Chapter 8: Time’s Run Out
The clock tower groaned.
It was an old sound, wood settling against stone, a centuries-old sigh. Peter Parker stood in the geometric patch of moonlight cast through the enormous, iron-framed clock face. The numbers were roman, weathered gold. Midnight.
He’d webbed here on autopilot. His thoughts were a scrambled radio signal. A cat-woman? A literal cat-woman asked me to meet her. At midnight. In a clock tower. This is a joke. This is a trap. This is…
“You came.”
The voice was a melody wrapped in purr. She uncurled from the deep shadow of the giant gear mechanism above, descending not with a thump, but with a liquid silence that made his spider-sense vibrate like a plucked string. She landed in a crouch before him, then straightened.
Moonlight silvered her white fur, turned her blue eyes into luminous pools. She was tall, lithe, all graceful predator lines. The playful smile on her muzzle seemed genuine.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Peter said, the words tumbling out. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “This is… way above my weirdness pay grade, and I fight a guy in a fishbowl helmet.”
Felicia’s laugh was a soft, chirring sound. “I like you. You’re funny. And you’re tense.” She took a step closer. He didn’t retreat. The smell of her was clean, like night air and sun-warmed fur. “You’re here because you’re curious. And because you choose pleasure.”
“Pleasure?” The word felt stupid in his mouth.
“You carry so much weight,” she murmured, her head tilting. Her gaze was disconcertingly direct, seeing past the mask he wasn’t even wearing. “The city. The guilt. The… her. The red-haired woman whose face you see when you close your eyes.”
Peter flinched. “Don’t.”
“Why not? It hurts you. That love. It’s a cage.” Another step. She was within arm’s reach now. “I felt it, you know. From across the city. A bond so bright, so tight. It’s beautiful. And it’s starving you.” Her large, paw-like hand lifted, hovering over his chest. “Let me show you what it feels like to be free.”
He should have web-slung away. He should have quipped. He stood frozen.
Her palm settled over his heart.
It wasn’t fire, like he’d expected. It was a warmth that seeped through his sweatshirt, through his skin, into the muscle and bone beneath. It spread, liquid and golden, and with it came a wave of pure, uncomplicated contentment. The gnawing anxiety about rent, the phantom ache in his ribs from last week’s hit, the constant, low-grade hum of responsibility—it all softened, blurred at the edges, then melted away.
“Oh, god,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Just let go,” Felicia whispered.
The warmth coalesced, concentrated. For a second, it was bliss. Then it branded.
Peter’s eyes snapped open as a sharp, bright pain etched itself into his pectoral. He gasped, looking down. Through the fabric of his sweatshirt, a soft, golden light emanated, cooling rapidly. He ripped the neckline down.
There, over his heart, was a mark. Not a burn, but a perfect, elegant impression, as if made by a gentle press. The pad of a cat’s paw, with delicate, whorled lines.
It didn’t hurt anymore. It felt… right. Like a key sliding into a lock he never knew was there.
Felicia looked at her work, her expression strangely tender. “You’re mine now, Peter.”
He stared at the mark, then at her. The protest—I’m Mary Jane’s—died before it formed. The thought of MJ felt distant, a favorite song from another lifetime. The connection, once a steel cable anchoring him, now seemed thin, frayed.
Felicia closed the final distance. She nuzzled his neck, her fur impossibly soft against his skin. “My sweet, tangled hero,” she murmured, and then her mouth was on his.
Her kiss was nothing like MJ’s. MJ’s kisses were firework bursts, all passion and pepper and burning sugar. Felicia’s was a deep, languid exploration. Her lips were softer, her tongue warm and curious. She tasted of something wild and sweet, like forest berries. He kissed her back, a groan building in his throat, his hands coming up to sink into the thick fur at her shoulders.
She guided him backwards until his legs hit a low, sturdy bench built into the tower wall. She pushed him down, never breaking the kiss. Her hands worked at his clothes—his sweatshirt pulled over his head, his jeans unbuttoned, shoved down his hips. The cool night air touched his skin, followed immediately by the heat of her body as she straddled his lap.
She was still mostly clothed in her simple leotard, but he was naked from the waist down, his cock hard and aching against the soft fur of her belly. She rocked against him, the friction maddening through the thin material.
“Feel that,” she breathed into his mouth. “That’s all that matters. This. Now. Us.”
She reached between them, her claws sheathed, her fingers clever. She tugged the front of her leotard aside. He felt the hot, naked slickness of her folds against the head of his cock. She was soaked, ready.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did. Her blue eyes held his, wide and earnest.
“I’m not taking from you,” she whispered, a hint of that old loneliness flickering in her gaze. “I’m giving you a new place to belong.”
She sank down.
He cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in the stone chamber. She was tight, incredibly tight, but so wet she took him in one smooth, sinking motion until he was buried to the hilt inside her. Her inner walls clenched around him, a velvet-strong embrace that made him see stars.
“Oh, fuck,” Peter choked out, his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging into fur and muscle.
“Yes,” she sighed, her head falling back. She began to move.
This wasn’t the frantic, desperate fucking from his fantasies. It was deep, rolling waves of connection. Each rise was a slow, torturous withdrawal, each descent a perfect, sheathing homecoming. She rode him with a natural, fluid rhythm, her body moving with a dancer’s grace. The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the space, a counterpoint to the steady tick-tock of the giant clock above them.
He thrust up to meet her, losing himself in the sensation. Each plunge into her hot, gripping pussy felt like a step away from his old life. With every drive of his hips, a memory of MJ faded.
The smell of her perfume—gardenias—was overwritten by the clean scent of Felicia’s fur.
The sound of her laugh—bright, ringing—was replaced by Felicia’s contented purr, vibrating through both their bodies.
The feel of her hair between his fingers—soft, fiery silk—was gone, replaced by the thick, lush warmth under his palms.
Felicia leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her pace increased, becoming more urgent. Her breath hitched.
“You feel so good inside me,” she panted, her blue eyes blazing. “You belong here. This is your home now. In me. With me.”
He was close. The pressure was a coiled spring in his gut, intensified by the magical brand on his chest, which glowed softly with each of their joining strokes. He was fucking her with a single-minded intensity, each slam of his pelvis a conscious renunciation.
“Say it,” Felicia demanded, her voice cracking. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m…” He couldn’t form the words. A face, a smile, red hair against a pillow, flashed behind his eyes. It was like looking at a photograph of a stranger.
Felicia slammed down onto him, taking him deeper than ever before. “Say it!”
The last thread snapped.
“I’m yours!” he roared, the declaration tearing from him.
His orgasm erupted. It was a convulsive, total surrender. He poured himself into her, his release pumping in hot, endless pulses, each one scouring away another remnant of his past love. He shook with the force of it, his vision whiting out, his whole being narrowing to the point where they were joined.
Felicia cried out, her own climax triggered by his surrender. Her body clamped around him in rhythmic flutters, milking him, accepting everything he gave. She collapsed against his chest, nuzzling into his neck, her purr a deafening rumble of satisfaction.
They stayed like that for long minutes, joined, breathing as one. The clock tolled the quarter hour, the great bell vibrating through the stone.
Slowly, she lifted her head. She kissed him, softly, lovingly. There was no triumph in her eyes, only a deep, satiated connection. She brushed the sweaty hair from his forehead.
He looked up at her, and his heart swelled. But it wasn’t the complicated, painful swell he felt for Mary Jane. It was simple. Clear. The paw mark on his chest warmed, a gentle, permanent ember.
The love he felt now was quiet, devoted, and entirely for her.
Across town, in a suite of shadows, Morrigan felt the second anchor snap into place. She smiled, running a hand through Scott’s hair as he slept beside her. Two souls bound. Two doors held open. Their foothold in this bright, loud, desperate world was secure.