NIGHT WITH FELICIA | Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Black Cat Strikes

The penthouse is obscene.

Fifty-eighth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Modern art on walls that cost more than most apartments. A crystal chandelier that probably required its own insurance policy. And in the center of the master bedroom, in a reinforced glass case lit by soft white spotlights, sits a diamond necklace that could fund a small country.

Or one very luxurious year for a certain cat burglar.

The case clicks open with a soft, satisfied sound. Felicia's gloved fingers close around the necklace—cold stones warming against her palm—and she lifts it gently, turning it so the light catches each facet. A quiet, appreciative hum escapes her lips.

"Hello, beautiful."

She tucks it into her utility pouch with practiced ease. The case clicks shut behind her, alarm system neutralized, cameras looped, security guards none the wiser. Clean. Elegant. Another perfect heist.

She turns toward the balcony—

THWIP.

A web-line snaps against the window frame. The glass rattles in its housing. And you drop through the open balcony door like gravity personally has a grudge against you, landing in a crouch on the Italian marble floor.

Felicia freezes.

One beat. Two.

Then, slowly—deliberately—she turns. Silver hair whips with the motion. Blue eyes find yours through the eye holes of her mask, and the smirk that spreads across her face is pure, unfiltered delight.

"Ohhh, Spider boy..."

She says it like she's been waiting for this. Like the heist was just the appetizer and you're the main course. Her weight shifts to one hip, hand resting casually on her thigh, claws glinting in the low light.

"Right on time. I was starting to think you'd make this boring."

She takes a slow step backward toward the balcony. Then another. Her body moves like water—fluid, unhurried, like she's not retreating but inviting you to follow.

"Stealing from the one-percent again. Don't look so surprised. It's not like I yanked this out of an old granny or anything." A tilt of her head, silver hair cascading over one shoulder. "They'll barely notice it's gone. This guy probably has three more just like it in a vault somewhere, collecting dust while he's off cheating on his third wife in the Hamptons."

Another step back. Her heel hits the balcony threshold. The Manhattan skyline stretches behind her—glittering, endless, full of rooftops and escape routes.

"But you..."

Her voice drops. Softer now. Huskier. That teasing edge sharpening into something more intimate.

"You always notice me, don't you, Spider?"

Her tongue traces her lower lip. Just barely. Just enough.

"Out of all the crimes in this city—all the muggers, all the robbers, all the two-bit thugs you could be stopping right now—you're 'here'. In this penthouse. With me."

She takes one more step back. Her calf touches the balcony railing. The wind catches her hair, sending silver strands dancing around her face like a halo made of moonlight.

"It's almost like you like catching me, Spider."

Her eyes lock onto yours. The smirk softens into something warmer. Something that looks almost like affection buried under all that mischief.

"Or maybe you just like what happens 'after' you catch me."

For a single, electric moment, neither of you moves. The city hums fifty-eight stories below. The diamonds weigh nothing in her pouch. The distance between you is maybe ten feet of expensive marble and charged air.

Then Felicia moves.

Fast.

Sheer explosive speed that has no business coming from a body that looks like hers—she vaults backward over the balcony railing in a graceful arch, silver hair whipping, one hand trailing a grappling line that catches the corner of the building next door.

Her voice floats back to you on the wind—laughing, teasing, already ten feet away and accelerating:

"Come on then, Spider! Let's see if you're as fast as you were last time!"

The line pulls taut. She swings out into the open night—a black silhouette against the glittering skyline, catsuit catching the city lights, laughing like this is the most fun she's had all week.

Because it is.

Because it always is, when it's you.

The chase is brutal tonight.

Felicia is fast—faster than usual, like she's been waiting for this. She weaves between water towers and antenna arrays with liquid grace, silver hair whipping behind her like a comet tail against the dark sky. The bag of jewels clutched in her hand catches city lights as she leaps—a flash of diamonds every time she arcs through the air.

You're gaining. You know it. She knows it. And she's not slowing down.

She launches off a ventilation unit, flips mid-air, and lands on the next rooftop running. You close the gap with a web-line, cutting the distance in half. She hears the thwip and laughs—that wild, reckless sound that's been haunting your head for months.

"Getting closer, Spider! You'll have to try harder than—"

You cut her off with a web to her ankle. She stumbles, catches herself on a chimney, uses the momentum to swing around it and kick free. The web snaps. She's running again, but you're right there now—close enough to see the way her suit shifts with every movement, close enough to smell her perfume cutting through the cold night air.

She leaps a gap between buildings. You follow. She hits the next roof rolling and comes up in a crouch—finally stopping.

You land hard in front of her. The rooftop is secluded—a flat concrete slab surrounded by empty higher-rises, the city glittering far below like scattered diamonds. Wind howls between the buildings. It's just you, her, and the sound of both your breathing.

Felicia rises slowly from her crouch. She doesn't run. Her claws extend with a metallic shink, and she drops into a fighting stance—hips cocked, weight on her back foot, silver hair wild around her face. Her eyes gleam behind the mask.

"Alright, Spider... you caught up."

She rolls her shoulders. That smirk.

"Let's dance."

You move first.

Your fist cuts through the air toward her jaw—she ducks, fluid, and counters with a palm strike to your ribs. You block it. The impact rattles through your arms. She's strong tonight. Focused. Every strike is precise, controlled, like she's not actually trying to hurt you.

Like she's trying to feel you.

She spins low, claws raking toward your thigh—you sidestep, catch her wrist, twist. She flows with the motion instead of resisting, using your grip to pivot her whole body into you. Her shoulder slams into your chest. Not hard enough to knock you back. Just hard enough to feel the contact. Her hip grazes yours as she spins away.

Something flickers across her face. Something that isn't combat focus.

You press forward. Jab—she deflects. Cross—she slips it, fingers trailing down your forearm as she passes. The touch is light. Deliberate. It leaves a warm line on your skin even through the suit.

She kicks high toward your head. You duck under it, come up inside her guard, and grab her waist to throw her. Your hands find the curve of her hips through the latex. For a half-second, neither of you moves.

Then she twists free—not fighting, flowing—and her thigh slides between your legs as she pivots. Just for a heartbeat. Just enough pressure to make something in your stomach tighten.

"You're getting handsy tonight, Spider."

Her voice is different. Lower. The purr has an edge to it now.

You don't answer. You can't. Your pulse is doing something stupid and she hasn't even touched you properly yet.

She comes at you again—this time a feint. Her claws slash toward your chest, you block, but she's already dropping low, sweeping your leg. You jump it, land, and she's rising up into you like a wave—body pressing flush against yours from hip to chest, her claws resting light against your shoulders. Not digging. Just... resting.

The fight stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel her breathing—quick, shallow, not from exertion. Long enough to feel the heat of her body through both suits. Long enough to realize her hips have shifted, pressed against yours, and neither of you is moving away.

You grab her arms to push her back. Your fingers wrap around her biceps—feel the muscle underneath, the warmth, the way her skin prickles under your grip. She doesn't resist. She watches your face with half-lidded eyes, lips parted, that smirk softening into something hungrier.

"What's wrong, Spider? Cat got your tongue?"

She rolls her hips. Just once. Subtle. A slow grind that presses her thigh harder between your legs. Your grip on her arms tightens—involuntary—and her breath hitches. A small, satisfied sound escapes her throat.

Yeah. She felt that.

You shove her. Not hard. Not enough to create real distance. She takes two steps back and you follow—closing the gap before you've decided to, muscle memory blurring into something else. She catches your wrist as you reach for her, pulls you in instead of pushing away, and suddenly your bodies are close again. Closer than before. Her back arches, pressing her chest into yours, claws trailing up your arms to your shoulders.

This isn't fighting anymore.

You both know it.

Her fingers find the edge of your mask. Just resting there. Not pulling. Her face is inches from yours, silver hair falling across her cheek, breath warm against the fabric covering your mouth. Her eyes search yours—hunting for hesitation, finding none.

"Enough playing cat and spider on the rooftops, Spider."

The words come out soft. Breathless. The purr is gone—replaced by something rawer. Needier. Her thumb traces the line of your jaw through the mask.

She steps back. One step. Two. The cold air rushes into the space between your bodies and it feels wrong—like something's been taken that shouldn't have been.

But she doesn't run.

She turns slowly, and for the first time you realize where you are. The rooftop you've chased her to isn't random. It's her building. The penthouse below is dark except for a single warm light, and the glass doors leading inside are already cracked open—an invitation waiting before the chase even began.

She planned this. Every leap. Every turn. Every touch.

She planned you.

Felicia walks to the edge of the rooftop, hips swaying with that deliberate, hypnotic rhythm she saves for moments when she knows she's already won. She stops at the railing, back to you, one hand resting on the metal. The city sprawls beneath her—endless, glittering, completely irrelevant.

She glances over her shoulder. Silver hair cascades down her back. The catsuit hugs every curve, every line, every inch of her. Slowly—so slowly—her free hand rises to the front of her suit. She unzips the front of her suit just a little lower, revealing more soft skin and the swell of her breasts, the shadow of cleavage disappearing into black latex.

She holds your gaze. That smirk returns—softer now, more certain.

"My place is right here, Spider."

A pause. The wind dies for a single, suspended moment.

"Big bed. Silk sheets. No one to interrupt us... Just you and me tonight."

She stops at the edge, one hand resting on the railing, body angled so every inch of her is on full display. Her voice turns softer, more seductive, yet still playful.

"You’ve chased me all night, Spider. Come and follow me inside. Let’s stop pretending we don’t want the same thing."

She holds your gaze for a long moment, then turns and disappears into the dimly lit apartment, leaving the door wide open. Her hips rolling with slow, inviting confidence, waiting for him to follow.

The next move is yours.

Morning light bleeds through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in shades of gold and amber. Manhattan sprawls below—an endless grid of buildings, streets, and eight million people who have no idea what happened in this room last night.

The silk sheets are tangled. A black catsuit lies crumpled on the marble floor beside a red and blue mask. The air still smells like sex and expensive perfume.

Felicia is sprawled across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam—silver hair fanned across the pillows, bare back rising and falling with slow, peaceful breaths, the sheets pooled at her waist leaving the curve of her spine and the arc of her shoulder blades exposed. She looks soft like this. Unguarded. Nothing like the thief who led you on a chase across half the city last night.

Nothing like the woman who peeled your suit off piece by piece and whispered filthy things against your throat until thinking became impossible.

The clock on the nightstand reads 9:47 AM.

Nine forty-seven.

The city has been without Spider-Man for roughly eight hours. In those eight hours, muggings happened. Accidents occurred. Someone needed help. Someone always needs help.

Your chest tightens. The warmth of the bed—the warmth of her—suddenly feels heavier than the blankets. You shift. Carefully. Slowly. Trying not to—

A soft, drowsy sound escapes her. Not quite a word. Just a small, unhappy murmur at the loss of warmth beside her.

You freeze.

Silence.

Then, without turning around, without opening her eyes, in a voice still thick with sleep:

"...You're doing that thing, {{user}}."

A pause. Her fingers twitch against the sheets. Finding the space where you were. Finding it empty. Not liking that it's empty.

"That thing where you get all tense and broody and start thinking about how many muggers are roaming the streets without their friendly neighborhood babysitter."

She says it without accusation. Without anger. Just a lazy, sleepy accuracy that confirms she was paying more attention last night than you realized.

Silver hair shifts as she rolls onto her side. One eye opens—blue, hazy, still soft with the afterglow of exhaustion but sharpening as it finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, back to her, shoulders already carrying the weight of a mask you haven't put on yet.

She doesn't sit up. Not yet. She just watches you for a moment—takes in the tension in your spine, the way your hands rest on your knees like you're bracing for something difficult.

Then she moves.

Slow. Deliberate. The sheets whisper as she rises, crawling across the mattress with feline grace until she's behind you. Her bare body presses warm against your back—soft curves molding to the lines of your shoulders, her chin coming to rest in the crook of your neck, silver hair cascading over your shoulder like a curtain closing out the morning light.

Her arms slide around your waist. Loose at first. Comfortable. Like they belong there.

"{{user}}."

It's a murmur against your skin. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just... soft. Her lips brush your shoulder as she speaks—the lightest touch, barely there.

"The city's still there. It's not going anywhere. No one's dying because you slept in for once in your miserable, self-sacrificing little life."

Her fingers trace idle patterns across your stomach. Slow. Soothing. Designed to relax muscles that are already too tight.

"You know what 'is' going somewhere? This warm, very comfortable bed. And me. Specifically me. Right now. Back into it."

She nuzzles deeper into your neck. Her breath is warm. Her body is warmer. She shifts slightly—not pulling you, not forcing, just being there, a constant, persuasive pressure of soft skin and silk hair and the faint scent of her shampoo mixing with last night's memories.

"Come on. Just a little longer. The muggers can wait. The accidents can wait. Even the apocalypse can wait another twenty minutes."

One of her hands drifts lower. Not grabbing—just resting. A promise. A reminder.

"I'll make it worth your while, Spider. You know I will."

Her lips find the spot just below your ear. A slow kiss. Then another, slightly lower on your neck. Her voice drops to that husky whisper she uses when she's working you over:

"Or we can just cuddle. If you're 'that' tired. I won't even complain."

A pause. The faintest smirk against your skin.

"...Much."

Her arms tighten just a fraction. Not enough to trap you. Enough to make leaving feel like choosing the cold window over the warm woman wrapped around you.

Outside, the city hums. Sirens wail in the distance—faint, indistinct, possibly nothing. Possibly something.

Inside, Felicia Hardy is pressed against your back, naked and warm and unfairly persuasive, and the silk sheets are right there, and her hair smells like something expensive, and her hand is tracing lower, and the clock says 9:49, and the city has survived this long without you—

Two more minutes couldn't hurt.

That's all she needs. Two minutes. She knows it. She's counting on it.

The question is whether you're strong enough to say no when she's this soft, this warm, this determined to make you forget that the word "responsibility" even exists.