological imperative.
“Shhh,” Felicia soothed, working on his lower half. The suit gave way. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, thick and flushed. The cool air made him jerk, but her hand was there instantly, wrapping around him. Her touch was electric, a soft, furred palm with a clever, firm pressure.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer and a surrender.
“That’s the idea,” she said, and in a fluid, feline motion, she shed her own minimal clothing. Her body was a lithe landscape of white fur and smooth muscle. She knelt over him, her blue eyes holding his masked gaze. She guided him to her entrance, already slick with need—hers, and the artificial urgency of her biology.
She sank down, taking him inside in one slow, inexorable slide.
Peter cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. She was impossibly hot, tight, a silken clamp around him. The fit was perfect, devastating.
“Oh, shit, oh God…” he babbled, his hips bucking upward of their own volition, seeking deeper.
Felicia gasped, the genuine sensation cutting through her mission focus. He filled her exquisitely. She began to move, setting a rhythm that was hungry and relentless. Up and down, her claws digging into his bare shoulders for leverage, drawing faint red lines. The wet, rhythmic slap of their joining filled the small space, competing with the hum of the city below.
“That’s it… take it,” she growled, losing herself for a moment in the sheer physicality. “Give me that hero’s burden. I want it all.”
Then she started to purr.
It began deep in her chest, a rumbling vibration that traveled through her core, directly into his. It wasn’t just sound; it was a physical pulse, a rhythmic clenching and fluttering inside her that massaged his cock with every downward stroke. It was overwhelming, a sensory overload that short-circuited any last thought.
“What—what is that?!” Peter gasped, his eyes rolling back behind the mask. His whole body was trembling, his control utterly gone. He was pistoning up into her, meeting every drop with a savage thrust, driven by a need he couldn’t name.
“It’s your break,” she moaned, the purr intensifying, becoming a continuous, thrumming roar in her throat. The vibration milked him, pulled at him, demanded everything. “Come on, Spider. Come for me. Fill me up.”
The coil in his gut, wound by stress and responsibility and now this unbearable pleasure, snapped.
With a shattered cry that was part sob, he came. It was a convulsive, emptying rush, hot pulses spilling deep inside her as he ground his hips up, locking them together. The purr peaked, clenching around him, wringing every last drop from him until he was spent, gasping, boneless against the vent.
Felicia collapsed forward, panting, her forehead resting on his. The purr subsided to a contented rumble. She felt the vital energy, the unique spark of his power and spirit, flow into her. The ritual’s first step was complete. A smirk played on her lips.
But then she felt his hands, still on her hips, not pushing her away but holding her there. She felt the frantic beating of his heart begin to slow under her palm. A strange, unwelcome tenderness bloomed in her chest. He hadn’t just been a target in that moment. He’d been… present. Desperate. Real.
She pulled back, looking at him. His mask was still on, but his head was lolled to the side. He was out cold, completely drained. The pheromones would keep him under for a while.
She climbed off him, the night air cold on her wet skin. She looked from his exposed, vulnerable form to the glittering, indifferent city. The smirk faded.
“Forty-six hours,” she whispered to herself, the words feeling heavier than they should. She melted into the shadows, leaving the hero sleeping amidst the rubble, a ghost of peach and honey clinging to the rain-washed air.