auden

WEBS DON'T CATCH CATS

(BUT THEY TRY)

Spider-man x Black Cat aka you

MASTERLIST

Author's Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

🕷️ Epilogue 🕷️

Harry Osborn doesn’t get a cinematic death. There’s no claws, no webs, no blood. That would be too easy. He gets something worse. His worst nightmare. Irrelevance. After the penthouse incident, after the choking aftermath, after the public property damage and the incredibly traceable Oscorp weapon signatures, everything starts to unravel. Not dramatically. But systematically. The board at Oscorp begins asking questions. Investors don’t like unstable CEOs who deploy experimental weaponry at so-called heroes in Manhattan penthouses. There are whispers. Internal investigations. Security footage that “accidentally” leaks. MJ, being MJ, has her sources. She doesn’t publish recklessly, but she applies pressure where it matters. Not to destroy him. To expose him.

Harry doesn’t go to prison immediately. He’s too smart for that. Instead, he gets removed from his own company. Stripped of executive control. His access revoked. Humiliated publicly. He spirals. Because his greatest fear isn’t death. It’s being ordinary. Eventually, he doubles down on the tech. Enhancements. Experimental serums. The Goblin mythology doesn’t disappear, it mutates. He becomes more unstable, more theatrical, more dangerous. He’s no longer fighting for Felicia, no longer trying to win Peter, no longer trying to trap MJ. He’s fighting to prove he’s still relevant. He becomes a recurring shadow in their lives. Not the end. Just a storm that rolls in every so often. A common enemy. Something still yet to defeat.

Peter and MJ’s ending isn’t soft in the traditional way. It isn’t clean. It isn’t marriage fade to black. Because loving Spider-Man isn’t a fairytale. It starts small. After Harry’s public spiral, after the penthouse battle, after the rooftop confessions, Peter stops trying to be the only shield between the world and the people he loves. That’s the real turning point. Not choosing MJ. But learning to let her stand beside him. She doesn’t become a damsel in distress. But she doesn’t become a superhero either. She becomes something arguably stronger. Informed. Involved. Unafraid. She memorizes Peter’s patrol routes. She familiarizes herself with his enemies. She plans emergency protocols. She networks with contacts. She has leverage. She doesn’t wait by the window anymore. She makes her own moves. She starts investigating corruption tied to Oscorp and other tech conglomerates. Carefully. Cleverly. She exposes what she can without painting a target too large on her own back. Peter learns to come home at the end of the day. Not just physically, but emotionally. He stops disappearing mid-sentence. He stops lying when he’s bleeding and hurt. He stops pretending he isn’t scared of what’s outside his window. That’s their growth. Trust. Honesty. Commitment.

🕷️ Chapter Thirty 🕷️

The city is quiet in only the way it is just before midnight. Wind skims across the rooftop, tugging at Spider-Man’s suit as he lands in a perfect crouch. He knew you’d be here. You always choose the dramatic exits. You stand at the edge of the building like you own the skyline, moonlight cascading down your hair turning the silver into white. In your gloved hand, you turn a small intimate painting over that catches in the light. The gold panel painting is a 13th century Italian Renaissance treasure. Fresh from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Priced at $45 million. Duccio’s Madonna and Child. Something so obscene no one would ever think to steal it.

“Seriously?” Spider-Man sighs, straightening out. “That’s not even subtle.”

You don’t look at him first. “I was feeling nostalgic,” you smile softly.

He walks closer, hands on his hips. “So that’s it? We’re just back to this? You stealing priceless historical artifacts? Me stopping you?”

“You say that like it’s simple,” your smile turns into a grin.

He gestures to the painting. “It is simple. You took something that doesn’t belong to you.”

“I borrowed it.”

“Felicia.”

You glance at him. There’s something different in the way you look at him now. Not distant. Not playful. Just… aware. “It’s never going to be like it was before,” you say quietly. “I know you now. Really know you.” You glance back at the painting in your hand. “And you know me.”

The wind shifts between the two of you and he steps closer. “You could’ve gotten hurt tonight.”

“I didn’t,” you scowl.

“That’s not the point,” his expression hardens.

“It kind of is,” you smirk. “I didn’t get caught. That’s what matters.”

Spider-Man exhales, frustrated, but it’s not really about the relic. It’s about everything else. He stops a few feet from you, studying you, and pulls off his mask, holding it in one hand. He presses his lips together, his brown eyes dark and serious, thoughtful. “Felicia…” he begins, drawing in a shaky breath. Your eyes bore into his, hopeful. “I love you.”

The whispered words sit between you, real and raw and authentic. You don’t laugh. You don’t deflect. You don’t smile. You absorb it. Every word.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer. “I do.” The city hums below. “...but I can’t have you.”

Your jaw tightens slightly, your eyes softening. 

He looks down at the concrete between you. “I have to choose MJ. I’m sorry. She was there for me before everything. Before the mask. Before the villains. Before-”

“Before me,” you finish for him.

He nods once.

“I know.”

Silence stretches long enough to ache. 

You step towards him, enclosing the space between you. Not defensive. Just honest. “You don’t owe me an apology for loving her,” you say quietly. “I knew what you were the very second I figured out who you really are.”

“And what’s that?” he dares to ask.

You smile faintly. “Good.” The words hit harder than any punch you’ve ever thrown. “I know you, Peter. You were never going to choose the easy thing,” you continued. “And I was never going to be the safe option.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Tears well up in his eyes. “I hate that this hurts.”

“It’s supposed to,” you say gently. You cup his cheek in one hand. Another pause.

“You’re not my mistake,” he insists.

“I know.”

“And I’m not yours,” he clarifies.

You tilt your head. “No?”

“You’re my almost,” he whispers. The admission lands heavy. He leans in, closing the last inch of space between you. His hand lifts slowly, brushing along your jaw. You lean into it before you can stop yourself. “You’re going to keep doing this.” He glances at the painting.

“Probably,” you admit.

“I’m going to keep stopping you,” he reminds.

“I hope so,” your eyes glisten.

His thumb brushes up and down your cheek. “Felica, if you ever cross a line-”

“You’ll pull me back,” you acknowledge.

“And if I ever start drowning in guilt and responsibility-” he begins.

“I’ll drag you onto a rooftop and remind you you’re still human at the end of the day,” you promise.

You share a small smile. Your foreheads touch. Just for a second. There’s no masks. No walls. No doors. “I’m sorry I can’t be the man you come home to,” he apologizes quietly.

“I don’t need you to be,” you shake your head. “I just need you alive.”

The confession sits raw between you. He hesitates only a heartbeat before he kisses you. It isn’t desperate. It isn’t reckless. It’s slow. Intentional. Goodbye and a promise all at once. When you pull apart, there’s no illusion about what it means. There is nothing after. You press your forehead to his one last time.

“I’ll keep you safe, Spider,” you vow. “From the shadows. From the things you don’t see coming.”

His throat tightens. “I don’t need you to-”

“Yes, you do,” you insist. “You can’t save everyone on your own.”

He pauses for a beat. “I’ll keep you safe too,” he decides. “Even when you don’t want me to.”

Your smile is heartbreakingly fond.

Spider-Man glances at the fortune still in your hand. “You’re going to put that back, right?”

You step backwards towards the ledge. Moonlight crowns you in a silver glow. “Catch me if you can, Spider,” you wink. And you drop.

He lunges after you without thinking. You both fall together for half a breath, before you fire your grapnel and swing away in a clean arc, laughter trailing behind you. He shoots a web and follows close by. Not to capture. Not to cage. Not to catch fully. Just to chase. Just for the thrill. For the love of the game.

Below you, the city stretches, endless and alive. He doesn’t know what you are anymore. Not lovers. Not enemies. Not strangers. But something undefined, something in between. Something that exists only in motion. You land on a distant rooftop and look back at him once, and you share a smile. Then you disappear into the dark.

Spider-Man remains perched high above Manhattan on a streetlight. Peter sighs. Alone. But not empty. Some loves don’t get the house with the porch light. Some loves don’t get the happy ever after. Some loves get rooftops. And secrets. And masks. And bruises. And laughter after midnight. And a solemn kiss goodbye. The understanding that even if you can’t have someone… you can still choose to protect them. To be there for them. To love them, from a distance. He exhales into the night. Then swings home.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Nine 🕷️

The window is already cracked when you land on the fire escape. Peter barely makes the final swing. You feel it in the slack of the web line, the hesitation, the drop in height, the way your arm trembles when he releases. By the time you reach his apartment window, he’s breathing in shallow pulls. “Stay with me, stay with me, Spider,” you murmur as you shoulder the window open. You stumble inside and immediately freeze.

MJ is standing in the middle of the living room. She’s wearing jeans and one of Peter’s old Midtown Science t-shirts. Barefoot. Arms crossed loosely, but not defensive… stunned. Her eyes track the scene in one sweep, Peter’s torn suit, the dark bruising around his throat, your smoke scorched collar mark, the way you’re holding each other up. For a split second, no one speaks. 

Then Peter sways. That breaks it. MJ is there instantly, slipping under his other arm without hesitation. “What happened?” she whispers. Not accusatory. Afraid.

“Harry Osborn,” you answer.

That’s all it takes. You two maneuver him to the couch together. MJ disappears into the bathroom and comes back with the first aid kit. You help peel the top half of his suit down, careful, steady. The bruises are so much worse up close. Finger shaped. Cable burned. MJ’s jaw tightens. “He choked him,” you say quietly.

“I can see that,” she nodded.

They work in silence for a few minutes. Ice wrapped in a towel. Disinfectant. Gentle hands. Peter tried to speak and both of you shut him down at once.

“Don’t.”

“Save it.”

He manages a faint, crooked smile at that. You prop him up with pillows. MJ presses a glass of water into his hand and waits until he drinks. Your fingers hover for a second before brushing the edge of his jaw, checking for swelling. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You swallow uncomfortably. “I’m fine.”

MJ notices the lie. But she doesn’t call it out.

Peter’s eyes drift heavy. The adrenaline is burning off. The pain is settling in. MJ tucks a blanket over him. You smooth his hair back. Within minutes, he’s out. The apartment feels too small with the weight of everything left unsaid.

MJ stands slowly. “Tea.” It’s not a question.

You nod.

The kitchen light is softer. Warmer. Almost domestic in a way that feels surreal after fractured marble pillars and shattered glass. MJ moves with quiet efficiency. Kettle. Mugs. Chamomile. You sit stiffly on the sofa, hands clasped between your knees. The silence isn’t sharp. It’s careful. MJ hands you a mug and sits opposite you. You don’t clink. You don’t smile. You just breathe for a second.

“He could have died tonight,” MJ says softly.

You stare into your tea. “I know.”

“And he’ll do it again.”

“Yeah…”

The honesty lands between you like shared gravity. MJ studies you for a moment. Long and hard. Then finally. “You love him.” It isn't an accusation. It’s recognition. Observation. 

You don’t look up.

MJ lets out a faint, humorless huff.

You finally meet her eyes, guilty. “I didn’t know about you,” you insist. “Not until Harry’s gala. I swear.”

MJ searches your face for deception. Finds none. “He never mentioned me?”

“No.”

She nods slowly. “That tracks.”

A quiet beat. Your fingers tighten around the mug. “I never meant to…” you exhale sharply. “I’m not in the business of wrecking people’s lives.”

MJ gives you an incredulous look. “You steal priceless artifacts for a living.”

“Those are insured,” you roll your eyes.

Despite herself, MJ’s mouth twitches up into a small smile. The tension shifts a degree. You sit back against opposite ends of the couch. “What are you to him?” MJ asks suddenly.

You consider the question like it’s a lock you haven’t quite picked yet. “Complicated.” Another beat. “Bad timing. Bad decisions. Good chemistry. But overall? Danger.”

MJ nods once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Awkward silence again.

Then MJ sighs. “It costs something, you know. Loving him.”

Your eyes flicker towards the living room where Peter sleeps. “I know.”

“You worry every time he leaves. You get angry when he lies. And you forgive him anyways.”

“Unfortunately. Yeah.”

MJ studies you over the rim of her mug. Hums. “I don’t like that Harry’s still alive,” she says quietly.

Your expression hardens. “He won’t stop.”

“No,” MJ agrees. “He won’t.”

The unspoken truth hangs there. Peter won’t kill him. He won’t cross that line. You almost did. MJ sees it in your eyes.

“You could have,” she whispers.

You don’t deny it. “I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Another pregnant pause. “I’m not sure what this means for me and Peter,” MJ admits. “Or you and Peter for that matter.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. “Neither am I.”

MJ looks down at her tea, and then back up. “But I know this… pushing you out of his life won’t make him safer. And it won’t make me less jealous.” There it is. Honest. Raw. 

You nod slowly. “I don’t want to compete with you, Mary Jane.”

“Good,” she replies dryly. “Because I don’t want to compete with you either.”

A beat. And then she exhales. “I’m okay. With you. In his life.” The words are deliberate. Measured.

You blink in disbelief. “You… you are?”

“I don’t have to like it,” MJ sighs. “But I’m not blind. He cares about you.”

You swallow uncomfortably. “I care about him too.”

“I know.”

Outside, a siren wails in the distance. MJ shifts closer on the couch, not quite touching, but no longer across the room. “We keep him alive. That’s the deal.”

You nod. “We keep him grounded.”

“We call him out.”

“And we don’t let him martyr himself.”

A faint, shared, pained smile. 

“And,” MJ adds. “We don’t let Harry Osborn win.”

Your eyes sharpen. “That part I can promise.”

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Eight 🕷️

Peter Parker should be asleep. MJ is curled against him, warm and steady, her breathing slow in the dark of their apartment. The city hums outside the window, distant sirens, traffic like a lullaby he’s heard his whole life. He should feel safe. Comfortable. Happy. But he doesn’t. It starts as a twitch under his skin. Not the sharp electric sting of immediate danger. Not the clean snap of his spider-sense before a punch. This is different. Low. Persistent. Like a thread being pulled somewhere far away. His eyes open. The room is still. MJ shifts slightly, murmuring something half-formed, pressing closer to him. He focuses. There’s no explosion. No gunshot. No immediate threat. And yet, something is very wrong. Not with him. Her. Felicia. The thought slams into him so suddenly he sits up in bed.

MJ stirs. “Peter?”

He swallows uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Bad dream.”

But it wasn’t. It feels like pressure in his chest. Like static crawling underneath his ribcage. His spider-sense doesn’t fire cleanly, it flickers, uneven, confused. Distance has never muted it before. Unless maybe the danger isn’t external. It’s internal. His hands curl in the sheets. He can’t explain it. He can’t justify it. There’s no data, no alert, no siren. Just instinct. And his instinct is rarely ever wrong.

MJ props herself up on one elbow, studying him in the dark. “You’re thinking about her,” she says quietly. It’s not an accusation. It’s recognition.

Peter closes his eyes. “I thought she escaped,” he confesses. “But she’s still there. She’s still with him… I don’t know what he’s doing to her. But it’s something awful.”

And that’s the worst part. His spider-sense reacts to threats against him. Things in proximity. But this? This feels like something being twisted slowly, deliberately. Like someone testing how much pressure a person can withstand before they break. He swings his legs off the bed and MJ reaches for his wrist.

“You can’t keep chasing ghosts,” she whispers.

He looks at her. “I don’t think this is a ghost.” That feeling spikes again. Sharper this time. Like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to him. Somewhere across the city, something in Felicia’s body is fighting. And Peter feels it. Not clearly, but enough. He stands up, shedding the sheets behind him. “I have to go.”

MJ lets go of him. Not because she wants to. But because she sees it in his face. He isn’t choosing between them tonight. He’s responding to something older than choice. Something primal.

Meanwhile, you’re on your knees on the pristine marble floor, silk dress twisted around your legs, palms flat against the cold floor as you try to breathe. The air feels thick. Your pulse is wrong. Too fast. Too hot. Like your bloodstream has been replaced with wildfire. Harry stands a few feet away, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Calm. Observing. “You’re really fighting it,” he says, almost impressed. Your fingers scrape against the marble. Your body trembles, every nerve hypersensitized, your skin too aware of everything around you, the fabric, the air, the sound of your own breathing. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you manage to cough out.

He crouches slightly, not touching you, but close. “Nothing dangerous,” he replies. “Just added a little… persuasion.”

Your stomach twists. Heat coils low and unwelcome, invasive, chemical. You hate that your body responds at all. The sleek black collar at your throat hums faintly, monitoring.

“You don’t have to make this difficult,” Harry continues smoothly. “You could just stop resisting.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, down tumbling down onto the floor completely, knees giving out. Focus. Pain is grounding. The marble underneath your palms. The pressure of the collar against your pulse. The humiliation of him watching. “I’d rather choke on glass,” you breathe a ragged breath.

Harry’s mouth curves. “You say that now.” He steps closer. The collar gives a warning pulse, subtle. A reminder. You shift back instinctively. The movement triggers a sharper jolt. Not enough to incapacitate. Enough to keep you on the floor. “Spider-Man can’t help you. He made his choice. He’s not coming to save you this time.”

The words scrape against something raw inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of asking which door. Your body arches involuntarily as another wave crashes through your system. You bite back a sound, furious at yourself for it. Harry stands over you now, looking down at you.

“It’s a pity, Felicia,” he murmurs. “All that pride. All that control. Reduced to instinct.”

Rage cuts through the haze. “I am not yours,” you hiss.

Suddenly the wall explodes. Glass and concrete detonate inward in a violent roar. Chandeliers swing wildly as a red and blue blur crashes through the debris and lands between you and Harry. There he is. Peter. Spider-Man. He’s breathing hard already, as if he didn’t bother with a subtle entrance. His gaze finds you on the floor. The dress. The collar. The way you’re shaking. Everything inside him goes feral.

Harry doesn’t even flinch. “Right on schedule,” he calmly greets.

Peter doesn’t answer. He lunges. The first punch caves in a marble column. Harry blocks with something metallic that unfolds from his wrist, a compact Oscorp gauntlet that absorbs impact with a sickening hum, glowing green. They collide again. And again. The penthouse becomes a warzone. Peter moves like fury given shape, but Harry is prepared. Each strike is countered by tech, kinetic dampeners, concussive bursts, a green edged energy shield that flares at the last second.

You try to push yourself up. The collar pulses, stronger. You collapse again, gasping. Across the room, Harry pivots and drives the gauntlet into Peter’s ribs. A compressed shockwave detonates. Peter slams through a dining table, splinters exploding outward. He rolls, fires webbing, yanks Harry forward. Harry triggers something else. A thin, mechanical cable launches from his other wrist and snakes around Peter’s throat mid swing. It tightens. Hard. Peter hits the ground on his back, both hands flying to the cable digging into his neck. Harry stands over him, boot on his chest, green gauntlet glowing. “You always rely on strength,” Harry says coldly. “But strength is predictable.” He tightens the cable. Peter’s fingers claw at it. The suit strains. The cable constricts with mechanical precision.

You hear the sound before you understand it. The rasp. Peter trying to breathe. Something inside you goes very still.

Harry looks down at Peter almost thoughtfully. “She’s not fighting for you,” he snarls. “She’s fighting pure chemistry.”

Peter’s vision blurs, but his eyes shift sideways. To you. He sees you on the ground. And even now, he tries to move towards you. The cable tightens further. Peter chokes. That sound… that does it. You force yourself upright. The collar detonates against your throat. Agony floods your nervous system, white and electric. You scream, but stay standing. You stumble towards the nearest marble pillar. The collar pulses again. Your legs nearly give out. Harry doesn’t notice you. He’s too focused on Peter going limp beneath him. You look at the pillar. Solid. Unforgiving. Just enough to do the trick. And you throw yourself forward full force. 

Your throat slams into the marble. The collar fires full force. Your vision goes black at the edges. You slide down, but you do not stop. You drag yourself up onto your feet and do it again. Impact. Shock. Impact. Shock. Impact. Shock. Each detonation stronger, angrier, fighting you. You grit your teeth as the marble begins to crack the collar, causing fractures. One more. You scream loudly and drive your throat into the pillar with all the strength you have left. The collar explodes in a shower of sparks. Finally dead. You collapse to your knees, smoke curling from the broken device.

Harry looks up at you. Too late. You launch yourself at him like something unhinged, slamming into his side, knocking him off balance. The cable around Peter’s throat slackens for half a second. Enough. Peter rips it free, coughing violently. You grab Harry’s wrist and twist until you can hear something audibly snap. He shouts for the first time. And you don’t stop. You unsheath your claws and drive him backwards into a cracked pillar, claws digging into his shoulders, smashing him against the marble again and again and again. The marble fractures further. Your vision swims. The drug still burns through your bloodstream, distorting everything around you, but now it fuels something else. Fury.

You pin him against the wall, claws curling at his throat. “I told you,” you seethe. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Harry struggles, dazed, blood at his temple. You tighten your grip. It would be so easy. To end him. To sink your claws into his flesh. A hand suddenly wraps weakly around your wrist from behind you. “Felicia,” Peter rasps. You don’t turn around.

“He tried to kill you,” you whisper.

“I know,” Peter responds.

Your fingers press harder. “He won’t stop.”

Peter forces himself to his knees. “He already lost,” he coughs. “Don’t let him take this from you too.”

Your chest heaves. Harry’s pulse flutters beneath your grip. You want to crush him. Want to slit his throat. Want to erase the smirk, the control, the manipulation. That stupid fucking smile. 

Peter’s hand trembles against your arm. “Please.” Not a command. A plea. For you. Not Harry. You close your eyes and release him. Harry crumples to the floor, gasping. You don’t look at him again. You turn towards Peter instead. He’s pale, bruised, a faint red mark already forming around his throat. You kneel in front of him.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Spider,” you whisper.

He manages a weak half-smile. “Yeah. I know.”

You slide his arm around your shoulders. He leans into you more than he wants to admit. The alarms in the building begin to wait. Security will be here any second. You glance once at Harry sprawled on the marble, alive but bleeding and broken. “You lucky motherfucker,” you mutter. You pull Peter towards the shattered wall. The city air hits you hard. “Can you swing?”

Peter lifts his wrist shakily. “Y-yeah. I can.”

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Seven 🕷️

Day three rolls around and Felicia Hardy decides she should probably eat. Fake a smile. Pretend to be compliant. For survival’s sake. Perhaps if Harry is convinced that you are slowly growing fond of him, agreeing to his theatrical ploys, or at least debating the idea of marriage, he might take the shock collar off your neck. Allow you space to roam around his house. Give you enough leeway to make an exit, to form a plan, to find escape. You find yourself pacing towards the wardrobe, looking over the countless dresses he’s deliberately picked out for you, nearly all of them promiscuous and tight and showing off your breasts and legs. You pick a gold and black piece, one that hugs your curves in all the right places, that shimmers underneath the light of the chandeliers. You slip into a pair of black velvet pumps. Paint your face with makeup, a bold red lip, bronze eyeshadow, a cherry blush. You spritz on some perfume, something expensive and designer Harry’s chosen for you, the smell making you nauseated. You’re meant to perform. Oscar worthy. If Harry so much as suspects you’re pretending, it’s game over, and you’re done for good, punished, trapped forever. You take a deep breath. This is life or death, Felicia. Time to put on a show.

You’re carefully seated at the long dining table in Harry’s private residential level. He sits on one side of the table, you on the other, plates and glasses perfectly arranged. Crystal. Fine china. Silver cutlery. Harry watches you over the rim of his own untouched drink as you sip the wine, skeptical, seeing as it wouldn’t have been the first time he drugged you. “You didn’t poison me now, did you?” you laugh lightly, but only half joking.

“No poison, darling,” he shakes his head, smiling, always smiling. “Not this time.”

“Good,” you sigh, taking a bigger sip. If you were going to endure this, you might as well be drunk.

“Lobster and Beef Wellington,” one of the servants presents, setting down a dish in front of you. “Paired with a squid ink risotto and truffle pommes frites.” A little fried calamari sat on the top of the risotto and you stifled a laugh. Rich people and their grandeur.

“Eat,” Harry invites. “I know you must be starving.”

And you do. Because you are. Starving that is. You feel like there’s a boring hole in your stomach. The food proves to be absolutely delicious. The lobster is succulent and buttery, the beef wellington cooked to a perfect medium rare, juicy and tender, the risotto oceanic and robust, the frites savory and umami. For your first meal in days, it surely proves more than substantial. Part of you feels like maybe you’re eating your last meal. You look at your wine again, almost inspecting it, and then shake off your nerves. One thing Harry Osborn wasn’t was a liar. He told you he hadn’t poisoned you. So you must believe him.

He drones on and on about some philanthropy project he’s organizing, but you’re not listening, instead focused on the sudden development. Warmth. Not external. Internal. It starts low in your bloodstream, a slow, invasive heat that doesn’t belong to you. It pools in your stomach, flushing your cheeks red, raising your blood pressure, your heart racing in your chest. Your skin feels tight on your body, hypersensitive, like the air itself is brushing too close. Your thoughts feel slippery. The edges dulled, reactions lagging half a second behind your instincts. You feel heated. Almost feral. Desperate for touch. 

“Are you okay Felicia?” Harry inquires, tilting his head to the side, smirking. “You look…  flushed.”

“What did you do?” you whisper, clinging onto the edge of the table, claws slowly scratching into the mahogany wood. Your pupils dilate as they focus on Harry. Everything seems so intense. Your eyes fixate on his lips, his hands, then back to his mouth again. Fuck Felicia, no. No way. No way in hell. What has gotten into you?

Harry doesn’t answer immediately. He sets his fork and knife down with deliberate care. He watches you, looking thoroughly pleased, eyes dark and full of lust. “I adjusted your evening wine,” he says casually.

“Poision?” you ask, your stomach dropping, terrified.

“No, not poison,” he insists. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

“A sedative?” you wonder.

“An aphrodisiac,” he states calmly. Fuck. You were so fucked. “Something to… encourage you.”

The warmth deepens. Your breathing shifts. The room suddenly feels so much smaller. Your body reacts in ways you do not consent to. Heightened sensitivity, accelerated pulse, trembling thighs, a wetness growing between your legs, a chemical agitation that feels almost like panic and arousal intertwined. “You drugged me,” you shudder. “You fucking drugged me.”

Harry nods, still unbothered. “It lowers inhibition,” he explains. “Amplifies desire responses. Heightens emotional receptivity.” He leans back in his chair, as if enjoying the show. “I’m curious whether what you feel for Peter is chemical or conditional.” Your vision sharpens in flashes. “I’m conducting an experiment.”

The heat spreads further now, your skin prickling with goosebumps, nerves misfiring. It isn’t the desire Harry wants it to be. It’s chaos. Your body responding to something artificial. Your mind fighting to remain sovereign. You grip the edge of the table harder, your knuckles whitening, your claws digging into the wood of the table. “You think if you distort my body, my heart will follow?” you seethe.

Harry stands slowly and makes his way around the table to where you’re sitting. “You rely heavily on control, Felicia,” he muses. “On composure. On precision.” He stops beside you. “What happens when you can’t? Hmm?”

Your jaw tightens. The drug consumes you. It makes proximity feel overwhelming. Sound too loud. Fabric against your skin too noticeable. Every sensation exaggerated and wrong. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of Harry, the air in each breath, the vibration of his voice.

He crouches beside your chair. “Look. At. Me.” he demands.

You refuse.

He doesn’t force you physically. He doesn’t have to. The chemical storm is doing half of the work. But a jolt of electricity shoots through your throat and you whine, your body betraying you with involuntary responses, and you look at him, eyes widening as they make contact with his. Flushed skin. Shallow breath. Trembling lips. You hate every second of it. Especially knowing the pleasure he derives from seeing you in such a depraved state. “You’re mistaking chemistry for consent,” you breathe raggedly. He doesn’t like that word. It flickers across his face, irritation. “You can’t make me want you. You can flood my nervous system. You can scramble signals. You can drug me all you want. But you can’t rewrite choice.”

Harry reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face and your hand snaps out and grips his wrist. Not strong, the drugs have made you slower, but intentional. Your eyes burn into his. Something shifts in him. He was expecting collapse. Pleading. Surrender dressed up as inevitability. Instead, he’s watching you wage war inside your own skin. Sweat beads at your temple. Your breath shudders. Your body is a battlefield you did not volunteer for. And yet, you are drafted, still fighting. Harry stands slowly, looking down at you.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he curses.

You lean back in your chair, releasing your other hand’s grip from the table, forcing your posture upright despite the way the room sways back and forth. Your legs are shaking. Your stomach is jello. Your mouth is salivating. You ignore all of these sensations and command your lips to speak. “You think you own me,” you challenge. “But I am mine.”

Silence hangs between you. The drug doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t dissipate. It burns through your system in waves, each other threatening to blur your edges, to make the closeness feel like relief. Your body pulls towards Harry like a magnet, as if gravity is working against you, a yearning desperate needy feeling rising in your chest. No. You cling to anger. To denial. To whatever little control you have left. To the knowledge that if you even so much as give him the illusion of yielding, he wins something he doesn’t deserve.

Harry watches you for a long time. Then finally, softly, murmurs. “This would be so much easier if you just let go.”

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Six 🕷️

The moment you wake up, you realize something is very wrong. There’s no metallic tang of confinement. No cuffs tugging at your wrists and ankles. No looming danger waiting for you behind the door. In fact, you’re comfortable. Relaxed, even. The mattress underneath you is soft and forgiving. The sheets are silk, sleek and elegant, gentle against your skin. You blink your eyes open and take in your surroundings, a room with floor to ceiling windows, large draped velvet curtains, a giant mirror, a vintage wardrobe, a grand piano, an authentic bear rug, a fireplace… that’s when you notice you’re wearing clothes that aren’t your own. A silk nightdress clings to your body, pearlescent and cream colored, white lace underwear underneath. You didn’t dress yourself. That’s suspicious. Then you feel it and freeze. No. No, no, no, no, no- it’s still around your neck. Black and sleek and threatening, an uncomfortable weight, snug tightly around your throat. A shock collar. A neural compliance collar. Perfectly and twistedly designed by Oscorp all for your obedience and submission. It finally clicks where you are and what’s happening, a rush to the head hitting you with memories of Peter choosing the other door. MJ’s door. You’re at Harry Osborn’s residence. He captured you.

You tug at the collar around your throat and it hums to life, warning you. You instantly stop, releasing your fingers from the sleek frame, your breath catching. Suddenly, as if on cue, there’s a knock at the door, and you swallow harshly, sitting upright in bed. Harry Osborn enters, dressed impeccably. Navy suit, silver cuffs, polished shoes, donning a sinister smile. “Good evening, Felicia,” he croons. “You’re finally awake.” 

You scowl at him, refusing to greet him.

“I hope your room is to your liking, I insisted on only the best,” he hums. “The wardrobe is filled with different options, all custom tailored to your size.” You don’t even want to know how he found out your size. The thought alone makes you feel sick.

“Take it off,” you demand, one hand around the collar.

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t do that, darling,” he sighs. “Not until I’m convinced you are… compliant.”

“Compliant?” you spit. “Go to hell.”

“Now Felicia,” he frowns, tapping a button on his wrist and detonating the collar, a soft shock vibrating through your throat, making your body tense up. You cry out in pain, and Harry watches, unamused. He’s not thrilled. Just analytical. “It’s carefully calibrated. Enough to discourage you. Not enough to harm you long term.”

“Take it off now!” you beg and he just smiles, that cruel, polite, ever so suspicious Osborn smile.

“I was hoping…” he begins. “That you would join me for dinner.”

“Dinner?” you stare at him incredulously. “You must be out of your mind.”

He sighs again, detonating the collar, and you shriek, looking up at him, his expression almost annoyed. “You see, you embarrassed me at the gala. You embarrassed me at Oscorp Tower. And you embarrass me yet again now. You choose him over me, even when he chooses someone else.” He crosses the room, sitting on the edge of your bed. “You are blind, Felicia. If you would just open your eyes, you would come to terms with the truth.”

“The truth being?” you challenge.

“Peter Parker abandoned you. I didn’t,” Harry states. “And that makes you mine.”

“You kidnapped me,” you argue. “You drugged me!”

“Semantics,” he shrugs casually. “I liberated you from delusion.”

“This is hardly liberation,” you scoff. 

“You wasted time chasing someone who will always divide his loyalties,” Harry explains. “With me, there is no division. Only you.” His gaze sharpens. “Imagine what a life we could have together, Felicia. What a powerful couple we would be.”

Your stomach twists. The collar hums faintly against your pulse. “You kidnapped me. You drugged me. You chained me. You think that’s partnership?”

His expression doesn’t crack. “This is all temporary.” He makes his way to the window, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline, the sunset out in the distance. “You’re intelligent. Ambitious. Strategic. Not to mention, beautiful. You understand leverage. You Felicia…” He turns back towards you. “You would make an extraordinary wife.”

You nearly throw up at his words. “W-wife?” you stammer.

“I need an heir to the Oscorp empire,” he delicately explains. “And you Felicia, well it just makes sense. Think about it. Imagine how beautiful and wonderful our baby would be. Our son.”

This time you actually do throw up in your mouth a little. You swallow down the bile threatening to exit your throat and close your eyes tight, feeling nauseous. “Go to hell, Harry,” you curse. Zap. An electric jolt of white thunder blurs your vision, causing you to double over in bed, wailing out in excruciating pain.

“Starve,” he states plainly, getting up from where he was sitting on the bed, brushing off his suit, and making his way to the door, slamming it behind him. So much for dinner.

The next morning, you still wake up in your overglorified cage. Luxury, as Harry would call it. Silk sheets. Glass walls. A perfect skyline view. A bearskin rug. A grand piano. Oh, and a fucking shock collar. You shudder at the realization, but also at the fact that you are now donned in a completely different outfit, this time a satin nightdress colored maroon with black lace around the edges. You feel queasy wondering how the hell you got undressed and redressed sometime between when you fell asleep and when you woke up this morning, but shake your head, trying to rid yourself of such thoughts. You can’t let yourself spiral. You have to stay strong. 

“You thought he was going to come save you,” Harry says the next morning, watching you carefully, leaning against the piano. You’re still in bed, still wearing your nightdress, still paralyzed with fear. Scared that you’ll make one wrong move and the collar around your throat will detonate once again. “I saw it in your eyes. When the door opened.”

You don’t answer. Click. There it goes. You gasp, sharp and involuntary as the electricity crackles down your spine.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Harry winces theatrically. “This is all his fault.” He gets up off the piano and crosses the room over to you, looking down at you sitting in bed. “He saved the girl he loves. The girl who takes priority in his life. The girl who he sees a future with.” He sighs dramatically. “And that girl, Felicia, is not you.”

You turn your face away and he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him, not roughly, but firmly. “You don’t get to look away when I’m speaking to you,” he snarls. You glare at him, tears brimming in your eyes, bright but unfallen. 

“I hate you,” you dare to tell him.

He smiles, satisfied. “Oh I know,” he laughs softly. “Security?” One of the men waiting at the door hands Harry a newspaper, and he tosses it in your lap. “A little reading material for you.”

Your eyes flicker to the front page, a picture of Spider-Man swinging with Mary Jane Watson. It’s nothing intimate, nothing real, but it’s just enough. He’s smiling under the mask. Functioning.

“He’s moved on,” Harry states. “So should you.” And with that, he leaves the room.

Another day passes and you still haven’t eaten. The newspaper lays on the ground near your bed. You do, however, decide to change and shower. You find a sweater in the wardrobe that’s slightly oversized, barely comforting, but comforting nonetheless. You pick out a pair of sweatpants. Cotton socks. Underwear that doesn’t feel like lingerie. You hate being dressed up like a doll for him. You want your own clothes. Your own space. Your own room. You hate this. Being treated like his little pet.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Five 🕷️

White walls. No windows. No cameras. Two doors. Two heartbeats. Oscorp doesn’t call it a sublevel. They call it containment. It’s the perfect set up. The perfect ploy. A trap. Expertly designed and crafted for none other than Peter Parker. Harry Osborn is nothing short of an evil genius when it comes to “testing his hypotheses.” And this time seems crueller than any other.

Spider-Man lands hard in the corridor, breath ragged, suit torn from the fight it took just to get there. His spider-sense is screaming, alarms wailing in his mind, body shaking with fear. Harry Osborn is waiting for him, hands in the pockets of his suit, relaxed. Thrilled.

“Hey Pete,” he greets enthusiastically. “You came! I knew you would.”

“Where is she?” Spider-Man growls.

“Hmmm? Which one?” Harry challenges and Spider-Man falters.

“W-which one?” he stutters, caught off guard.

“Right. So you see, I thought about just taking one, but where’s the fun in that?” Harry laughed sinisterly. “It’s always good to have… choices. You know that better than anyone.”

“Where are they?” Spider-Man shouted.

Harry grins. “Straight to business. I missed that about you.” He steps aside to reveal two steel doors. Identical. Unmarked. Harry gestures between them like he’s presenting fine art. “In one room is Mary Jane Watson. Tied to a chair. Scared. Still thinking the world makes sense.” Peter’s heart seizes. “In the other, is Felicia Hardy. No mask. No claws. Just a woman who’s pretending she doesn’t need you to come save her.”

Spider-Man lunges at Harry and the entire floor electrifies. He crashes to his knees with a strangled sound, muscles seizing up instantly. Harry crouches down in front of him, eye to eye, delighted.

“Bad idea,” Harry tsks. “You don’t get to rush the experiment.”

“You touch them and I swear I’ll-” Spider-Man forces himself up on shaking arms.

“And you what?” Harry interrupts, fake pouting. “Kill me? Ruin Oscorp? Expose yourself?” He hums, considering. “You could. Eventually. But not before one of them breaks wondering why you didn’t choose her.”

Peter’s voice is hoarse. “Let them go. This is between us.”

“Oh Peter,” Harry laughs. “Everything is between us. But this? This is about truth.” He taps the first door. MJ’s. “She loves the idea of Spider-Man. The hero. The mask. The distance. But she doesn’t know what it costs.” Then he taps the second door. Felicia’s. Yours. “She, on the other hand, knows exactly what it costs. She just decides to pay it anyways.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t do this,” he quietly begs.

Harry’s smile sharpens. “That’s the thing, Pete. It’s too late. I already did.” He holds up a small device, the timer blinking red. “You have five minutes. You can only open one door.”

Spider-Man’s head snaps up. “Bullshit.”

“Oh no,” Harry retorts. “You can save both eventually. You’re very good at eventually.” He leans in closer. “But right now? Only one of them will hear you coming. The other will hear you not coming.” Peter’s breath fractures. Harry tilts his head. “Let’s see who you run to when it really matters.”

Inside the rooms, MJ is crying quietly, trying to be brave, telling herself that Peter will come any minute now. He always does. Meanwhile, you’re bleeding from a split lip, your wrists bound, eyes sharp despite the fear you won’t let surface. You already know. Of course you do. You’re not stupid. Harry’s gonna make him choose. The bastard.

Spider-Man paces, clawing at his mask, chest heaving. MJ’s laugh. Felicia’s smile. MJ’s faith. Felicia’s scars. MJ’s gentleness. Felicia’s ferocity. “You’re enjoying this,” Peter spits.

Harry’s eyes gleam. “Immensely.”

Spider-Man glances at the doors, then quietly, fiercely, says “You’re wrong.”

Harry blinks.

Spider-Man straightens. “You think this is about who I love more,” he begins, voice steadier now. “But this is about who you think I really am.”

Harry arches a brow. Peter steps towards Felicia’s door. Harry laughs. “Of course you-”

Peter suddenly stops. Turns. And walks towards MJ’s door instead. Harry’s smile freezes. Peter doesn’t look back. “Felicia chose this life knowing what it costs,” he whispers. “MJ didn’t.”

Harry’s expression twists, fascinated, furious.

“But don’t misunderstand me,” Peter threatens. “If Felicia dies because of you… so help me god…” He looks Harry dead in the eye. “I won’t stop.”

He reaches MJ’s door. Throws his weight against the mechanism. Webs the lock. Rips hard. The steel groans. He tears the door open and dives inside. He quickly goes to release her, MJ stumbling out of her chair, clutching Spider-Man. He holds her like the world almost ended. Like she’s oxygen. You can’t see it, but you can hear everything, imagine it in your mind. You swallow the hurt before it can bloom, closing your eyes within the white walls. “Fucking idiot,” you mutter to yourself. “Always the hero.”

You don’t hear Harry stepping into your room. But you do hear him lean close. “See?” Harry murmurs in your ear. “Even Spider-Man leaves you.”

Your eyes snap open. Cold. Furious. Unbroken. “He didn’t leave me,” you snarl. “He made a choice.”

“Ah yes, a choice,” Harry hums.

“You needed proof that he loved her?” you ask.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I needed proof that you don’t matter.”

“You’re gonna regret this!” you roar.

“Oh sweetheart,” Harry chuckles. He lifts a small remote. Click. Pain detonates at your throat, white hot, surgical, precise. You gasp, muscles locking, breath tearing out of your lungs as the shock collar does exactly what it was designed to do. Harry releases the button almost immediately. You slump forward, panting, shaking, furious.

“Let’s establish something early,” Harry states calmly. “Defiance costs you. Silence buys you mercy.”

You drag yourself upright again. “Go to hell,” you spit.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Four 🕷️

Felicia Hardy wakes up to fluorescent lights and the ache of restraints biting into skin that already hurts everywhere. Your wrists are cuffed. Ankles too. The bench is cold. The room smells like Lysol and stale coffee and harsh judgment. An officer reads you your rights like it’s muscle memory. You listen, half lidded, cataloging the pain instead. One cracked rib. A shoulder that screams when you shift. A bruise blooming dark and ugly along your collarbone where the stun round kissed you dead center.

“Black Cat,” the officer says, narrowing his eyes. “That’s what they’re calling you.”

You manage a smile. “Catchy.”

They leave you alone after that. And the loneliness bores into you like a black hole.

Peter wakes to antiseptic and morphine and white noise and the weight of failure pressing down on his chest harder than the IV ever could. His ribs are wrapped in bandages. His head throbs with every breath. There’s a bandaid pulling at his eyebrow every time he blinks. He tries to sit up and regrets it immediately. The TV is on mute, subtitles scrolling at the bottom of the screen. “Unconfirmed reports suggest Spider-Man may be linked to recent Black Cat art thefts… Questions are raised about vigilante alliances…” He turns it off with a shaking hand.

MJ comes in an hour later. She pauses in the doorway like she’s bracing herself for impact. “Hey,” she whispers softly, knocking at the door.

Peter tries to smile and miserably fails. “Hey.”

She sits down by the hospital bed, taking his hand carefully into hers, like she’s afraid he might break. He notices that she hasn’t been crying. Not yet. That scares him more. “Peter there are rumors,” she begins suddenly.

“Rumors?” his stomach drops. “About what?”

“About Spider-Man,” MJ continues. “About associations…” She swallows roughly. “About Black Cat.”

Peter closes his eyes. Presses his lips together. Silent.

“They’re saying you two work together,” she adds. “That you protect her. And she protects you.”

The quiet in the room feels thick and suffocating.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” MJ admits softly. “Harry says-”

Peter’s eyes snap open. “What did Harry say?”

MJ hesitates, and that’s answer enough. “He says you’re in over your head,” she whispers. “That you’re being manipulated by people who don’t care if you get hurt or not.”

Peter turns his face away, voice hoarse. “Is that what you think?”

MJ doesn’t answer right away. “I think that you’re trying to save everyone,” she says slowly. “And I think there’s a certain someone who is making sure that costs you everything.”

Peter opens his mouth to respond but she’s already standing, walking towards the door.

“Get some rest,” she recommends. “We’ll talk later.”

When MJ leaves the room, it feels emptier than it should. Peter stares at the ceiling, already planning and plotting. 

Your arraignment is fast, efficient even. Charges read out in a neat, devastating list. Your assets are frozen pending investigation. Bail is denied due to flight risk. You laugh under your breath at that. They don’t laugh back. When they lead you away, you don’t fight back. You save your strength. You always do. But in the back of the transport van, alone with the hum of the engine, your composure finally cracks. You press your forehead to the cool metal and let out a low exhale. “Spider will figure it out,” you tell yourself. “He always does.”

Peter doesn’t sleep. He pulls hospital strings, police reports, court schedules. He calls in favors he didn’t know he had and burns the ones he did. He maps out evidence trails, Oscorp fingerprints hidden under layers of legality and influence. Every path leads back to the exact same place. Harry Osborn. His hands shake with fury. He’s coming for you, he swears to himself. He’s gonna get you out of there.

High above the city, behind tinted glass, Harry watches the aftermath bloom exactly as he predicted. Screens glow with headlines. His stock graphs stabilize. The art world hums with gossip and relief. Good thing all of that is handled. He sips his drink, satisfied. Collateral damage. Unfortunate. Necessary. He scrolls through a photo of Felicia Hardy in cuffs. Then one of Peter Parker being wheeled through hospital doors. Then another, MJ, leaving the hospital alone, shoulders tight. Thank god for private investigators. Harry smiles at his hard work. He didn’t just hurt you. He separated you. And as he sets his glass down, already considering what to take next, he knows something important. This isn’t an ending. It’s purely leverage.

Peter doesn’t break you out. There’s no explosions, no masks, no webs, no headlines. That’s exactly what Harry would expect. He does something quieter, smarter. He lets the system fuck itself over. Oscorp clean up crews made a mistake in the alley. A small one. A detail so boring no one thought to scrub it properly. One body cam that didn’t go dark fast enough. One shell casing logged to a private contractor instead of NYPD inventory. One encrypted payout that hit a shell company Felicia’s lawyers had already flagged months ago. Peter doesn’t touch it as Spider-Man. He leaks it. Anonymous tips impossible to tract back to one source. Bugle runs with it, blood and hypocrisy, something independent journalists pile on. Evidence tainted. Arrest compromised. Chain of custody broken. Suddenly the prosecution has a problem it can’t outrun. You’re released pending investigation. Not cleared. Not forgiven. Just free enough to finally breathe.

You return to an apartment that no longer feels like yours. Accounts are frozen. Gallery contracts are postponed. Friends are suddenly busy. Invitations quietly rescinded. You debate staying at one of your safehouses until this whole thing blows over. Knowing Harry can access your apartment with ease makes you feel sick. That night, you shower for too long. Scrub until your skin burns. You feel like the collar is still there. The handcuffs are still biting into your wrists. When you finally sit at the edge of your bed, your hands start to shake. You don’t cry. But you get angry. Insanely, terribly, irrationally angry. Fuck Harry Osborn. Fuck Oscorp. Fuck this life you never asked for.

MJ figures it out on her own. She always does. She sees your release hit the news, noticing the timing, looks at Peter’s face when he pretends not to care. She connects the dots no one else wants to look at. When she confronts him, there’s no screaming. It’s worse. “So…” she crosses her arms over her chest. “You moved heaven and earth for her.”

Peter opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares at MJ, shocked. “S-she almost died,” he tries to excuse but MJ’s laugh is sharp and broken.

“So could you,” she argued. “You do, every night.”

“That’s not-” Peter began to protest.

“Isn’t it?” MJ interrupts. “Because it feels like I’m the only one who doesn’t get to know the truth. I get lies. I get excuses. I get left behind in the middle of the night. I get told to be patient while you go and bleed for someone else.”

Peter looks wrecked. Guilty. Furious with himself. “I was trying to protect you,” he insists.

“From what exactly, Peter?” MJ’s eyes gleam with tears, angry and bitter. “From knowing who you really are? Or from knowing who you choose at the end of the day?”

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Three 🕷️

“I’m no longer playing defense. This is war.”

You’re standing on opposite sides of the rooftop, rain slicking the concrete, the city stretched raw beneath you. Peter’s mask is off, clutched in his hand like a bad habit he can’t quit. Your eyes are sharp with a decision that scares him more than any villain ever has.

“You don’t mean that,” Peter says. He wants to believe it.

“I absolutely do,” you reply. “Harry took my dignity, my livelihood, my everything. He took your peace. He took pieces of both of us and called it strategy.” You step closer. “I’m not waiting for him to decide how this ends.”

Peter exhales, shaky. “You think I haven’t wanted this?”

Your expression hardens. “Then stop hesitating.”

That’s how it starts. Not with a plan so much as a collision of desperation and rage. Oscorp doesn’t fall the way villains do in movies. It bleeds. You make the first move. Through donor channels, shell corporations, private collections Harry thought were untouchable. You slowly leak proof, not to the authorities, but to the wrong people. Rival investors. Foreign institutions. People who don’t forgive easily. Peter hits the Oscorp infrastructure. Data centers. Black sites. The digital spine Harry uses to whisper into the city’s ear.

For twelve hours, it almost works. Stocks dip. Allies panic. A board member resigns “for health reasons.” The Bugle holds a story, just once. You find yourself laughing for the first time in weeks. But then Harry responds. He doesn’t counterattack. He detonates.

The art world turns on you overnight. A forged document surfaces, convincing and meticulous, placing you at the center of an international smuggling ring. Pieces you returned are suddenly linked back to you through falsified transfers. You’re not radioactive anymore. You're a goddamn criminal. Peter finds out when police scanners light up with your name. He’s already on the move. But he’s too late. 

The alley smells like wet concrete and old oil and something metallic that reminds you of blood. You clock it a second too late, the way the rain suddenly sounds wrong, muted by bodies instead of pavement. The way the shadows don’t move when you do. It’s Oscorp. You don’t need to see it to believe it. They don’t announce themselves. There’s no badges or sirens. Just steel toed boots splashing through puddles and the soft electric whine of weapons warming up. There’s five of them. Maybe six.

“Cute,” you hum, unsheathing the blades from your hands, kitty cat claws out and ready to pounce. “Harry really knows how to send flowers.”

You make the first move. You spring up the fire escape wall, flipping, landing behind the nearest man and driving your elbow into the base of his skull. He goes down hard, teeth clacking together like dice. You don’t stop to admire your work, you roll under a stun baton, messing up your landing. You seethe, pain stinging through your leg, but choose to ignore it. You vault off a dumpster to avoid a net of crackling energy that scorches the brick where your head was a second ago. They’re good. Too good. Expertly trained to box you in, herding you towards the dead end of the alley. Suddenly, a baton clips your ribs. White hot pain explodes through your side. You gasp, stumbling, catching yourself on the wall just in time to keep from collapsing. Your vision spots, rain streaking like static, everything hazy, blurry, off. Rageful, you laugh. “Is that all you got?” you challenged. The answer comes as electricity. It burns through your ribcage, tearing you apart, and your vision goes out entirely, your face plummeting to the concrete below.

Peter feels it before he sees it. His spider-sense goes off like flashing lights behind his eyes. The spike of danger hits his spine so hard it nearly drops him mid swing. He doesn’t think twice. He never does when it comes to you. He just lets go and lets gravity take him, crashing into the alley like a thunderbolt wrapped in red and blue. “Get away from her!” he roared.

He hits the man feet first, slamming him into the brick with enough force to crater it. The second swings and Peter catches the baton barehanded and crushes it with his super strength, electricity biting up his arm, muscles seizing. He screams through clenched teeth and throws the man anyways. Searing pain makes its way up to his shoulder before he lets go. Someone tackles him from behind. Another hits him low. They dog pile him, efficient, merciless. Oscorp gear is designed to take him on now. Insulated, reinforced, cruelly precise. 

You watch him go down. “No!” you screamed, rage eclipsing your pain. You launched yourself into the chaos, claws out, feral and furious. You take a stun round to the shoulder and keep moving, raking across a visor, ripping it free. Peter gets up again. He always finds a way. That’s what Spider-Man does. Blood runs into his eyes from a gash above the mask. His ribs scream out every time he breathes. He webs two men together, slamming them into the ground, then dropping to one knee as another shock surges through him, lighting up his nervous system like a bad memory. 

“Spider!” you shout, close enough now to grab onto his arm. Your touch steadies him for half a second. And that’s enough. That’s all he needs.

The two of you fight back to back, clumsy and desperate but perfect in the way only shared instinct can be. Between your killer reflexes and his spider-sense, you kick ass. He shields you when he can. You cover his blind spots. You’re winning by inches, not ground. But Harry escalates. One of the stun rounds hits you square in the chest. You go rigid mid-step, a sharp, broken sound tearing from your throat as you slam into the pavement. Your entire body locks, arches, and then collapses like a tower of cards. 

“Cat!” Peter cries out, tearing through the remaining men like an animal, strength spiking with terror. But it’s too late. His legs give out when another baton catches him behind the knee. He hits hard, face first into the unforgiving ground, stars bursting behind his eyes. Boots surround him. Rain pools under his cheek. He can’t get up. No matter how hard he tries. Pain envelopes him. He’s down for good this time.

You hear his voice before you see him. Harry Osborn’s shoes don’t splash when he steps into the alley. He’s precise, slow, deliberate. “Messy,” he sighs, as if you’re some sort of inconvenience. Your vision swims. Every nerve feels ignited. You try to move, but nothing responds. Peter drags himself forward anyways, his fingers scraping uselessly at the wet ground.

“Touch her and I swear to god, Harry I’ll-” he threatens as Harry crouches beside him, unbothered.

“You already did Peter. That was the problem,” he says matter of factly.

Sirens echo somewhere far away. Real ones. Police sirens. Harry timed it perfectly. He straightens up, glancing at your unmoving form with disappointment. “I expected more from you,” he frowns, kicking you softly so you turn over from your side to look up at him. He then turns to Peter, laughing softly. “Offense invites consequences.” And then walks away.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty Two 🕷️

Harry Osborn doesn’t knock. He never does. You hear the click in your apartment a half second before the door opens. The soft, intimate sound of someone who already knows the lock code. Because of fucking course, he paid for the building. You’re already on your feet, heels braced against the coffee table, reaching for a kitchen knife.

  “Relax,” Harry smiles pleasantly, stepping inside the space as if he owns the air itself. “If I wanted you unconscious, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

You don’t lower your knife. You lift it like a threat. “Is that supposed to comfort me?” you scowl, offended. 

Harry shuts the door behind him, slow and deliberate. He’s dressed far too well for coming so late in the night, tailored coat, cufflinks catching the lowlight, hair swept back neatly. He looks like a man arriving to collect something overdue. “I’m impressed,” he chuckles, clapping slowly, mockingly. “You were always subtle. Degas was inspiring. The ambassador nearly choked.”

“Careful,” you tease. “You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

“Oh darling, I am a fan,” he takes a step closer to you. Your knuckles turn white around the knife. “I am a fan of talent. Of ambition. Of people who truly understand leverage.” He hums softly. “I’ve always been a fan of you, Felicia.”

You shift uncomfortably, knife in hand, unsure of his next move. “Say whatever you came to say, Harry,” you challenged. “Cut to the chase.”

He takes one step closer, now an arm’s length away. You can smell his cologne. “Peter Parker,” he begins carefully. Your entire body stiffens. He watches your face with the reverence of a collector spotting a flaw. “Ah, there it is. God, you should really see yourself.”

“What about him?” you asked.

Harry just smiles. Not kind, not polite anymore, not inviting. “Peter’s… unraveling. You should feel proud. Bugle pressure, girlfriend pestering him with questions, his late night disappearances getting harder to explain. He’s very bad at lying when it matters.”

Your breath catches. You hate yourself for him noticing. “You leave Spider-Man alone,” you demanded.

Harry laughs. “Felicia, please. I’m not touching him.” He grins. “I’m touching you.” He casually reaches into his coat, setting his phone on the coffee table between you. One tap and the screen lights up. Emails. Photos. Timelines. News articles. Provenance trails you thought you had successfully buried. Security footage frames, grainy and unconfirmed, but suggestive. Enough to ruin you without ever convicting you. “I don’t need to expose you. I just need people to stay suspicious.”

You stare at the screen in disbelief. And then at Harry. “You’re bluffing,” you scoff, trying to hide your nervousness.

“I don’t bluff,” his gaze sharpens. “I simply test hypotheses.”

You slowly exhale, setting the knife down, putting your hands up like you’re under arrest. “What do you want?” you sighed.

For a brief moment, you catch his mask slipping, rage flashing across his face for a mere second, before being replaced with that sickly sinister smile. “I want you to stop,” he stipulates. “Stop nudging my donors. Stop whispering to my enemies. Stop playing hero with my messes.”

“And if I don’t?” you challenged.

He shrugs, pretending to be unbothered. “Peter collapses under the weight of it all. MJ starts to learn things she can’t unknow. The art world finally decides you’re radioactive.” He pauses. “I’d hate for Spider-Man to find you… diminished.”

“You think you own me,” you narrowed your eyes.

Harry steps closer once again, this time too close. You don’t move. You can feel his warm breath against your skin. “I think,” he whispered. “That you and I understand each other far better than you’re ever willing to admit. We move in the same rooms. We like control. We don’t apologize for taking what we want.” His eyes flicker to your lips. Then back up towards your eyes. “We could’ve been an amazing pair, you and I.”

“Go to hell,” you dared to resist.

“You chose the wrong man to provoke,” he growled.

“No,” you shook your head. “I chose the perfect one.”

Harry’s pleasant expression fractures, just a hairline crack. “Then choose very carefully what you do next,” he warns, turning towards the door, back to you. “Because I’m warning you Felicia, next time, I won’t come alone.” He pauses, his hand on the door knob. “Oh. And Felicia?” He laughs silently. “Tell your Spider I said hello.”

The door closes. The lock clicks. You stand there for a long moment, your chest tight, staring at the knife left laying on the coffee table. Your mind spins with images of the incriminating evidence once glowing on Harry’s phone. You’re so fucked.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty One 🕷️

The city doesn’t explode after Oscorp. Nobody is kidnapped or drugged or forced to make a decision. There’s no bombings or explosions or shock collars or restraints. It’s a sickening silence. The entire city tightens. It’s the first thing Felicia Hardy learns once the shock collar is gone, once the bruises fade from angry purple to a sickly yellow hue, once Peter leaves her apartment at dawn with a look on his face like he’s carved something out of himself and left it behind. The world doesn’t end. It narrows. Tunnel vision.

Harry Osborn never mentions your name. That’s how you know it’s deliberate. Art gallery invitations just magically stop arriving. Not all at once, but in a careful pattern. A postponed opening here. A “regretfully, we’ve decided to go in another direction” there. Donors who used to light up when you entered a room now hesitate, eyes sliding past you like you’ve become inconvenient furniture, taking up too much room, too much space that isn’t yours. No accusations. No charges. No rash judgements. But questions. Questions upon questions. Provenance concerns. Conflicting documentation. Reputational sensitivity. 

After the fifth canceled showing, you scroll through your phone on the edge of your bed, jaw tight, searching for answers. There’s circulating articles. Blind items. Anonymous tips. Nothing explicit or actionable, just enough suggestion to rot the foundation. “Prominent art curator linked to ongoing Manhattan heist investigations.” “Questions raised about origins of several private collections.” “A socialite with suspicious luck.” Harry doesn’t accuse. He simply implies. Behind the scenes, he’s generous. He’s hosting emergency benefits. He rescues struggling institutions. He positions Oscorp as a stabilizing force in a suddenly uncertain market. He doesn’t point fingers. But he lets it be known that Felicia Hardy is a risk. Quietly. Deliberately. He tarnishes your reputation in the art world.

Peter feels Harry’s wrath differently. It comes through as noise. The Daily Bugle suddenly pivots its stories, not towards truth, but tone. Spider-Man becomes reckless. Escalatory. A vigilante who brings chaos and destruction wherever he swings. A piece runs questioning Spider-Man’s true purpose, if he’s becoming more of a liability than a hero. Anonymous sources mention “unusual associations.” A cat-like silhouette appears in a grainy photo that runs the papers once, and then disappears. The implication lingers. Jonah Jameson is out for blood, and he won’t stop until he gets a taste. Peter stops sleeping entirely. 

Peter stands in his apartment, newspaper shaking in his hands, mask folded on the table like it’s watching him. He immediately knows who this is. The work of an Osborn through and through. He turns sick when MJ starts asking questions. “Did you talk to Harry recently? He said some things that just… I don’t know. Stuck with me.” The way she interviews him you would think she was the one running the Daily Bugle stories. She asks about Harry. About Oscorp. About why Peter seems so afraid of the news. About the silver haired woman who left disaster in her path and seemingly disappeared after that night. About why Peter’s not sleeping. She won’t stop until she figures out what’s wrong. And Peter refuses to tell her.

You’re frustrated. Pissed off. Agitated and aggravated through and through. You decide to strike. But not loudly. That would be sloppy. You retaliate the way you were taught. Through rooms with white walls and soft lighting, through whispers that sound like compliments, through truths placed so delicately they look like accidents. The art world is a small ecosystem, especially in New York. Predatory. Vain. Ruthless. Everyone pretending to not need anyone else while starving for access. You’ve lived in it long enough to know which strings hum when you pluck them. 

You start with the provenance concerns. Not accusations. Questions. At a private viewing somewhere in Chelsea, you pause in front of a Rothko that shouldn’t be there yet, champagne flute balanced perfectly on your gloved fingers. “Beautiful saturation,” you murmur to the dealer beside you, taking a sip of your champagne. “Though I thought the Basel paperwork was still… pending.” The dealer suddenly stiffens. Just a fraction. You smile, apologetic. “I must be mistaken.” But you’re not. You know you’re not. You just place dominoes piece by piece, waiting for their moment to fall.

You work on repairing your reputation. You attend galas you specifically weren’t invited to. That alone makes people nervous. You slip onto the arm of a minor billionaire with a vanity museum and a desperate need to be relevant. You kiss cheeks. Remember names. Ask about collections like you’re asking about their families. “Oh you acquired a Kline?” you pretend to be intrigued, eyes bright and personality bubbly. “From Zurich or?” People talk. They always do. Especially rich people.

Within a week, a rival curator calls Harry Osborn. Not to accuse, to ask. “Just wanted to check something,” the man says carefully. “There are rumors, Mr. Osborn, probably nothing, but um, they’re circling Oscorp sponsored exhibitions. Provenance irregularities. Shell donors.” Harry listens, smiling. Always smiling. But on the inside, writhing in anger. You hear about it the next morning. You’re sprawled across your couch, boots kicked off, phone screen glowing in the dim light as you scroll through industry newsletters. Nothing explicit. Nothing illegal. Just pressure building up. Slowly but surely. 

Your real move comes in silence. You decide to return something. A Degas sketch that has been missing for twelve years. You slip it, anonymously, into the hands of a French cultural ambassador during a benefit dinner in SoHo. No cameras. No note. No reward. Just a provenance trail that doesn’t lead to Harry, but circles him closely. Just close enough that anyone paying attention will wonder why. Within forty eight hours, a discreet inquiry reaches Oscorp. In seventy two, a sponsorship is suddenly paused. Harry notices immediately. And he refuses to accept it without a fight.

The two of you cross paths at a museum fundraiser neither of you can avoid. Miss Hardy and Mr. Osborn in close proximity. You wear silver this time, sharp lines, nothing soft, something that compliments your hair and your complexion in the most luxurious of ways. You look expensive in the kind of way that doesn’t beg to be owned. Five minutes in, you’re already turning heads. But there’s only one person whose attention matters.

Harry approaches you, drink in hand, smile polished and pleasant. He appears unbothered, but you know deep down inside, his skin is crawling at the sight of you. “Felicia,” he nods. “You’ve been busy.”

You take the glass from him without asking. You don’t drink, you just hold it. It feels good to physically take something away from him. “You’ve been careless,” you reply calmly.

His smile tightens. “Careful. That sounds like a threat.”

“No Harry,” you lean in close, lowering your voice to a whisper. “That was a courtesy.”

For the first time this night, something flickers in his eyes. Interest. Irritation. Respect. All somehow tangled together. “You think this ends well for you?” he growled in your ear.

You straighten, eyes alert, unafraid. “I think,” you hummed. “That you underestimated how many people hate being used.” You hand him the glass back, untouched, and then walk away, leaving a speechless Harry Osborn behind. 

That same night, Peter finds you on a fire escape, the city breathing beneath you. He’s disturbed, worry in his eyes, constantly checking over his shoulder. He’s on edge. Nervous. Scared. “You did something,” he points his finger at you, accusatory.

“I reminded him I’m not prey,” you insisted.

Peter studies your profile, the tension in your shoulders. “Careful, Felicia. He’ll hit back. Hard.”

“Let him,” you smile, slow and dangerous. “I’d like to see him try.”

Peter swallows uncomfortably, shifting in his Spider-Man suit.

🕷️ Chapter Twenty 🕷️

You know the exact moment he leaves. Not because of the sound, he’s too careful for that, but because the entire room changes. The air shifts. The warmth beside you thins out, like a blanket pulled away in the middle of the night. You don’t open your eyes right away. You stay curled up on the couch, wrapped in borrowed quiet, listening to the city breathe through the windows. Sirens far away. A car horn. Someone laughing on the street below. Life, stubborn and ongoing.

Your throat aches. Not sharply anymore. Dull. Bruised. Broken. A reminder. You slowly lift a hand, fingers trembling just a little as they brush the skin of your neck. There’s no collar anymore. No hum. No pulse of pain waiting to punish you for existing. But still, your breath stutters. Your body remembers. You press your palm there anyways, grounding yourself, counting breaths like you learned a long time ago. In for four. Hold. Out for six. Okay. Still here.

You sit up carefully, blanket slipping down your shoulders. The apartment looks the same as it always does, art on the walls, stolen beauty reclaimed and curated on your own terms. But something feels off. LIke a painting hung a fraction crooked.

Your gaze drifts to the window, sad. He didn’t say goodbye. You’re not angry, just sad. You know why. You always know why. You stand, your legs unsteady, making your way to the bathroom. The mirror greets you with someone you almost don’t recognize, eyes too alert, mouth too still, hands shaky. You lean on the sink, staring at the faint red mark circling your throat. Harry’s voice echoes in your head, smooth and cruel and condescending all over. “Bad kitty.” Your jaw tightens. Never again, you tell your reflection. A promise. But then, suddenly, Peter’s voice follows. Softer. Careful. Caring. “Your Spider.” Your chest aches in a completely different way.

You sink down onto the bathroom floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled to her chest. This is the part you hate. The silence after. The space where the adrenaline drains out and leaves everything raw and exposed. You didn’t cry when Harry hurt you. You didn’t cry when the collar discharged. You didn’t cry when Peter touched your neck. But you cry now. Just a little bit. Silent, controlled. Tears slip down your cheeks as you press your face into your knees and you let yourself feel it, all of it. The fear, the anger, the humiliation, the awful helplessness of being used as leverage. And underneath it all, the part that scares you the most is how safe you felt when Peter held you. How easily you let yourself believe it meant something permanent. You wipe your face with the heel of your hand and exhale shakily. This won’t last. You knew that. 

Still, he came. And that matters more than you want it to. You eventually stand, splashing cold water on your face, straightening your spine. You’ve survived worse than this. You’ll be fine. You always end up eventually. 

🕷️ Chapter Nineteen 🕷️

You don’t talk much on the way back. Spider-Man carries you the long way, avoiding sharp swings, keeping one arm braced firmly under your knees, the other around your back. He moves slower than usual. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he jolts you too hard. You don't protest. You’re tired in the kind of way that sinks into every bone, the echo of the collar still buzzing faintly in your nerves. Every now and again, your fingers twitch against his suit, trying to ground yourself by reminding your body you’re not restrained anymore.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, voice still hoarse.

“That’s a question I should be asking you,” he whispers, tightening his hold.

You grow quiet, letting it go. But deep down you know he’s hurting. He took multiple hits. Was slammed into pure concrete. Into glass windows. Against the cold unforgiving marble floor. He needs an ambulance. A hospital. A doctor. But you know deep down he’d never go for that.

Your apartment is dark and quiet when you slip in through the window, Spider-Man gently setting you on the couch like you’re something breakable. He doesn’t exactly hover, he tries not to baby you, but he doesn’t stray far. He keeps you in his line of sight. He helps you out of your damaged suit piece by piece, cutting away at the leather with scissors, asking permission every few seconds as he undresses you. Each touch is deliberate. Reassuring. Gentle. Kind. His fingers brush against your throat and you both freeze.

“Sorry,” he instantly apologizes, embarrassed, fingers retracting.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, putting one hand on his. “You can touch me.”

He exhales. Like he’s been holding it in for hours. He brings you water and a blanket, sitting on the floor in front of you inspecting the raw skin where the collar had been, his eyes dark with guilt and fury he hasn’t let himself feel yet.

“You don’t have to-” you began, but he interrupts you quietly.

“I know,” he says. “But I want to.”

His fingers graze against your neck and you flinch involuntarily, his fingers retracting, but you exhale, slowly taking his hand and moving it closer towards you, telling him it’s okay. His hands are steady, his shoulders tense, and he keeps glancing up at your face like he’s checking if you’re still there.

“You took a bad hit,” you whispered. “You’re not okay.”

He gives a small, apologetic smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not comforting,” you frowned.

“I know,” he admitted. “But right now you’re the priority.”

He gently slathers Neosporin on the shock collar burns on your neck, careful and cautious, like if he presses too hard you might break.

“It felt weird,” you finally confess. “Saying your name.” You pause, tasting it in your mouth before letting it go. “Peter.”

He looks up, charmed. “Yeah?”

“You’ve always been my Spider,” you continued, softer now. “I don’t know how to call you anything else.”

Something in his expression melts a little. “I like it,” he nods. “When you call me that.”

“Yeah?” you brighten up a bit.

“Your Spider,” he repeats affectionately.

The words settle between you, fragile and real. “Come here,” you murmur, pulling him closer to you, and kissing him softly.

It’s unlike any other time you’ve ever been intimate before. He’s not rough, aggressive, desperate, and demanding. He’s soft, gentle, cautious, careful, and loving. There’s no raunchy dirty talk or screaming out each other’s name. It’s soft pants and moans and silent begging. It’s romantic, almost. His lips press into yours, his tongue slowly slipping into your mouth, his hands cradling the back of your head. He presses soft kisses to your neck, to your bruises and burns, like he’s trying to heal them, kiss the pain away. His mouth gravitates towards your breasts and he takes them into his mouth, sucking and licking and nipping, making you moan softly, tossing your head back in ecstasy. Most of your clothes are already off, and it takes little to no time at all for him to shed his suit to his ankles and kick it aside.

He sinks into you, soft and slow and oh so sweet, making you savor every single inch. He rocks back and forth, slowly gaining a rhythm, and your hands find his biceps, resting there on his muscles as he stretches you out. He’s not trying to impress you anymore. He’s not trying to claim you or own you. He’s not even trying to fuck you well. He’s giving himself to you. Letting you feel all of him. He’s worshipping your body. It doesn’t feel like fucking anymore, it feels like making love. Your mouths intertwine in a passionate kiss, making out as he thrusts inside you, your hands now finding his back, digging in your nails just enough to leave little red half crescent moons on his flesh. When he comes, he moans your name, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever heard. You burn it into your mind and play it on repeat. “Felicia…” Your name sounds so good on his tongue.

“Come here,” you hold him in your arms, your naked bodies pressed up against each other, his head resting on your chest. 

You stay like that for a while. No expectations. No promises. Just breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he finally breaks the silence. “That you got hurt. That he used you. That-”

“Don’t,” you shake your head. “You came. That’s what matters.”

He swallows, hard.

“I was so scared,” you admit. “Not of him, no. But of what it would mean if you didn’t.”

His arms tighten around you, protective and warm. “I’ll always come,” he says quietly. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

You smile against his neck, sad and grateful all at once. “That might be the problem,” you whispered.

🕷️ Chapter Eighteen 🕷️

Felicia Hardy wakes up screaming. Your throat is burning. Your body jerking violently, your muscles locking as pain tears through you in precise, controlled waves. Not random. Designed. Light slams into your eyes. White, too bright, jarring. Your head throbs, your stomach churning, your consciousness suddenly snapping back into place in jagged pieces. You gasp, vision slowly coming back to you, focusing enough to see the floor, the restraints, the cold blue glow reflected in the glass. You feel an unfamiliar weight around your neck and your heart sinks in your chest.

“No,” you croaked out. “No, no, no, no….”

A sleek black collar hugs your throat, Oscorp tech humming softly, a cruel little pulse of blue light beating in time with your heart. Behind your back, your wrists are bound with metal cuffs. Your suit is torn at the shoulder, and you taste blood on your lips. You test the cuffs, tugging at them with your wrists, and the collar instantly discharges. Not fully, but just enough. Pain ripples down your spine, locking your muscles once again, stealing the breath from your lungs. You cry out despite yourself, teeth clenching as the shock slowly fades, leaving you shaking.

“Oh good,” a demeaning voice echoed throughout the room. “You’re awake.” You lift your head and see Harry, standing a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his suit, watching you like some sort of lab experiment.

“You sick fuck!” you snarled. “Get it off.”

He smirked, proud of his work. “Ask nicely.”

You spat at him, and he sighed softly, shaking his head.

“Tsk, tsk,” he scolded. He smiled cruelly and hit the button on a little control, pain detonating at his touch. 

You scream, your body arching against the restraints, your vision whiting out as the collar discharges again. When it fades, you’re shaking, teeth clenched, breathing ragged.

“Bad kitty,” Harry murmured. “Still scratching.”

You can’t help but whimper in defeat. It’s dehumanizing. The shock collar around your throat. The cuffs around your wrists and ankles. The way your body tremors and trembles. 

“You’re dead,” you seethed.

“Eventually,” he sighed. He clicks the button again and you cry out, pain rippling through your body. You can feel the electricity in your bones. “You see Felicia, I have a theory. About Spider-Man. About you.”

“I’m bait,” you gasped breathlessly, coming to the realization, and he nodded as confirmation.

The collar hums again, reacting to your spike in heart rate. “Rest,” Harry insisted. “Your guest will be here soon.” Suddenly you understand. This wasn’t about revenge. It was about proof. “Such a treat, to possess something so… untamable.”

“You don’t possess me,” you growled.

“Oh but I do,” he laughed snarkily. “Right now? Entirely.”

The collar hums, as if agreeing with his words. You closed your eyes tight, waiting for the shock, but it never came.

“You looked so small when you were unconscious,” he continued, almost thoughtfully. “Not helpless, no, that’s not the word. You’re never helpless. But… suspended.” He tilted his head. “Like a painting removed from the wall. Still valuable. Still beautiful. Just no longer deciding where it hangs.”

Your jaw tightened, the collar pulsating around your neck.

“You didn’t fight,” Harry says, pleased. “That was my favorite part. No claws. No clever remarks. Just trust.” A soft laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever given me something that intimate before.”

You glared at him. “You drugged me.”

“Yes,” he agreed easily. “And you came anyway. Unable to resist my touch.”

Your entire body shudders at his confession.

“Do you know how rare it is,” Harry continued. “To see someone like you… quiet. To see all that confidence stripped down to pure instinct?” His eyes gleamed. “You’re very honest when you think no one’s watching.”

The collar gives a warning pulse. Not pain. A reminder.

“Spider-Man is fascinating,” Harry remarked. “All that restraint. All those rules. He likes to think he’s untouchable too.” Your stomach drops. “I needed proof. That he’s capable of choosing wrong. That he’ll bleed if I press hard enough.” He turns back to you, smiling brightly. “And you, Felicia, are perfect pressure.”

As if on perfect time, the windows explode inward, raining down glass like glittering shrapnel. 

“Felicia!” his voice roars through the room, eyes tearing apart every inch until they fall upon you. Slumped against the wall, sleek black shock collar fixed on your neck, metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles, looking wrecked and pained.

“Ah, perfect timing,” Harry greeted brightly. Spider-Man lands hard, furious, and Harry blasts him out of the air with a casual flick of his wrist, slamming him into a steel column with a sickening crack. Your stomach lurches.

“Spider don’t-” you try to warn him but Spider-Man drags himself up, his eyes locked on you.

“What did you do to her?” he shouted, enraged, turning towards Harry with his fists balled up by the sides.

Harry strolls over towards you, crouching and gripping your chin, forcing you to look at Spider-Man. “I was testing a hypothesis,” he says calmly. “That’s all.”

He presses a button on the control and pain surges through your entire body, Harry’s grip on your chin never easing up, maintaining your eye contact with Spider-Man, whose eyes widen at the despicable act. “Felicia!” Spider screams your name again, rushing towards you, and Harry just laughs maniacally, flicking his wrist once again and sending a blast hurling Spider-Man towards the nearest wall. He crumples like he’s made of paper, and staggers upright again, his eyes refocused on yours.

Harry releases the steel grip on your chin and walks over to Spider-Man, clapping slowly. “You, Peter Parker,” Harry kicks him to the ground before he can recover. “Are Spider-Man.” He shudders, trying to pry himself up off of the ground. “And you,” Harry turns back towards you and smiles. “Are what makes him stupid.” He clicks the button again and you cry out in pain, Spider-Man screaming to make him stop, Harry just laughing and laughing. 

“Don’t touch her!” Spider-Man shouts from the floor, slowly getting up only for Harry to kick him back down again. “Don’t fucking touch her!”

“You let her go,” Harry whines down at him with mock sympathy. “Over and over and over again. Broke your rules for her…” He hums softly. “MJ would hate that.”

Spider-Man looks up at him from the ground, breath hitching. “Leave her out of this,” he warns.

“Oh but Peter,” Harry sighs. “Everyone’s already in it.”

Peter’s eyes meet yours and you lift your head ever so slightly. For once, there’s no flirting. No bravado. No sarcasm or witty remark. “Hey,” you say quietly, forcing a smile. “You finally came.”

Something inside Peter snaps. He moves like a man possessed. He launches at Harry, brutal and ugly and unforgiving. Harry snarls, Oscorp tech lighting up like Christmas lights, throwing Spider-Man every which way. He takes hit after hit, crawling back up every time Harry throws him aside. Blood splatters the glass windows. Alarms scream. You think you even hear a broken bone. You wince as you watch the fight, Spider-Man bruised and bleeding, but never giving up. It’s messy. Nothing like the clean fights he saves for criminals on the street. You can tell by the look in his eyes he’s out for blood. 

You watch helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest. Every time Spider-Man gets a little too close to you, zap! White, hot, violent pain courses through your veins. It takes everything within you not to give up, not to pass out, not to give in.

“Careful, Parker. One wrong move and she seizes up like a ragdoll,” Harry threatens smugly, jerking his hand even as blood streaks down his temple. Spider-Man skids to a halt, chest heaving, and you can tell he’s panicking inside. Harry chuckles darkly. “Pavlov would’ve loved her.”

You force your voice steady. “Hey,” you panted. “Spider. Look at me.” He does. Your eyes lock onto his through the mask. Ground him. Anchor him. “Don’t play his game. He wants you sloppy.”

Harry snorts at that. “She always was smart.”

This time, Spider-Man moves sideways instead of forward, feining left, webbing a ceiling conduit, and yanking hard. The lights die. The tower plunges into darkness. And Harry shouts loudly, lost in the shadows, dazed and confused. He screams in rage as the emergency power kicks in, delayed by seconds, but just enough for Spider-Man to get to you. He’s already moving, at your side in a blur of red and blue, his hands gentle but fast, fingers flying over the collar around your neck.

“Okay, fuck, okay…” he murmurs, out of breath. “Okay, Oscorp tech. Neural lock. There should be a manual release-”

“Spider,” you hiss. “Harry.”

“I know,” he reassures. Harry’s tech roars back to life, collar humming around your neck, drones buzzing and taking flight, but Spider-Man doesn’t turn around. Instead he rips the collar apart with his bare hands. Not delicately. Not cleanly. Violently. He jams webbing into the seams, floods the circuitry, and then pulls with brute force. The collar sparks violently, whining like a dying animal, before suddenly snapping open. He breaks your cuffs just as easily. “There we go.” Spider-Man sighs, and it’s in this split second he makes a dire mistake.

“Peter!” you scream his name.

That half-second of relief nearly gets him killed. Harry launches himself toward Peter, a glider roaring to life beneath his feet. You move without thinking, throwing yourself into the path, making sure to unsheath your claws and slash with all your force. The glider explodes sideways. Harry crashes through the far windows, disappearing into the city lights in a shower of glass and fire and blood. Alarms wail through the building. Sprinklers kick on. Oscorp security floods the lower floors, slowly gravitating up the stairs.

Spider-Man is at your side instantly, his hands hovering, afraid to touch you. “Felicia are you-”

You cut him off by grabbing his mask and yanking him down into a fierce, breathless, desperate kiss. Not soft. Not gentle. Alive. Passionate. You pull apart, foreheads pressed together, shaking. “We need to go,” you say hoarsely. 

🕷️ Chapter Seventeen 🕷️

Harry Osborn’s penthouse is all glass and ghosts. You noticed it the moment you stepped inside, the eerie way nothing feels lived in. Art on the walls that’s been chosen, not loved. Furniture arranged to impress, not to rest. Even the city outside the windows feels curated, framed like a painting instead of a living thing. Harry closes the door behind you with a soft click.

“I appreciate you coming,” he began, voice casual and easy. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You slipped your coat off her shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair. “You sounded sincere. Thought I’d reward the effort.”

This elicits a smile. That familiar Osborn smile. Charming, practiced, just a little too pleased with itself. “The gala got… weird,” he admitted, gesturing toward the sofa. “I wanted to clear the air.”

“Your family specialty,” you replied, taking a seat. “Making things weird.”

He laughed, like it’s some sort of private joke between the two of you. “Fair.”

He sits beside you, close but not touching. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, expensive, sharp, trying too hard to be memorable. It makes your nose crinkle up.

“As we both know, I hate unfinished business,” Harry says. “And I hated how you left that night.”

You raised a brow. “I thought I made a rather elegant exit.”

“You looked… disturbed.”

You pause.

Harry stands. “Wine?”

You consider for half a second too long. In retrospect, you should’ve said no.

“Sure,” you obliged. “Just one.”

He pours it himself, back turned, talking the whole time.

“You know,” he says casually, “I’ve always admired how you move through rooms. People think they’re watching you… but really, you’re watching them.”

You smiled faintly. “Careful now, Harry. That almost sounded like respect.”

He handed you the glass. Crystal. Heavy. Cold against your palm. “Cheval Blanc, 1947,” he boasted. “A toast?”

“Of course,” you nodded.

“To fresh starts,” Harry says, lifting his wine glass.

You clink his glass. “To fewer theatrics.”

“Ah,” Harry sighed. “But theatrics are what makes it so fun, darling.”

The wine tastes perfect. That’s the first red flag. Too smooth. No bite. No burn. It’s velvety rich. Deep, robust, complex flavor.

You talk about everything under the sun. About art, about mutual acquaintances, about a painting on the far wall that Harry claims is an original. You challenge him on it. He deflects. Smiles. He’s always smiling. That suspicious grin. Like he’s full of secrets.

You shift on the sofa and the room tilts. Subtle at first, like standing up too quickly.

“You okay?” Harry wondered aloud, almost too fast, like he’s rehearsed this.

You blinked. “Yeah I just… Just…” your tongue suddenly felt thick. Your fingers loosened around the glass. Harry’s hand is there instantly, steadying it for you, setting it on the table. The warmth drains from your limbs. Your stomach churns. “Harry what did you… fuck.”

He just sits there and watches you intently, his mask slipping ever so slightly. “Relax,” he insisted gently, faux comfort. “You’re safe.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You make an effort to stand, but your knees buckle. You start to fall, and Harry catches you, as if perfectly timed. 

“I asked you here to apologize,” he explained. “I meant it. I just, also needed a little privacy between us.”

Your vision blurs. The penthouse stretches, bends, distorting into weird shapes and colors. Oh no. Oh hell no.

“Did you…” your words begin to slur. “Did you drug me?”