Chapter 26: "Dangerously Charming"
In which Spider-Man questions everything, especially his self-control.
The city stretched beneath Peter like a living, breathing thing. Towers blinked red and gold against the night sky, traffic hummed in tired patterns, and Harlem—scarred, smoking, but slowly healing—lay quietly under starlight.
From the tallest rooftop, Spider-Man sat alone. No crowds, no reporters. Just the wind, the dark, and his thoughts.
He had won tonight.
Tombstone was down. His men were broken, their gear confiscated, their monstrous tech locked away in Peter's storage seals. SHIELD had arrived too late to help, but early enough to realize they'd been utterly outclassed. It was chaos, but it was orderly chaos now.
And still, Peter didn't feel victorious.
Not really.
His knuckles were scraped raw beneath his gloves. His ribs ached. But the worst of the pain settled in his chest—an invisible weight that wouldn't go away.
He had seen the bodies.
He had smelled the fire.
And worse—he had felt the terrifying urge to go further. To end Tombstone permanently. To use every ounce of chakra in his arsenal, every deadly technique he had learned, and bury the crime lord under the street.
He could have done it.
But he hadn't.
Because if he had, someone else might've died in the crossfire. He wasn't sure who. He just knew it was too close.
And that was what terrified him most.
Peter let his legs dangle over the edge of the roof, the wind tugging gently at his torn suit. The night whispered like an old friend, heavy and familiar.
That's when he heard the voice.
Not out loud—but in his mind. A calm, firm presence, weighted by wisdom and experience.
Naruto.
"You held back. And you're still alive. That means you chose right."
Peter didn't answer at first.
But Naruto wasn't done.
"But next time... you might not be so lucky."
Peter shut his eyes, frowning. "I know."
"No, you don't. Not yet. And that's okay."
"You've trained, learned the techniques, studied the scrolls. But knowing isn't the same as living through it. There's no substitute for real fights. Real loss. Real consequences."
Peter swallowed hard. "People died, Naruto. Cops. Civilians. Some I couldn't save."
There was a pause.
Then—
"That's war, kid."
"You think I didn't feel the same? When my friends were dying around me, when my enemies were kids too? That kind of pain doesn't go away. But it teaches you something."
Peter's voice was tight. "What?"
"That you have to adapt. Fast.
Because sometimes, the only thing standing between a massacre and a miracle—is you."
Peter's chest rose and fell.
"And maybe tonight, you also learned this—"
"Some lives… are more dangerous than others. Some people—you don't hesitate with."
That caught Peter off guard. "You mean… kill them?"
"No. But don't play around either. You give monsters too much space, and they eat the world. You've got power now. More than most heroes ever will. That means you don't get to stay idealistic forever. You want to protect the innocent? Then don't hold back when the guilty try to burn everything down."
Peter's fists tightened. His voice cracked just slightly. "I thought I could… I thought I had to be better."
"Being better doesn't mean being soft."
"It means choosing who to protect first—and how far you're willing to go to stop the next Tombstone."
Peter didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he stood.
The wind pushed harder now, brushing against his shoulders as if urging him forward.
"I'll do better," he whispered. "Next time… I won't hesitate."
He looked down at the city once more.
Not with guilt. Not with anger.
But with focus.
Resolve.
Because Harlem had suffered tonight.
And Peter Parker was going to make sure it never happened again.
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Peter Parker was in the middle of some high-quality brooding.
You know, the usual: rooftop, night sky, cape of guilt flapping in the breeze (okay, no actual cape, but it felt like there should be one). The emotional soundtrack playing in his head was somewhere between a sad violin and moody rock ballad. Classic Spider-Man vibes.
But the universe, being the annoying cosmic trickster it is, decided Peter had indulged in "character development" for long enough.
That's when he saw her.
A flicker of motion down below—too fast for a pigeon, too graceful for a raccoon, and definitely not someone walking their dog at 2 AM in Harlem.
Peter's fingers stopped drumming the ledge as he narrowed his eyes. He zoomed in with his mask's lenses and yep—there she was.
A woman, dressed in sleek black, running across the rooftops like she'd been born on them. Every movement was effortless. Like parkour was her love language. She had a stolen painting tucked under one arm, and a smug sense of rhythm in her step, like she was dancing to a beat only she could hear.
Peter squinted. "Nope. Not tonight. Not in the middle of my very well-earned post-trauma sulking session."
With a sigh that could've won an Oscar, he stood and launched a web line.
THWIP.
Spider-Man was back in business.
Now, most criminals reacted poorly to Spider-Man showing up.
They panicked. Tripped. Occasionally cried. One guy once tried to bribe him with expired coupons.
Not this woman.
As Peter swung after her, she grinned. Like this was fun. Like she wanted him to chase her.
She leapt off an AC unit, flipped over a vent, and catapulted off a billboard like it owed her money.
Peter fired a web straight at the painting. Bullseye—almost.
The woman twisted in mid-air, dodging the shot like she'd read his mind five seconds before he even fired.
"Not bad, Spidey," she called, voice smooth, playful, and way too confident for someone committing a felony.
Peter blinked. "Okay. I hate how cool that sounded."
He surged forward, flipping mid-swing to gain altitude and cut her off. He was about to land directly in her path when—poof—she vanished off the edge of the roof.
His heart dropped. "Did she just—?!"
Peter dove after her, already prepping a web net—
Only to see her swinging away on a grappling hook like a gothic Disney princess.
She landed perfectly on the next rooftop with the kind of grace that made Peter feel like an amateur.
Then it hit him.
The stealth.
The smugness.
The unnecessarily perfect acrobatics.
And now… grappling gear?
Peter groaned. "Oh, come on."
There was only one person it could be.
Black Cat.
Also known as: "My life is chaos and I keep letting this woman make it worse."
"I should've known," Peter muttered, catching up to her just as she perched on a gargoyle like a fashionable gargoyle-themed ornament. "The painting. The rooftop gymnastics. The attitude."
Black Cat—Felicia Hardy, cat burglar extraordinaire—winked.
"What can I say?" she said, holding the painting up. "It matched my apartment."
Peter crossed his arms. "Do you have an apartment? Or do you just live on rooftops and expensive moral ambiguity?"
"Oh please," she said, brushing a strand of silver hair out of her face. "You're one to talk. You nearly flattened Harlem two hours ago fighting a mutant with lava hands."
"That's not even—wait, were you watching?"
Felicia leaned in. "What can I say? You're fun to watch."
Peter's brain short-circuited for a second. "Okay, that's not—look, just give me the painting."
She grinned. "Make me."
He sighed. "Why are you like this?"
"Because if I weren't, you'd be bored out of your mind and brooding alone right now."
He opened his mouth… paused… then groaned again. "Damn it. You're not wrong."
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Peter Parker had a problem.
Well, he had several problems. But at this particular moment, his problem was wrapped in black leather, smirking like she hadn't just been caught mid-heist, and holding a priceless stolen painting like it was a grocery bag.
That problem's name? Black Cat.
Peter picked up speed, flipping over an AC unit and weaving through rusted vent towers like a ninja with student debt. He fired three web shots in rapid succession.
The first? She dodged with a mid-air spin that would've made a gymnast cry.
The second? She ducked under like she was doing the world's sassiest limbo.
But the third?
SNAP.
"Gotcha," Peter muttered, yanking the web line.
Black Cat let out a surprised "Whoa—!" as the web wrapped around her waist, yanking her back like karma on a bungee cord. She landed on the rooftop with a soft grunt, the painting still clutched like it owed her money.
Peter dropped down in front of her, arms folded and his best "I'm too tired for this nonsense" stance in full swing.
"Okay, Black Cat," he said, mask lenses narrowing. "Care to explain why you're running around stealing art like a Saturday morning cartoon villain?"
Felicia Hardy, despite being recently yoinked out of a full-speed sprint and probably developing bruises in places Peter didn't want to think about, smiled like she was about to sell him a time-share.
"First of all, it's midnight, not morning," she purred.
Peter's eye twitched beneath the mask.
"And second…" she added, twirling the painting effortlessly between her fingers like a magician showing off a card trick, "I wasn't stealing from good people. This belonged to a criminal."
Peter opened his mouth to argue—but paused.
Because honestly? That did sound like something New York's criminal elite would own. The frame alone looked like it had gold-plated ego infused into it.
Still.
"Not how laws work," he deadpanned.
Felicia tilted her head. "Not how fun works either."
Now, here's the thing about Felicia Hardy.
She wasn't just some thief in a costume. She was the daughter of Walter Hardy—legendary cat burglar and part-time pain in the FBI's backside.
From the age of seven, Felicia had been training for… something. Her father taught her how to fight, sneak, lie, and charm. Where most kids were learning long division, she was learning how to pick a lock blindfolded while balancing on a beam.
Felicia didn't just want to be good at something—she wanted to be the best.
If she played a sport, she wanted to be the MVP. If she climbed a building, she wanted to do it without using the stairs. If she stole a painting, she wanted to do it while being chased across half of New York by Spider-Man and still look amazing doing it.
She was beautiful, brilliant, and terrifyingly good at making Peter question his entire sense of justice.
But life hadn't always been fair to her.
College had shown her that the world was full of predators—and sometimes, the only way to win was to be a better one.
So she had become untouchable. A legend. A ghost. A flirt with a felony record.
And tonight? She was just having fun.
--------------------------
To say Peter was distracted would be an understatement.
He'd fought mutants, aliens, robots, and one time a guy made entirely of bees (don't ask). But standing face-to-face with Felicia Hardy—aka Black Cat—was a whole different kind of fight.
She wasn't throwing punches. She wasn't charging at him with laser claws or shouting dramatic villain speeches from a rooftop.
No. She was just… standing there. Looking like every magazine model had been fused together by a rogue goddess of seduction.
And talking.
Which was worse.
"You stole this from a crime lord? Are you sure about that?" Peter asked, inspecting the painting like it might explode. It was probably worth more than his apartment. Heck, it was probably worth more than his building.
Felicia shrugged with the kind of casual elegance that made his spider-sense ping for reasons, though none of them involved imminent death.
"You can check out the place where I got it from," she said breezily. "I'll even lead you there if you want. Or, if you're the trusting type, I can just give you the address."
She tilted her head, silver hair catching the moonlight like it had its own lighting crew.
"Come on. Look at me. Do I really seem so bad?"
Peter did look.
Which was mistake number one.
Felicia Hardy didn't just exude confidence—she weaponized it. Every word, every movement, every tilt of her head felt like it had been rehearsed a hundred times until it landed perfectly.
She wasn't just stealing artwork tonight.
She was stealing focus.
Peter's fingers tightened around the frame.
Something was off.
This wasn't normal attraction. His thoughts felt a little foggy. His heart was beating faster than it should've been. His spider-sense wasn't warning him about danger—but it was twitching, like it couldn't quite decide if he was about to get stabbed or kissed.
'She's doing something,' he realized.
But how?
Felicia hadn't moved. No tech. No pheromones he could detect. No spells, at least none that smelled like Loki's cheap cologne.
That's when it hit him: a scent.
Not overwhelming. Not even noticeable unless you were close. But it was there—a subtle perfume, something that clung to the air between them like silk. It wrapped around his thoughts and tugged at instincts he tried very hard to keep in check.
Felicia watched him carefully.
He was resisting.
Interesting.
Most men folded by now. Even some heroes. She could practically hear their thoughts: She's hot. She's not hurting anyone. Maybe I can let her go—just this once.
But Peter wasn't folding.
Yet.
"Or," she murmured, her voice sliding lower like melted chocolate, "do you want something else? Something… pleasurable?"
Peter's jaw clenched behind the mask. The painting creaked in his grip.
Okay. That was pushing it.
Was she messing with him for fun? Testing his limits? Trying to see if the famous Spider-Man was all principles and zero pulse?
If so, she was doing a terrifyingly good job.
He wasn't a blushing rookie anymore. He'd seen stuff. Been through stuff. But standing here, barely a foot away from someone who oozed temptation like it was a job description?
Yeah. Even he had limits.
"Careful," he said at last, his voice calm but steely. "You flirt like a Bond villain."
Felicia's lips curled. "Only if Bond looked like you under that mask."
Peter didn't take the bait.
"I'm not here to play games."
"Shame," she said. "I'm really good at them."
She stepped closer, just slightly, enough that Peter could feel her presence like static electricity.
And still—he didn't move.
That's what made her pause.
Because he wasn't melting. He wasn't fumbling. He wasn't cracking jokes or stammering like a nerd at Comic-Con.
He was standing firm.
And that?
Was kind of hot.
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Swinging through New York with a criminal under your arm wasn't exactly listed in the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man Handbook, but then again, there wasn't a chapter on what to do when said criminal was flirtier than a rom-com villain and hotter than a space heater on full blast.
Felicia Hardy, also known as Black Cat, was securely webbed and dangling like a smug Christmas ornament from Peter's side.
"You know, this is kind of intimate, Spidey," she cooed, giving her hips the slightest wiggle for dramatic flair. "I usually don't let men hold me this close unless they buy me dinner first."
Peter grunted. "I'm sure prison food will be an exciting first date for you."
Felicia chuckled, clearly not offended. "Mmm. Spicy and sarcastic. You sure you're not secretly into me?"
Peter didn't respond.
Because no matter how much she teased, how much she smirked, how much her voice sounded like velvet dipped in espresso—he had a mission.
And a decent amount of dignity left.
…He hoped.
The penthouse Felicia had mentioned was exactly where she said it'd be: locked up tighter than a billionaire's therapy secrets and packed with criminal memorabilia. Sure enough, the wall where the painting had been was now just an empty space with a suspiciously rectangle-shaped dust outline.
Peter scanned the place with narrowed eyes, one hand still holding the stolen artwork.
No signs of a break-in. No security alerts. No panicked goons running around in boxer shorts with machine guns.
"I'll admit it," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You're good."
Felicia, still webbed and dangling like she belonged in a museum for smug behavior, beamed. "Told you. I only steal from bad guys. It's like Robin Hood—but sexier."
Peter sighed.
"Fine," he said, landing softly on a rooftop and dissolving the webbing.
Felicia landed on her feet in a fluid, elegant motion that made Peter's eye twitch. Of course she stuck the landing like a gymnast-meets-supermodel. She rolled her shoulders like a cat after a nap.
"Well," she said, sauntering toward him. "That was fun. And I do believe… you've earned a reward."
Peter took a step back, his mask hiding the suspicious narrowing of his eyes.
"Define reward."
She grinned like someone with a very long list of mischief in her back pocket.
And before he could even say no thanks, I'm emotionally repressed and allergic to chaos, she moved.
It wasn't a kiss on the lips. His mask was still on, thank webs.
But it felt like one. A kiss just near the edge of his jawline, warm and precise, with the faint scent of jasmine and danger filling his lungs.
For a heartbeat—a single heartbeat—Peter froze.
His fingers brushed her waist. His head tilted just slightly. His body betrayed his brain with a subconscious lean-in.
And then—WHAM!
Sanity returned.
Peter jerked back like he'd just been tasered, blinking the haze out of his thoughts. His fingers curled into fists, not out of anger—but out of pure emotional confusion.
"What the hell was that?!" he demanded.
Felicia just stood there, licking her lips, looking more amused than a cat in a room full of laser pointers. "That?" she said innocently. "That was me saying thank you."
Peter pointed at her like an angry teacher. "You—You used something! Perfume! Chemicals! Magic lipstick! That's not fair play!"
Felicia raised a brow. "Oh, Spider... fair play is so boring."
Peter took another step back, shaking his head.
She was unlike any villain he'd ever faced.
Not because she could crush him.
Not because she could outfight him.
But because she knew exactly where to poke without throwing a punch.
"You're playing games," he said, his voice low.
Felicia's smile widened. "Of course I am. And darling... you're so fun to play with."
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Under the pale glow of a flickering rooftop billboard, Spider-Man stood with his arms folded and his patience on life support. Across from him, Black Cat was lounging—yes, lounging—on the corner of a rooftop like she was auditioning for a perfume ad titled Dangerous Curves & Questionable Morals.
"How about we team up?" she asked, all casual-like, as if she'd just suggested grabbing tacos.
Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"
Felicia twirled a lock of silver hair between her fingers. "Come on, think about it. You and me. Stealing from the worst criminals in New York. No boring lectures from Nick Fury. No awkward police debriefs. Just adrenaline, piles of cash, and a very attractive partner." She shot him a wink so flirty it probably violated some zoning laws.
Peter snorted. "Hard pass."
She pouted, clearly offended. "Rude. You didn't even think about it."
"I did think about it. For about three seconds. Then I remembered I like sleeping with a clear conscience."
Felicia rolled her eyes. "Ugh. You're such a goody-goody."
"Yup," Peter said. "Big fan of not being a wanted criminal."
She sauntered closer. "You're risking your life for free, Spidey. At least with me, you'd get something in return."
Peter tilted his head. "You just contradicted yourself."
Felicia blinked. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
She raised a brow, hands on her hips. "I said saving me comes with a reward. Teaming up with me comes with riches."
Peter stared at her for a beat. "...You have charts for this?"
"Pie graphs," she replied smoothly. "Very sexy ones."
Peter took a slow, deep breath and turned around.
Felicia blinked. "Wait. What are you doing?"
"Leaving," he said simply.
"WAIT—HEY!" she shouted after him.
But it was too late. With one graceful leap and a thwip, Spider-Man vanished into the night like a moody ninja with great cardio.
Felicia Hardy stood alone on the rooftop, arms crossed, staring at the empty air where Spider-Man had just been. For a moment, she looked genuinely stunned.
Then—
She laughed.
It started as a quiet giggle.
Then it grew into a full-blown, head-thrown-back, villainous cackle.
"Hahahaha, oh this feeling is so good," she breathed.
Her heart was racing—not from fear, not even from failure—but from curiosity.
He'd rejected her.
Not because he didn't want her attention—but because he didn't fall for it.
Felicia was used to getting reactions. Awkward stammers, nervous flirting, the occasional villain monologue begging her to join their evil empire. But Spider-Man? He was like trying to flirt with a locked safe—one that occasionally fired webbing in your face.
Now, that was a challenge worth chasing.
She walked to the edge of the rooftop and leaned over, watching the glimmering lights of the city below.
"I'm gonna have fun with this one," she murmured.
Like a cat that just spotted a laser pointer, she was already planning her next move.
Maybe she'd rob a bank next time.
Or stage a fake kidnapping.
Or just break into his apartment and leave a flirty note on his fridge. Something subtle.
She smiled to herself.
"Let's see how long you can resist me, Spider."
And with that, Black Cat vanished into the night, her laugh trailing behind her like the promise of chaos wrapped in silk.