Gwen Stacy Syndrome

Felicia lived in an Empire Suite in the Carlyle, the luxury hotel where Marilyn Monroe had had her tryst with JFK, thanks to some secret tunnels. Peter guessed knowing that was how some real estate agent had made a mint off Felicia Hardy.

Being gently, but somewhat icily ushered in by the various concierges and door staff, Peter and Darcy made their way to the 28

th

floor. The elevator had a window on one side that looked out large portholes in the building's façade to show them the climb up New York. It was all very impressive, if you couldn't climb the wall with your hands. Similarly, the brisk walk to Felicia's door had enough fine art involved to make MOCA jealous, but it mostly reminded Peter of Tony Stark's powder room. He'd lived a hell of a life. And that was before last night.

Felicia answered the door in a work-out bra and yoga pants, her sweaty white hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Sweat covered her toned midriff like the condensation on a tall, cool glass of Coke—the kind you needed after a long day in the sun. She even smelled nice. A good, physical scent like caviar, almost. How come Peter never ended up smelling like caviar after a couple hours swinging around in a spandex onesie?

Maybe my neckline isn't low enough,

he thought.

"Oh. Hey, reporter monkeys," she called sweetly, stepping back to allow them in. "Just finishing my work-out. I love a good work-out." She said it eying Peter as he came through the door.

On the way up in the elevator, a little video system had narrated the 'story of the Empire Suite.' Felicia's was a three-bedroom duplex on the 28

th

and 29

th

floors that had been owned by a painter whose name Peter couldn't begin to pronounce, until he'd been killed by Ultron one of those times Ultron killed a lot of people. 'Designer Thierry Despont' (Peter could begin to pronounce his name, but not finish) had refurbished the 2,600-square-foot apartment with 'American

and

French Art Deco touches,' 'the rich fabric textures of boiled wool and cashmere,' 'a sweeping staircase that he's referred to as his masterpiece.' Then an MMoA curator had filled the penthouse's walls with Parisian art from the Golden Age, which Peter guessed but would not state as being the 1920s. Maybe the 1930s. He didn't think it was the 1940s. Hard to find time to paint when you were surrendering to the Nazis.

"Felicia Hardy," she said, chugging that new water that came in a glass bottle.

"Darcy Lewis," Peter's new boss replied, with a gesture to him. "Peter Parker, the Bugle's best photographer."

"Guy who gets all the pictures of Spider-Man." Felicia smiled at him. "I have your book."

"It's a good book," Peter replied uncertainly. He hated the whole thing of pretending not to know someone you know as Spider-Man/a threesome haver.

"Like the art?" she followed up. With him, she eyed an Impressionistic painting of the view from the Empire State Building. It was good work. The way the city lights looked at night were somehow realer for being transformed into paint and canvas. Peter'd often marveled at it himself, just in the flesh. "I have to admit, it's not as much fun when you have to pay for it. But at least the IRS can't take it. I need a shower."

And she walked off, kicking a ratty pair of sneakers to the wall.

"What does she mean by that?" Peter asked Darcy, even though there was no way she knew Felicia better than him, other than sharing a chromosome.

"Maybe she wants us to follow her?"

She had to rub the size of her shower in his face.

***

The bathroom was a little like the one at Avengers Tower, with the sinks you could bathe a midget in. Not that Peter saw much of it. Felicia left the door open a crack, enough to see the shower stall that could probably fit four people in it, as well as the showerhead she moved over her sudded-up body.

Keep in character,

Peter reminded himself, standing parallel to that cracked door, his back to the wall. Darcy had no such compunctions, practically standing in the doorway as she interviewed Hardy. She even gave him a look like,

man, you oughta see this chick's cans.

"So hey, how's the detective agency going?" Darcy called, tossing her pocket recorder to Peter. He dutifully held it in front of the door as Darcy used pen and paper to make sure she didn't lose anything to the sound of the shower spray.

"Private security firm," Felicia replied. "It's... fun. I don't like to micromanage. I do the PR, the tweets, occasionally I consult on the more exotic cases." Her voice rose on that, enjoying the recollection. Or maybe it was just that she was washing off her thighs. "Mostly it's just a matter of finding the right people and letting them handle my needs. Would you like to get a picture? I don't think people will believe this happened if you don't."

Darcy and Peter shared an incredulous

hah.

"I don't think they'd let us print it."

"You can try. C'mon now, Parker, was it? Don't be shy..."

Peter hoisted his camera from the strap around his neck, taking care not to be too suggestive adjusting the lens, then stepped into the doorway. Felicia stood in the shower, her side to him, arms against the wall, blocking most of his view of her cleavage. He could still see the curve of her hip, and it made him relive the feel of it under his fingers all over again.

"Say cheese," he said numbly, and took the picture. He thought a Pulitzer might be in order for keeping it PG-13.

"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Felicia turned off the shower and pushed the foggy glass door open. She'd shaved since last night. "Pass me the towel?"

Peter felt Darcy standing on her tip toes to look over her shoulder. "Certainly." Somewhat protective even now, he tried to block Darcy's view a little as he reached over to the towel rack, took what was quite possibly the hide of a skinned polar bear, and held it out to Felicia.

"Thank

you

," she replied, sweet as sugar. When she took it, her wet fingers brushed against his. He felt the heat of the water like the heat of her body. Peter didn't think the shower in his apartment even went that hot.

"I've also heard of a few sightings of the Black Cat," Darcy broke in. "Care to comment?"

Felicia wrapped the towel around herself. Hotel-issue, it was a scanty thing to hold in all her cleavage and contain her great height. The bottom cut off at mid-thigh. "It's not

illegal

to stop a few muggings. Or to get a few cats out of a few trees. And it's good publicity for the agency. My boys work hard. They deserve anything that makes their lives easier."

"Some of those sightings have been linked to crimes. You know—larceny?"

Felicia slunk out of the bathroom, staring down at Darcy so close that the water from her damp hair almost dripped on her. "Copycats." Her attention shifted behind her, to Peter, though she didn't look at him. "Parker, how many times has Spider-Man been accused of a crime, only for it to turn out to be Mysterio, or the Chameleon, or just a Skrull looking to give him a hard time?"

"...a lot," Peter said evenly, meaning

don't bring me into this.

"So we're going with Skrulls?" Darcy asked, her tone calling bullshit. She sounded it out again. "We are going with

Skrulls

..."

Felicia pursed her lips. "I'm making you feel overdressed, aren't I? Well, if you're not taking anything off, I should put something on." Her gaze shifted to Peter. "Any requests?"

"Pants?" he squeaked. Her towel was stretched so thin over her breasts he suspected it was going to turn translucent.

"If you insist. Come on, reporter monkeys. Time is money. Money is happiness."

Darcy snatched back her recorder from Peter as he stood there, watching Felicia wiggle away, motionless. He couldn't help it. It was like meeting Mary Jane for the first time all over again. Back when he hadn't even known they made dresses that short.

She led them into her dressing room, introducing them to a few of her cats on the way. Apparently, most of the twice daily room service was the care and feeding of the felines. Felicia fed them herself when she was able, and paid the hotel staff extra to learn their names and even let them roam the halls at times.

The dressing room could've been more technically referred to as a walk-in closet, only by no stretch of the imagination was it a closet. It was a whole room given over to clothes, with multiple dressers, a wall devoted to shoes, a

holographic projector that showed what the user looked like in different combinations

(Tony had one of those too), and one whole wardrobe devoted to lingerie.

"What do you want me in?" Felicia asked, her sultry drawl going full-force, hitting Peter like a cloudburst. "I'll defer to the man on this one. Unless the lady has an opinion...?" Her look at Darcy was an open question, and not the kind she'd asked.

"Only when I've had two too many Margaritas," Darcy replied.

"I have wine," Felicia offered suggestively.

"Yeah, I don't drink on the job."

"Shouldn't that depend on the job?"

Peter looked over her collection as the women continued their patter, noting one negligee in particular. Lingerie from Mary Jane's defunct line, Red-Headed Stranger, from back when she was barely out of college and ready to conquer the world. The fashion world had eaten its young particularly fast, in that case, but MJ's determination to have a career had transitioned her into a well-regarded actress. Peter was far more proud of that determination to continue her career than the beauty that had started it in the first place.

"Those," he said, interrupting a veiled joke Felicia was making about blowjobs.

Felicia looked at them. It hadn't been a test, she just hadn't realized they were in there—the same spark of realization Peter had had made her giggle. "Good choice."

Felicia stepped behind a dressing screen to change—the one thing in the room that wasn't ultra-modern. Peter stayed on the other side of it; the view of her silhouette through the translucency was peepshow enough for him. Darcy, though, casually leaned on the wall so she could see inside.

"But how's your love life, anyway? Until one of the Avengers comes out of the closet, the big news in superhero gossip is you and... Daredevil, was it?"

"It

was,"

Felicia said, emphasis on the past-tense. "But life's too short for me to get hung up on any one

man.

I'm a cat on the prowl. I go where my nose takes me."

"Hey, has your nose been aimed at Spider-Man lately? I mean, you two have history in a big way."

"Spidey's...fun. Really, really fun." Peter could hear Felicia's smile in her voice. "And I'm fun too. Sometimes we have fun together. But don't wait up expecting invitations to the wedding. I only go to those to do the bridesmaids."

Felicia stepped out from behind the dressing screen, wearing what could only be construed as a challenge to imagine her naked. It was black silk, sheer enough to be translucent though the coloration was enough to deter those with poor imaginations. She gave a turn, showing how it both clung to her frankly enormous breasts and hovered around her full ass.

Peter remembered when Mary Jane had worn it for the first time, giddy and showing off, his own happiness for her almost more sexual than the outfit. He'd done nothing else that night but experimented with all the ways that particular garment could be moved out of the way to let him in.

But with it on Felicia, the negligee both brought back memories and proved thrillingly new. The curves of Felicia's gracious body showed through every inch of the material. Peter couldn't help himself. He mentally removed that one percent of fabric that kept her from being wholly naked. With his memories of her body, the feel of her flesh still on his skin, Peter could imagine all of what his eyes had avoided in the shower.

Skin as pale as a saucer of cream, her breasts like ripe melons, her legs shapely with muscle, the dimples where her waist truly became her back—the little rounded exclamation of her navel, the rounded buttocks that were impossibly soft when the rest of her could be so hard with muscle... the strong jawline, the soft cheeks, the blazing green eyes that challenged when the rest of her body pleased. And finally, the little silken tuft of white hair that she left to overlay her otherwise bare slit.

Felicia ran her hands over her breasts, fingers clinging to her flesh as the silk did, both emphasizing her cleavage. The curl of her lips showed how much she loved the feel of the fabric against her skin. When her hands came away, her nipples were erect, stabbing into the silk. "Photograph me, Parker."

In the middle of the room was a minimalist Méridienne: the 'boyfriend seat' for men to wait in while she tried on this outfit or that. Felicia sat down on it and Peter shot her. She gave him a chiding look, not being ready yet, and he shrugged unapologetically. It was worth a picture, just her sitting down. She put her hands on her knees and spread her legs; he shot an off-center view of the stance. Then she drew her legs together and lifted her breasts with her hands. He shot that too.

"So you and Spider-Man... c'mon, dude?" Darcy asked. "Superfriends with benefits?"

Felicia inched the lacy hem of her nightie up her thighs as she spoke. "I don't like labels. Especially stupid ones. Peter, do you think my panties look alright?" She reached down between her legs, smoothing it out over the dark shadow of her sex, adjusting the tiny ruffles just a degree.

Peter blushed furiously. "I..."

"That's exactly the look I was going for." She laid back, inviting him to shoot up her crotch. Peter did, but high enough that all the camera caught was from her belly on up.

"But you're not dating anyone?" Darcy insisted, sitting on the Méridienne alongside Felicia as a way of drawing her attention.

"No, honey. But like Starbucks, I'm always accepting applications." Felicia bit down on the sleeve of Darcy's baggy jumper, pulling on it with clenched teeth. "Why? Are you interested in a position?"

Peter snapped a picture, which got him a dirty look from Darcy. "Get a shot of her ass, Parker. She's a perfect ass," Darcy said, drawing out her 'slip'.

Felicia rolled onto her belly, put her hands onto the unblemished globes of her ass, and pulled the smooth white cheeks open so her scant panties crawled up the crevice of her posterior. Peter dully snapped a picture. He found himself breathing heavily in admiration of the soft swell that belonged to her naked thighs. Though he was standing, he crossed his ankles and hunched, trying to hide the product of the aching that built steadily at his groin.

Thankfully, Darcy was too focused on Felicia to notice. Her eyes were starting to light up behind her glasses. "Say I did... fill your position."

"Ooh." Felicia giggled naughtily.

"You're saying Spider-Man would be fine with his girlfriend stepping out on him?"

"I'm not Spider-Man's girlfriend," Felicia said, distinctly impatient. "But c'mon. Do you really think a boy scout like that would do more with me than a little messing around? I'm not the girl you take home to mother. Am I, Parker?"

Felicia flipped over, red flowing up from her core to give her the healthiest pink hue. As much as Peter liked to watch her, she enjoyed being watched more. She stretched out on the Méridienne, her cheek to Darcy's leg, her breasts on full display against the thin fabric of her negligee. She licked her lips and Peter obediently snapped a picture of them gleaming wetly.

"I'd take you anywhere," he said softly.

Darcy didn't hear him. "Neither am I," she confided. "But that doesn't mean guys don't take me places. Tell me, would you care if Spider-man cheated on you?"

"Not likely with the mug he's got under the mask. He's hideously deformed, you know. Makes Deadpool look like Orlando Bloom. I have him keep the mask on while we're telling secrets."

Peter winced at that. He didn't like being reminded of the brief period of their relationship when he'd been so cavalier as to insist on them keeping the masks on, even having her close her eyes while they had sex. It was like Doc Ock had gotten hold of his body early. Thankfully, he would have a lot of time to make that and a lot of other things up to Felicia.

"But let's say Freddy Krueger

did

meet a nice girl who didn't dress up as a cat?" Darcy pressed.

"More power to him. It's not like he'd be the only superhero with an open relationship. You think Tony Stark has never had a threesome? Or Emma Frost is fine with lights-off Cyclops sex for the rest of her life? Hell, you think Namor would keep coming to New York if Sue wasn't giving up a

little

something?" Her hands up on the Méridienne's headrest now, Felicia leaned forward so almost all of her cleavage billowed into view. Her nipples were becoming even harder, rising with each pulse of her heaving breasts, pressing against the very edge of her dress. She wanted to be fucked.

"Hey Parker," she called gently, "any adjustments you'd like to make?"

This wasn't the first boudoir photography Peter had done. When he and MJ had been living together, she'd let him test out new cameras on her—allowing him to direct in the manner she was accustomed to, albeit far sweeter than most studio photographers. And, of course, he was allowed to show her exactly the pose he wanted her to strike by moving her into it—touching her breasts, her ass, her belly, her lips. Having Felicia strike poses entirely of her own accord was arousing too, in its own way, but Peter was aware of just what he had to do to get a perfect picture.

Peter fingered the strap of her negligee, removing that one clingy strand of fabric, allowing her neckline to dip practically to the floor. The actual areola of her left nipple came into view, instantly drawing Darcy's eye, while Peter was lost in the feel of her skin against the fingers that had half-undone her negligee.

Bending over her, almost unaware of himself, he took in the scent of her nakedly exposed neck, fresh from the shower. A smell uniquely her own.

"I think this picture should stay between just the two of us," Felicia said, giving the camera her best Blue Steel. "Or should that be three of us?" Her eyes flickered to Darcy.

"Yeah, yeah, your tits are amazing," Darcy groused. "But you're evading my questions."

"You think I'm lying? That Spider-Man is my secret husband or something?"

"I've been able to suspend a whole lot of disbelief since I met Rocket Raccoon."

After Peter took one picture, Felicia smiled for another. Her bright grin Peter found far more attractive than the Vogue look of before. The bulge in his pants grew accordingly. "I'll prove it to you, Ms. Lewis. To show you I'm not the

least bit

hung up on Spider-Man, I'll fuck the first guy I see." Felicia looked up, meeting Peter's eyes. "Oh. Hello there."

Then she took him by the tie of his navy-blue suit and just... kissed the hell out of him.

That was all Peter could take. Repeated exposure had done nothing to lessen Felicia's power over him. Now there were two women in his life who could command his heart with a simple glance. Which Peter had a hard time seeing the downside of, at the moment.

He licked down the length of Felicia's exquisite neck, all the way to the deep cleavage of her chest. A sweep of his hand quickly removed the last, offending strap of her negligee, and it dropped to spill out her incredible breasts, the diamond-hard nipples grazing his chest, adding to both their lust. Felicia cast a look at Darcy as Peter devoured her breasts.

"In or out?" she said heatedly.

Darcy was next to speechless. "Holy

shit,

Parker!" was all she could say, though the words came out hardly chiding. Dude was clearly a breast man, and

those

were any breast man's white whale.