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femininenachos · 9 months

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Do vacation clexa keep wells up all night when they go at it all night

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The taxi ride is a test of restraint.

It’s only a ten minute journey, but it’s ten minutes of Lexa sitting right there, looking like that. Lips made even poutier from kissing. Hair finger-tousled and swept to one side, and Clarke can’t wait to tangle her hands in it again, itching to touch.

Even cast half in shadow, Lexa’s profile is downright rude, the cut of her jawline sharp enough to slice someone’s thighs. And when she turns dark, dark eyes on Clarke, that burning look scorches right through her.

At this point her underwear is a lost cause. She’s in serious danger of leaving a damp patch on the back seat, more than a little paranoid that the scent of her arousal is wafting through to the front where the driver is absently tapping the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. (Hips Don’t Lie—and in Clarke’s professional opinion, Ms Shakira is correct. Because Clarke can’t stop shifting hers incessantly, unable to ignore the wetness pooling between her thighs, clamped as tightly as they are together.)

She winds down the window, hoping a breeze will help, but the dense, warm air that rushes in does nothing to cool her body. Neither does the covert stroke of Lexa’s little finger along Clarke’s own where their hands lay flat on the seat between them, or the faint smirk that’s tucked into the corner of Lexa’s mouth.

Blessedly, there are no signs of life in the villa once they pull up. The place is dark and silent when Clarke unlocks the door and leads Lexa inside; Wells, nowhere to be seen. Clarke prays he’s fast asleep in his room with noise canceling headphones on, because she has a feeling things are going to get… vocal.

She toes off her shoes, grateful for the cool marble floor tiles beneath her bare soles.

“I’d give you the tour, but uh…”

A gentle tug on her wrist draws her around, and whatever glib thing Clarke was going to say dies in her throat. Mind gone blank, because Lexa is all up in her space and a mouth that was surely designed for sin is less than an inch away, so close Clarke feels the soft fan of breath on her face.

She only gets a second to admire the tiny freckle that adorns Lexa’s top lip before Lexa tilts in. Slides a hand along Clarke’s jaw and into her hair. Kisses her slow and searching in a way that makes her tremble from head to toe, a gradual build of passion that floods her body with waves of tingling warmth.

While she could easily indulge in this for hours, she also craves so much more, and now is not the time for subtlety.

Taking the initiative, Clarke guides Lexa’s free hand to her inner thigh and presses meaningfully, hoping Lexa will take the hint.

And, thank God, she does.

Long fingers trail up and up.

When they brush against drenched cotton, Lexa’s sharp inhale sends a hot flare up through Clarke’s belly and she feels herself drip some more.

Lexa breathes out, a half-formed whisper in the shape of Clarke’s name on her lips. She pulls away slightly to look at Clarke, hooded eyes scanning her face before they drop to her mouth.

“Can I touch you?” Lexa asks, her accent grown thicker, coated with desire.

Clarke’s only answer is to take hold of Lexa’s nape and drag her mouth back to hers. She runs her tongue along Lexa’s lower lip then licks inside, a groan catching in the back of Clarke’s throat when a thumb traces her through her underwear, rolling over her clit.

For a second, she thinks she might come from that alone. Feels it rushing up on her fast. All it would take is a little more sustained pressure. A few firm, circular strokes. But Lexa shifts away, cupping Clarke instead, and she groans again—this time in frustration.

She feels the slow stretch of Lexa’s grin as they kiss.

It‘s a provocation—and Clarke never backs down from a challenge.

Ensnaring Lexa’s bottom lip, Clarke scrapes her teeth over the plump fullness of it. She relishes the hitch of Lexa’s breath, how Lexa’s fingers flex against the flimsy scrap of fabric that separates them.

“Go ahead. Touch me. Put your hand inside my panties,” Clarke whispers, even as her face grows hotter and some small part of her squirms at the brazen words coming out of her own mouth. But she quiets that voice. Draws on her inner sex vixen. “Feel how wet I am for you.”

She punctuates it with a roll of her hips.

A slight tremor goes through Lexa.

She kisses harder, rougher, the heel of her hand rubbing in to meet an urgent grind and before Clarke is prepared for it, she’s already shaking apart, releasing a choked whine into Lexa’s open mouth.

Her wrist slows to a stop.

She draws back half an inch, eyebrows raised.

“Guess I couldn’t wait,” Clarke says with a small, breathless chuckle. Her cheeks burn.

Lexa just makes a sound, words apparently failing her, but Clarke understands, because she feels that same brain-melting lust too. It isn’t just Lexa’s good looks that are such a turn on (though she is beautiful—even more so with her mouth swollen and wet). She has this understated presence, an aura that surrounds her. Innate magnetism that draws you in. Clarke noticed it at the bar, the way Lexa’s friends seemed to be caught in her orbit. It’s the confidence she projects, too. Or did. Clarke is pleased to see Lexa lose a little of that cool now, eyes wide and jaw hanging slack.

But she swiftly recovers, luring Clarke back in for a kiss by the grip on her neck.

Just before their lips reconnect, Lexa pauses.

She looks over Clarke’s shoulder, a speculative gleam in her eyes.

“You have a jacuzzi?”

~*~

They’re incapable of keeping their lips to themselves while they wait for the hot tub to fill. Clarke’s stomach won’t stop fluttering. Every nerve in her body is tingling, charged by the heat and pressure of Lexa’s mouth moving hungrily against her own. Lit up inside by the way Lexa’s hand is curved around her jaw, the other gripping her waist to keep her close, how Lexa sighs and fucking pouts every time Clarke starts to pull away. And how can she possibly resist that? She’s powerless not to give in.

It’s only once the tub is almost overflowing that Clarke suddenly finds the presence of mind to separate, hurrying across the courtyard to shut off the water supply and turn on the bubble jets. She injects a little more seductive appeal in the sway of her hips on her return.

“Would you like a drink? The fridge is pretty well stocked. We’ve got beer, wine, all kinds of mixers if you’d like something stronger.”

Lexa shakes her head. “I don’t want to have…” she pauses, clearly searching for a phrase in translation, “brain fog? Ah, fuzzy memories.”

Clarke drifts closer, curbing a smile.

“I don’t want to be hazy on the details either.”

She doesn’t want to forget a single thing about this night, not when it’s going to figure prominently in her fantasies for the rest of the year.

(The rest of your damn life. Be real, girl.)

Lexa’s eyes raking up and down her body with intent is already locked into her memory.

Once she’s within arm's reach, Lexa snags Clarke by the waist again and draws her near. Their hips bump gently and Clarke leans in to taste the slight smirk that sits on Lexa’s lips, just because she can.

Things intesifiy quickly, and before long their hands start to wander, Clarke feeling her way to the hem of Lexa’s t-shirt. She pulls it up and off, both smiling when it gets caught in Lexa’s hair, only for Clarke to suck in a quiet breath as soon as she registers Lexa isn’t wearing a bra. Her eyes drift, taking in the expanse of Lexa’s sun-bronzed skin, tits the exact same golden shade as the rest of her, and Clarke absently licks her lips, wanting nothing more than to have those perfect pink nipples in her mouth.

She also gets her first full look at the tattoo that spans most of Lexa’s upper arm.

Fascinated, Clarke lets her fingers trace the swirls and lines of black ink, three symmetrical bands stacked on top of one another. The design reminds her of the intricate carvings at the top of the crumbling stone columns that she saw dozens of pictures of online when she was researching accommodation options, remnants of the ruined temple that occupies the highest point of the island, only a couple hours’ hike from here, according to the Airbnb listing.

“This is beautiful. What does it mean?”

Lexa peers down at her arm. “It represents each generation of my family in Polis. My great-grandfather was born in a small village called Trikru on the mainland. He was only nineteen when he left his home, everyone he knew, and came here to make a better life.”

She lifts her chin as she speaks, a note of pride in her voice. “He built the taverna from nothing nearly a century ago, and it’s still standing today, passed down through our family.”

“The legacy continues. That’s wonderful.”

“Mm. Now my half-sister manages the place.”

“Not your parents?”

“They’re retired, but they still help out during the busy summer months.” She purses her lips. “Sometimes I think the power goes to Anya’s head. She enjoys bossing me around too much.”

Clarke smiles to herself. “I’m going to take a wild guess that she’s the older sibling?”

“By seven years. She says she’s preparing me to take over eventually.” Lexa sighs. A slight frown appears on her brow as her jaw shifts. “Duty and tradition is everything to her, but I have dreams of my own.”

Clarke runs her fingertips lightly over the patterns on Lexa’s skin, feeling goosebumps rise to the surface. “What do you want to do instead?”

A shrug. “Travel. See the world. Experience other cultures and far-away places.” She looks at Clarke, rolling her eyes a little. “I know, it’s a cliché.”

“Well… if you ever find yourself in Washington DC, look me up. I’d show you around the city.”

It’s half tongue in cheek, but the way Lexa studies her for a beat, so solemn yet clearly unconvinced, Clarke finds herself saying, “I’m serious. You should visit. My work schedule is crazy but if I can wangle some time off, I’d be happy to play tour guide. Plus, I have a guest room.”

Another of those minimal smiles touches Lexa’s lips, her mouth just barely pulling to the side. “We wouldn’t be sleeping together?”

Suddenly coy, Clarke lowers her gaze. Eyes on Lexa’s ink once more as she feels herself flush again. “I mean...” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth and looks up through her lashes. “I could be persuaded to share my bed.”

“Yes?”

She nods. Whispers, “yeah” before the distance between them vanishes and they’re back to kissing. Hands gripping, running up and down, moving restlessly over dips and curves, and Clarke can’t control her shivers, a current buzzing through her, a million tiny sparks going off under her skin.

Lexa palms at her breasts and the chafe of satin bra cups against Clarke’s nipples is enough for a moan to slip out between the seal of their mouths.

A minute later she’s gasping hotly, “take off my dress” before recapturing Lexa’s lips, driven by the overwhelming need to feel skin on skin at last.

Nodding once, never ceasing contact, Lexa peels the straps from Clarke’s shoulders. She locates the zip at the back and drags it down smoothly. Tugs, and Clarke feels the dress slip from her body to puddle at her feet. The bra is next to go, unhooked with consummate ease. Warm hands move over her hips and waist, gliding up her ribs to take hold of her tits again. This time it’s Lexa who makes a sound, a low, throaty groan that only adds to the flood in Clarke’s underwear.

They tip their foreheads together, breathing heavily as they watch one another, eyelids at half mast. Without a word, Clarke reaches for the button at the waistband of Lexa’s cut-offs, but the thumbs slowly circling her nipples make her far less dexterous than she should for all her surgical training. Finally, she pops the button and gets the fly open. It’s a joint effort to wiggle the tight denim down Lexa’s hips, taking her underwear along with the shorts, all smiles when she kicks them off to the side.

Clarke only gets a brief glimpse down Lexa’s body before she’s drawn back in by the cheeks for a greedy, open-mouthed kiss. As if she wasn’t already painfully aroused by everything else, the subtle definition of abs, the flare of wide hips, and the uninterrupted view of those legs pours further fuel onto the fire. Like an unstoppable force, Clarke pursues Lexa’s mouth relentlessly, recklessly, the forward momentum driving them across the courtyard until Lexa’s back meets the nearest vertical surface.

Unfortunately, it happens to be a vine-covered trellis and Lexa lets out a muffled yelp, wincing when something jags her bare skin.

Twin puffs of air hit their cheeks, expelled through their nostrils, before they each dissolve into quiet chuckles, the absurdity not lost on either of them.

“Sorry,” Clarke says through a slight grimace, running a soothing hand down Lexa’s spine.

“Don’t be.”

Lexa is smiling, but Clarke still dies a little inside, already imagining Octavia’s reaction when she hears about this during their inevitable overanalysis of the entire evening at brunch.

She takes a deep breath. “So…” Followed by a short laugh. “Where were we?”

Lexa inclines her head towards the hot tub, teeth dug into her lower lip.

And just like that, the awkwardness is forgotten.

Not taking her eyes off Lexa’s, Clarke needs no further instruction, pushing her panties all the way down and stepping out of them. Her heart is racing, but she holds still under Lexa’s appraisal, a flash of heat surging over her when that dark gaze settles low for a stretch of seconds and Lexa swallows, lips parting soundlessly on an exhale.

And while she stands there on display without a stitch on, Clarke is really fucking glad she went ahead with that appointment to tame her bikini line, however painful it was getting waxed within an inch of her life.

The ordeal was worth it for the spell she seems to have cast over Lexa.

Not that Clarke isn’t equally entranced, legs and hips and breasts and that gorgeous face all competing for her attention.

She moves on instinct, curling a hand around Lexa’s neck and slanting their mouths together again. Barefoot, they’re of a similar height, and there’s something so exhilarating about the way their lips and bodies meld. Clarke can’t contain a string of tiny halting whimpers as they trade deep kisses, hyper-aware of every point of contact, from the skim of hard nipples to the brush of their thighs to the press of Lexa’s fingers at the base of her spine, sliding lower to grab at her ass, raising another desperate groan.

God, if this is what handsy making out with Lexa does to her, Clarke doesn’t know how she’ll survive once they dispense with foreplay and get down in earnest. At this rate, she might be flying home in a casket.

It doesn’t help matters when Lexa’s mouth strays, trailing along the underside of Clarke’s jaw, sucking shallow kisses down her throat to find that sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. Already weakened, Clarke’s knees nearly give way to feel the nip of teeth there.

Somehow, somehow she finds the willpower to slip out of Lexa’s grasp.

Worth it for the reappearance of the pout, the flash of consternation on Lexa’s face as her eyebrows dip together.

But that pretty scowl is erased by a dark look of a different kind when Clarke climbs into the hot tub. Eyes blaze over her naked form with enough heat to rival the Mediterranean sun, and it gives her such a rush.

People have wanted her before; that’s nothing new. It comes with the territory, being blonde and in reasonably good shape (considering her questionable eating habits, constant state of fatigue, and general disdain for working out). She hasn’t gone through life oblivious to the attention. Frankly, she’s sick and tired of male patients, young and old alike, salivating over her like cartoon dogs during consults, eyes practically on stalks while they stare at her chest. And it’s truly wild how often she’s been hit on by visiting relatives moments after breaking the bad news about their loved ones.

Hell, it’s become a grim bonding ritual to compare horror stories with fellow residents during breaks or on the rare occasions when she allows them to drag her out to a bar after work.

This, the way Lexa looks at her, is worlds away from what basically amounts to workplace harassment.

Lexa’s desire is a thrilling, palpable thing, a thick charge in the air that makes it difficult to think or breathe.

Half dizzy with lust, Clarke sinks into the water and reclines against the tub, pulse accelerating as she watches Lexa put her hair up into a loose knot. Lips subtly curling at one corner. Nothing unsure or shy about her as she advances, and Clarke wishes she could bottle some of that supreme confidence for herself, because it doesn’t always come naturally.

Lexa takes the spot opposite, lowering herself into the tub. Drapes an arm along the edge and waits.

One look, the slightest twitch of an eyebrow is invitation enough.

Clarke pounces, propelling herself through the water to swing a leg over Lexa’s lap and reclaim her mouth. Fingers dig into Clarke’s hips, pulling her closer, their bellies and breasts flush. Cradling Lexa’s jaw in both hands, Clarke pushes her tongue past Lexa’s teeth, slipping inside to flick across the roof of her mouth, revelling in the whimper it earns her, how Lexa’s grip tightens as the kiss turns greedier. Hot and wet and dirty enough for Clarke to start to grind her hips in search of friction. Already on course for a second orgasm when Lexa hasn’t even fully fingered her yet. Just the thought of this girl being knuckle deep, the reach of those long fingers, gets Clarke halfway there and she groans unabashedly. Kisses Lexa until they’re each short of breath, panting into the humid slice of air between their open mouths.

“Can I fuck you?” The hard ‘k’ hits Clarke’s lips in a hot puff and she shivers, despite the toasty temperature of the water churning all around her, steam rising off the surface.

She holds back a quip (it’s like you read my mind), sensing Lexa is serious about asking for permission by the way she searches her face so intently for any sign of hesitance, and Clarke melts a little to know that her comfort level and boundaries are at the forefront of Lexa’s mind, which is more than can be said for some of her past casual encounters.

“Yes,” Clarke says, leaving no room for doubt that they’re very much on the same page here, before she leans in to brush their lips together again. She makes a noise. Not lifting her mouth away, she adds in a heated tone, “God, I just need you inside me.”

It has the intended effect. Lexa surges into the next kiss with a ferocity that steals Clarke’s breath away and scrambles her brain. At Lexa’s silent urging and with a gentle squeeze of her hips, she’s repositioned so quickly that it’s kind of a blur how she came to be lifted up and sat on the edge of the hot tub with Lexa kneeling in the space between her legs.

“Is this okay?” Lexa asks, always checking in, and doing an impressive job of managing to keep her eyes up, showing far more restraint than Clarke would in Lexa’s place.

She has to remind herself to use words and not just shove Lexa’s perfect face into her crotch.

“More than okay.”

It’s automatic, how Clarke puts her arms out on either side to brace herself in anticipation. Held in thrall by the tilt of beestung lips as Lexa runs her palms along the tops of Clarke’s thighs and over her hips, dragging her that tiny bit closer, and Clarke doesn’t have the mental capacity to tamp down on a moan, beyond ready for this.

Green eyes dip down finally and Clarke sees that little smile falter. Lexa’s lips part, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to moisten them, and with it, the last of Clarke’s inhibitions fall away.

She spreads her thighs wider, skin prickling all over as she feels the weight of Lexa’s stare, roaming freely now, voraciously taking in every inch on display.

When their eyes lock again, it sends a jolt through Clarke. A spike of need so sharp that her locked elbows wobble and she forgets to breathe for a second, hanging on Lexa’s every move as she leans in.

The eye contact, heavy and sustained, when she tastes Clarke for the first time, lashes flickering, a thick groan in Lexa’s throat that Clarke feels the vibrations of through her whole body—fuck, she nearly comes on the spot.

Helpless not to, she arches into it, biting down hard on her lip to stifle a moan as a warm, velvety soft tongue runs through her.

A slow, deliberate lick around her entrance draws a whimper, Clarke shamelessly lifting her hips to ask for more only for Lexa’s hands to anchor her firmly in place.

With Clarke at her mercy, Lexa uses the flat of her tongue, broad laps that make Clarke’s toes curl, slipping against the porcelain tub with a squeak. Lexa varies the pace and pattern, slowing down or speeding up to prevent Clarke from settling into a rhythm. Every little lick and swirl has her twisting and squirming, and a sob of frustration starts to build in her chest.

But Lexa’s eyes are shut, lost in the bliss, a flush high on her cheeks. Mouth sliding over wet flesh, slick noises drowned out by the rumbling jacuzzi jets and the harsh, ragged breaths that Clarke expels into the night air.

She winds a hand into Lexa’s hair, nails scratching mindlessly against Lexa’s scalp as she works Clarke higher, drawing circles around her clit, the pressure in the pit of her stomach coiling tighter and tighter.

Sweat covers her skin and her calves tremble with the strain as she rocks forward, undulating against that mouth, chasing her release without a care for how desperate it might seem.

(It’s been six months without anything better than her own hand or a vibrator between her legs, so she’s willing to cut herself some slack.)

The hands curved around Clarke’s hips slide down, pushing her thighs even further apart, tearing a gasp from her. It feels like she’s being split wide open, exposed in a way that goes beyond mere nudity, but she trusts Lexa, finds safety and reassurance in the sweep of thumbs back and forth over the inside of her thighs as Lexa devours her.

She barely lasts another minute under the onslaught. Pushed so hard and fast over the edge that her jaw drops and a throaty moan flies out.

Every muscle in her body tightens, hips shooting up to hold herself against the firm press of Lexa’s tongue, suspended there for those glorious seconds of blinding pleasure that seem to stretch on and on.

In her mind’s eye, Clarke pictures what this must look like: her neck tensed and head thrown back, giving herself over with complete abandon, and it only intensifies the feeling, the tremors working through her all the more forcefully.

And Lexa doesn’t relent.

She keeps on tonguing Clarke through the aftershocks, wringing out every last twitch and jerk until she can’t take any more, using her grip on Lexa’s wildly mussed locks to drag her mouth away, too overstimulated to endure another second or she might scream.

Even so, Clarke shivers again once she catches sight of Lexa’s expression, the wetness shining on her lips and chin, pupils pushed to the outer edges, only a thin ring of green surrounding the void. She looks like she’s the one who just got eaten out expertly, and Clarke doesn’t know how to process that, not in her present state.

All she’s capable of doing is tugging on Lexa’s hair, urging her up, another low moan passing between them when she gets a taste of herself on Lexa’s lips, greedy for more.

They remain fused in deep, languid kisses. Just exploring each other’s mouths, keeping things at a low simmer, now and then turning up the heat to bring the sizzle back. Whenever a little more tongue is added to the mix, that molten, heavy feeling settles between Clarke’s thighs again and she attacks Lexa’s mouth with renewed vigour.

By the time they pull apart for a breather, Clarke’s lips are tingling and her backside is half numb from being perched on the edge of the tub for so long.

Still, their lips cling. A string of saliva connects them as she backs off, just far enough to murmur into the gap, “Could we take this inside? I can’t feel my ass anymore.”

Lexa’s eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs and she gets this cute little crease above her top lip that Clarke could fixate on for days.

As her gaze drifts around Lexa’s features, taking in the toothy smile and the sparkle in those big green eyes, Clarke’s heart thumps a little harder, a little faster, and she thinks: damn, I could really fall for you.

Without a doubt, it’s the flood of oxytocin in her system talking, but that half-formed thought causes an instant adrenaline spike, kicking up her pulse and drying out her mouth.

She blinks and glances down, biting her tongue before she blurts out something far too recklessly vulnerable when they only just met tonight and she doesn’t even know Lexa’s last name, much less her views on long distance.

It’s safer to steer this back to sex. That’s why they’re here, after all. There’s no sense in deluding herself otherwise when she’ll be gone in two weeks and Lexa will have already moved on to the next girl that catches her eye.

So Clarke pushes all other thoughts aside and lets her palms slide down to cup Lexa’s breasts, pleased when Lexa pushes into her grasp and they both let out a small, grateful sigh.

Oh, yeah, this she can do with certainty.

“Anyway,” Clarke gives a slow knead, rewarded by Lexa’s hitch of breath. Hard nipples poke into the centre of her palms. “I’m still waiting for you to follow through on your promise to fuck me.” Her voice dips lower. “Or are you all talk, Lexa?”

They share a blistering look.

Lexa’s eyes flash, a glint that says challenge accepted.

“I’m just getting started, Clarke.”

She isn’t sure what’s more arousing, the arch, almost arrogant tone, accompanied by the flex of one eyebrow, or the sound of her name from Lexa’s mouth, wrapped in an accent that just oozes sensuality.

Either way, she pretends to be unaffected.

“Oh, yeah?”

With a hum and a slow, minuscule nod, Lexa tips her head to nudge into another kiss, but Clarke evades it at the last second, fighting a smirk when she spies Lexa’s little pout.

“Well, then.” Clarke brings her lips close to Lexa’s ear. “Show me how hard you can make me come.”

#I was going to post just the first thousand words but happy sin day I guess #vacation au #my fic #asks

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webshootersandwingdings · 1 year

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Carol Danvers first joined the Avengers in the 1970s. She first lead them in the 2000s. And now she’s stepping into that leadership role again in a new Avengers series ran by Jed Mackay and C. F. Villa!

The Avengers #1 arrives on May 17 !

#carol danvers #captain marvel #Ms. Marvel: Carol Danvers #Avengers #The Mighty Avengers #the avengers (2023)#tony stark #iron man #avengers (2023)#c.f. villa #jed mackay #comics #comic books #comic history #comic book history #marvel comics #marvel

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alk4li · 1 year

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" guarded ,,

synopsis : you're a supermodel and xiao's your personal bodyguard.

tw : suggestive themes

(i saw a fic like this somewhere else and got inspired!)

paparazzi swarmed your villa, people standing outside your gate flashing their cameras at your door. being a supermodel is tough work but being harassed by paparazzi on your vacation is one of the most if not most obnoxious things.

you sat on the large beanbag in the living room, sipping on wine at 8pm. sighing as you slightly pull the curtains apart to be greeted by flashes of white and shutters. after shutting the curtains again, you turn to look at your bodyguard, xiao, who was stiffly sitting on the couch. "why so tense?" you inquire.

xiao looks over at you and clears his throat, "no offence, lady y/n- but perhaps it would be more professional if we refrain from such casual interactions."

hearing his words, you cock your eyebrow, using your finger to gesture between the distance between the two of you, "you can just call me y/n, and i like having a relationship with my staff, y'know." you drone out, staring at the wine.

xiao merely nods, looking away. "it's not that.. i just need to leave before i suffocate," he thinks, xiao stares back down at the way you were only adorned in a simple tank top and shorts and couldn't help but feel a rising tension inside him. the way you breathed and how easily you let yourself relax around him makes him feel.. a type of way.

a soft knock was heard on xiao's door, followed by a sleepy you who trails in slowly. rubbing your eyes you point at the empty spot next t xiao. he looks over at the spot and gets your memo, he scoots off the bed and tries to walk over to the empty couch, before being quickly block by you.

you shake your head, "uh-uh, same.." your voice raspy and quiet, you grab his pinky with your hand and drag him into bed with you, immediately you snuggle into his chest, letting yourself relax as the little spoon.

xiao had his whole body and soul praying up to the lords above, hoping you couldn't hear his heart beating against his ribcage, about to jump out. he reluctantly moves his arms to pull you in closer, placing his chin on your head.

after a long and tiring day of work, you were heading back to your vehicle. but of course, nothing goes your way. a crash could be heard in the distance, a female fan ran up, pushing past your body guards by ducking beneath them. at this point, she's inches away from you, trying to grab onto your arm. before you know it, xiao who was on your left grabbed you by your waist and switched positions, effectively making the fan crash right into his chest. the other guards escort her away as she's yelling for a photo.

"it's fine! let her go," you yell while xiao guides you by your waist to bring you into your car. he quickly seats you down and shuffles to the other side of the door.

he enters the car and double checks your okay, you give him the greenlight and he sighs in relief.

that catches your attention, "thank you," you prode his cheek, smiling at his tense expression.

xiao jolts slightly, side eyeing you. "la- y/n, this is no joke. you could've been hurt," he warns, pointing out to the fans who were yelling your name.

"ladies and gentle folks! today, on the midnight show, we have a special guest. the one, the only, y/n l/n!" the tv host hypes the crowd as you make your way on stage.

soon, you settle in and the tv host plays a footage of xiao protecting you from the fan. "ms y/n. i'm sure many people here are curious, there seems to be an unspoken intimacy between you and your bodyguard here. is this just an employer-employee relationship- or something more?" the crowd oo's and everyone seemed to really be interested.

you giggle, shrugging. "well, he's cute. all i can say is, i would choose him over any other a-list celeb,"

you silence your phone, the amount of notifications you've gotten from social media is absolutely demented. headlines and trending topics everywhere about your recent interview where you indirectly confirmed something was going on between you and your bodyguard.

a knock, xiao opens the door and steps into your room. "y/n, i just saw the- interview." he murmurs, avoiding eye contact.

despite your bold words during the interview, your face is still flushed, "happy april fools...?"

xiao pauses, now staring right at you. "y/n, can i ask, are you leading me on?" he abruptly says and began walking up to you, "are you playing with my.. feelings? i have to know,"

you open your mouth, before xiao walks up right in front of you, covering your mouth with his hand, "no, not yet. i need to know, because day and night i keep feeling this unbearable feeling of anxiety."

his teal eyes pierce your soul, xiao moved his hand from your mouth and began backing you into a wall, "so enlighten me miss, what are your intentions?" xiao stops as your back hits the wall, placing his arms on either side of your head, caging you in.

staring at his fierce and desiring eyes, you gulp. "xiao, what do you feel about all this?"

xiao stares, "i, i'm going insane for you, y/n."

at that, you suddenly feel a pair of plush lips crash on your own, a feverish hunger unleashed, you lean in, signalling your consent. sloppy kisses and body pressed up, a hot minute passes with the two of you clinging to each other. you pull away, but as you do so, xiao leans back in craving for more. like a starved beast, he lets go of your arms and pulls you in by the waist, lifting you up and carrying you.

he breaks away, panting. "shit, you're so hot."

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin #xiao x y/n #xiao genshin impact #xiao fluff #xiao x you #xiao smut #xiao x reader #bodyguard xiao #genshin x reader #Spotify

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clairedaring · 2 months

Text

"Thai BL The Finest" Screening: I Feel You Linger In The Air & Scent of Memory

Hosted By Panoramist Spotlight

Date: 9:30-14:00 (Berlin), Saturday, 02/24/2024

Location: Colosseum (Schönhauser Allee 123, Berlin, 10437)

Public tickets (15€) available at https://shorturl.at/mDKMS

Details

Highly-acclaimed and award-winning in Thailand and abroad, "I Feel You Linger in the Air" is a Thai historical BL series with a fantasy twist, adapted from a popular Thai novel of the same title that has been translated into several foreign languages including English, German and Italian. It was co-produced by YYDS Entertainment and Dee Hup House and released in 2023.

The boys-love, or BL, series are those that depict a romantic relationship between two male protagonists. Originated from Japan, it is also acknowledged as a fascinating aspect of Thailand’s popular culture, showing the country's increasing openness towards people with different ways of life. In the past years, it has been continuously gaining popularity around the world.

"I Feel You Linger in the Air" tells a story about Jom, an architect in Chiang Mai overseeing the renovation of a rundown villa, continuously dreaming of a man he's never met. After his boyfriend broke up him for a woman, Jom is devastated, driving into a river. After regaining consciousness, he finds himself stuck in the time of 1927. In this unfamiliar world, he finally encounters the mysterious man from his dreams - Mr. Yai, and starts a bitter sweet love affair that defies social status, gender expectation, time and space.

"From the fantasy premise to the historical setting, I Feel You Linger in the Air is one of the most extraordinary BL dramas. Each fascinating storyline explores the past era and examines cultural nuances insightfully. It tackles many complex themes, including class differences, womanhood, and LGBTQ+ experiences. Thanks to the couple's enchanting chemistry, I'm spellbound by their majestic romance. Everything about this series evokes epicness." — blwatcher.com review

Therefore, we delightedly invite YYDS Entertainment to bring this masterpiece to Berlin for a public screening during the Berlinale, along with its special episode "Scent of Memory" that has not yet officially released globally. Beside screening, we will also have YYDS CEO Ms. Wan Thabkrajang to share some behind-the-scene stories and introduce the company and Thai BL production industry. She will also present a spoiler video of YYDS' upcoming BL series "My Stand-in".

We also prepare a souvenir gift that we hope can help keep this series lingering longer in your memory. The number is limited and will be given out on the first come first serve basis.

Planned agenda

9:30-12:00 I Feel You Linger in the Air (movie version)

12:15-13:45 Scent of Memory

13:45-14:10 Dialogue with YYDS Entertainment

I Feel You Linger in the Air Official Teaser Scent of Memory Official Trailer

Invite your friends to enjoy one of the finest Thai BL series together. Let this love linger in the air of Berlin ~

#i feel you linger in the air #ifylita #my stand in the series #my stand in #yyds entertainment #yaijom #bright rapheephong #nonkul chanon #i feel you linger in the air special episode #berlinale #i feel you linger in the air special ep #no because i find it a CRIME that european fans get to pay 1/4 of the price that thai fans paid for the special ep screening

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7-wonders · 12 days

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Hate to Say (I Told You So)

Michael Langdon x Reader (Mad Love Act II, Chapter XV)

Summary: A moral victory gets completely wiped away by the horrors of your life. But fear not, because help is (finally) here.

Word count: 5.3k

A note from the author: I wanted to say "A HOT NEW BOMBSHELL ENTERS THE VILLA" in my summary but figured I shouldn't because I'm trying to keep the tone very serious. The pace of this chapter is pretty fast-paced to keep up with the pace of the show—the chapter starts right where Episode 3 of Apocalypse does. It's so nuts to think that we're finally almost done. As always—hope you enjoy, and remember that likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round!

Mad Love Masterlist

“There’s really no need to thank me,” you say emphatically to the two Purples sitting before you.

“You’re the only reason we haven’t been executed. You saved our lives,” Timothy insists.

“I did what anybody would do.” You shoot a pointed glance at Michael, who stands at his desk across the room from you. “What anybody should do.”

The walk to the chamber where you could hear Emily and Timothy pleading for their lives simultaneously felt like the shortest and longest length of your life. It seemed as though with every step you took, the hallway grew longer, like you were in some kind of waking nightmare. Still, you pushed on, for nothing could stop you…except for the sharp bang of a gunshot. That did physically stop you for a couple of seconds as you tried to figure out what just happened.

Immediately, you feared the worst—that you were too late. They can’t be dead, you thought before your brain reconnected with the rest of your body and you realized that you could move. It can’t end like this. You broke into a run, cursing the slight heel of your shoes as you tried to beat time itself to the scene of the crime.

Instead of what you were expecting, which was the two lovers lying dead in a heap, Ms. Mead stumbled past you with her hands cupped over her abdomen. You watched her go with wide eyes, leaking some sort of white fluid on the floor as she did. Ignoring her for now, you finally made it to the door and mentally prepared yourself for what you might see.

Inside, Timothy was collapsed into a heap but groaning and trying to get into a sitting position, while Emily was cowering against the wall. Neither of them had any bullet wounds, but the muscle of this Outpost stood over both of them, cocking the hammer back on the gun that was pointed at Emily.

“Stop!” you yelled, three sets of eyes looking at you.

“On whose orders?” The Fist demanded.

“The Cooperative’s.” It certainly wasn’t often that you invoked your privileges as wife to the Antichrist, but if there was a better situation to do so, you hadn’t found it yet.

They stared you down, so you channeled Michael the best you could, stepped closer to them, and refused to back down. Finally, they sighed and lowered the gun. “Fine. Get them out of my sight.”

You fell to your knees the moment that you knew you had won, wrapping your hands around Timothy’s arms and helping him to his feet. Once he was up and able to balance semi-steadily, you held out a hand to Emily. “Come on, let’s go,” you said softly, ushering her up from her spot curled up against the wall.

They followed you out of that small chamber in a daze, holding onto each other tightly. You wished you had had the foresight to grab a couple of blankets to cover them as you walked with them back to relative safety, but you hadn’t known that they were going to be executed in only their undergarments.

“That’s it?” Emily asked in bewilderment when you stood in front of Timothy’s room, the room closest to where you had all been. “We’re okay?”

You nodded. “Take all the time you need to decompress, but I would like to see you both in Langdon’s office when you’re ready to talk about what happened.”

Emily let out a relieved sob and let her head fall back against the wall in relief. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You nearly choked on the words, undeserving of any such gratitude, and hurried away.

It was all you could think to say at the time, and now you’re here, sitting before them being lauded as a hero when you neither want nor deserve it. Why should you feel proud of such a label, when you’ve been unable to stop the monster responsible for all of what has befallen the world beyond your small act of rebellion?

“Not that I’m not grateful, because truly, I am—we both are,” Emily says, gesturing between her and Timothy. “But why save us?”

You remain silent, having no real answer for them beyond what you’ve already said, which is that it was what any person should do. Since this is not the old world, and doing things out of kindness is no longer the norm, you know that this doesn’t seem like a truthful answer. Michael saunters towards you, laying a firm hand on Timothy’s shoulder. For once, you’re happy for his theatrics, as it gets their waiting eyes off of you.

“I’ve been charged with finding the seeds from which the future of mankind will blossom. It’d be grossly irresponsible to allow a minor infraction to keep out a viable candidate,” Michael explains. “The stakes are too high.”

“We still have a chance at the Sanctuary?” Timothy asks, borderline incredulous. Not that you blame him.

“You didn’t break any rules,” you assure.

Michael nods in agreement. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Now, I would encourage you both to get some rest. You’ve had a long day, and your interviews are scheduled for tomorrow.”

They get up from their respective chairs, planning to do just what Michael says and fall into bed. While Timothy goes for the door, Emily hesitates, and after a moment of internal deliberation, she takes your hands in hers. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times already, but thank you,” she says yet again. The sincerity in her tone and the earnestness in her eyes are almost too much for your guilty soul to bear.

“You’re welcome.” You accept her thanks begrudgingly, knowing that she would feel entirely different if she knew the truth about you and Michael. “You deserve a chance, both of you do.”

Michael has a proud smirk on his face when he turns to you after escorting them out of the office, though you’re not sure why. His plan didn’t exactly go the way that he was planning, and you’re the reason for it. Michael’s never been fond of changes outside of his control, and the stranger who’s inhabited your husband’s body for eighteen months is almost obsessive in ensuring that his plans play out how he intended. In fact, you’re expecting to meet his ire rather than what you’re greeted with.

“Well, well, well.” His smirk widens into a smile as he takes a seat next to you. “Look at you, taking charge! I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck off,” you snap. After a moment, you mutter, “But thank you,” because you’re not above praise.

“How did it feel? Knowing that you were in charge of their fates?” His eyelids flutter in some sort of ecstasy at the thought of the power that comes with what you believe to be an immense burden.

“Awful. My hands are still shaking.” You hold your shaking hands up to illustrate this. Now that the adrenaline has started to leave you, you’re exhausted. There’s nothing to hold you upright anymore beyond the knowledge that you’d much prefer falling asleep in a bed instead of on this uncomfortable couch.

Michael tsks, taking one of those shaking hands and caressing it in his own, steadier hands. “From what I could hear, you did well.”

“What can I say, tried to channel you.” He chuckles, and you can’t resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder. You really are tired, and that means that your normal safeguards telling you that this isn’t wise are gone. “I thought you would be mad.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, because I ruined your fun.”

“No. You could never. You just…made me pivot. I’ve always loved that about you—how you keep me on my toes.” He kisses your forehead. “You should get some rest, too.”

He’s right, unfortunately, so you stand from your seat. When Michael doesn’t follow, however, you look at him in surprise. “You’re not coming?”

“Not right now. I’m supposed to speak with my father tonight.”

It’s not disappointing, per se—you’re not going to complain about getting to spread out in bed—but it is a little upsetting to be reminded once again of the influence that’s completely warped and corrupted Michael. “Okay…goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” That old, familiar nickname hits home, and you swallow the lump in your throat to steel yourself against the muscle memory of asking Michael to come to bed, a whole different lifetime ago.

Sleep comes to you easily thanks to the exhaustion of the past couple of hours, though you’re a little wary as you feel unconsciousness claim you. Ever since the bombs dropped, you’ve been plagued by nightmares. Most of the time, you feel like you deserve it, like it’s a burden you must shoulder as punishment for your station. You fear them, the horrors that you typically see when you close your eyes. But tonight, at least, your dreams contain far less screaming and torment than usual.

The next few days pass in a manner far more boring than your first 24 hours in Outpost 3. There’s little work for you to do, and the strict way of life here makes it impossible to find anything exciting. While you’re tempted to continue interacting with Emily and Timothy, the first people you’ve felt a bond with since the end of the world, you know that that’s extremely unwise. To allow yourself to get close to anyone, but especially people who are, for all intents and purposes, innocent, can only bring misery to both parties. You don’t think you can take that sort of heartbreak, so you make the decision to stay away.

There are only two events that break up the monotony of your stay. The first is a security breach, although you suppose even that’s nothing too out of the ordinary here. After all, the Outposts only have the absolute basic levels of security, and the survivors that have been left to face the elements of the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape are nothing if not inventive. The other is something that is out of the ordinary, especially here in Ms. Venable’s draconian playland.

Since it was announced two days ago, all anybody in the Outpost could talk about is the Halloween masquerade ball to be held tonight. To you, it certainly doesn’t sound exciting. Standing around in the library drinking water and talking is already Outpost 3’s daily routine, so you don’t see how adding costumes is going to suddenly make it fun. But the idea of getting to do something new catches on with the residents like wildfire, even with Emily and Timothy, who find you when you’re exchanging Frankenstein with Stephen King’s The Stand (maybe a little too on the nose for the current state of the world, but it’s difficult to find a book in this library that you haven’t read).

“Are you going to come?” Emily asks.

You try not to laugh because you know that, if you were in their position and starved of entertainment for so long, you’d probably be acting the same way. “Oh, probably not.”

“You should! It’ll be fun.”

The telltale sound of a cane against the floor sends a rush of chilled goosebumps down your arms. The one and only matron of this Outpost joins your little group, inserting herself in between you and Timothy.

“Hello, Ms. Venable,” you greet semi-politely, which is the most that you can manage around her.

“Emily is right, you should join us,” Ms. Venable says, a smile on her face. “It’s sure to be a scream.”

“I’m sure it will! Unfortunately, we’re very busy making our final selections for the Sanctuary, so I’m not sure if we’ll be able to make it this time.”

“Well, just know that the offer stands.”

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let Langdon know as well.”

Ms. Venable’s fake smile falls off of her face as she levels her gaze coldly with Emily and Timothy, both of whom are still facing the full brunt of her wrath for escaping their fates. She returns the way that she came, sending a Gray stumbling out of the way to avoid getting in her path. The moment she rounds the corner, you turn back to them with your lips pressed together to keep your composure.

“Your idea of fun involves Ms. Venable?” you say, taking care to be a little quieter than normal in case she’s eavesdropping.

“No,” Timothy admits, “but we’ll still make it fun.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?” you say after a moment of consideration.

Emily grins, satisfied by this answer. “Yay!”

While such events don’t exactly appeal to you right now, you can’t deny that it might be amusing to at least stop in and check out, if only to see what costumes everybody comes up with.

You broach the topic with Michael after his last interviews are concluded and you’re in the room designated as his (Ms. Venable had given you two separate rooms upon your arrival, since nobody in the Outposts knew that you were married). “I don’t think I’ve seen a group of people so excited about a mandatory Halloween party since I was in elementary school,” you say, falling back on the bed and sighing in relief at finally getting to rest.

“Trust me, it was all I heard about in today’s interviews.” Though you can’t see him, you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I'm certainly not sad that we won’t be attending.”

You look over at him, (surprisingly) a tad disappointed. “We won’t?”

“You can’t tell me that you want to spend a couple of hours conversing with Dinah and the Vanderbilt girl.”

Your nose wrinkles, because no, you don’t. “I suppose you’re right.”

Michael kneels on the floor next to the bed, bringing his face level with yours. He smiles at you softly as his eyes map the familiar planes of your face. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve had you all to myself, no interviews or selections.”

Pretending is dangerous, you know. After all, you pretended like Michael wasn’t as close to ending the world as he truly was, and it led to you failing in your mission to try and stop him. But beyond watching him play with people’s lives (which is the new normal with him), this trip has been the closest to normal that you’ve felt in a while. You’ve shared meals without fighting, he’s laughed at things you’ve said and vice versa, and you’ve felt…kind of comfortable with him. When you lay your hand on his cheek and rub your thumb against the soft skin of his face, you pretend that this is your Michael, not the Antichrist, looking at you with his big blue eyes.

And when he presses his lips against yours, you pretend like you don’t remember why you’re supposed to tell him no.

Michael moves onto the bed with you, laying your back against the pillows while he straddles your hips. You gladly pull him down on top of you, removing your hands from his face to do so. He’s all over you, from your sides to your thighs to your breasts to your face. Your tongues tangle together, but rather than a fight for dominance, it’s a dance where you’re both equal partners. Loving him, and being loved by him, in this specific way is intoxicating, and you’re happy to turn your brain off for a bit and just feel.

“I want to run something by you,” Michael mumbles between kisses. It’s weird that he wants to do this now, when he’s grinding against you and your fingers are working at undoing his pants, but whatever.

You swallow down a moan and nod. “Okay.”

“This is the last Outpost we have to visit before we can focus on creating our new world out of the ashes of the old one.” His lips go to your jaw, and he begins to suck and nip at the underside of it. “What if we got started on it early, with just the two of us? Ushered in this new world with new life?”

Arousal has completely clouded your mind by this point, and you have to fight to fully take in Michael’s words. It takes another few moments to really understand what he’s said. Now, your stomach is tight for a whole different reason, making you go still. “What are you suggesting?” you ask, hoping against all hope that you’re wrong.

He pulls away from you just enough that he can meet your eyes. “I’m suggesting we have a baby.”

“What?”

Your shock is misinterpreted for surprise, and Michael smiles. “I know, it would be a big change, but can’t you imagine it? Our future. We’d be a family, and our baby would be the very best parts of us and our love.”

He’s right—you can imagine that future, one where you’re a mom and Michael’s a dad, proud parents of a baby with Michael’s cherub features and your eyes. It’s such a vivid picture in your head that it feels like it was meant to be, and you find yourself lost in it as Michael continues to verbally paint your future parenthood. For a moment, you feel like you want it as much as Michael does.

A door slams downstairs, pulling you back to yourself and reminding you that that’s not what you want. Like, at all.

Panic begins to thrum under your skin, making you laugh nervously as you try to wriggle out from under him. “Michael.”

He doesn’t answer, too caught up in his fantasy. “Plus, you can’t deny that we’d make a cute kid.”

“Michael!” He pauses to look down at you, and you use that opportunity to slide away from him. Sitting up on the bed, you grab a pillow and hold it in front of you almost defensively. “Where is this coming from?”

He looks down bashfully and grabs one of your hands. “The timing, us almost being done with the Outposts and, by extension, the old world, had me thinking. An heir would be such a fitting way to bring about this new age on Earth. It just feels…right.”

That word, ‘heir,’ sends alarms blaring in your mind. Michael styles himself as king because that’s the title that his father has bestowed upon him, the title that he only believes himself worthy of so long as his father does. For him to use a term like ‘heir,’ typically associated with royal and noble houses, can only mean one thing.

Your blood goes cold at the realization, bile trying to creep its way up your throat. Hesitantly, you pull your hand away. “Your father’s the one that brought this up, didn’t he?”

He shrugs, not seeming to care that he’s once again letting Satan dictate every aspect of his life. “He mentioned it, yes, but the idea is all mine! So, what do you say? You wanna have a baby?”

It’s obvious that part of him genuinely enjoys the idea of having a child. You can see his excitement, and hear his dreams in the way he speaks of your shared potential future. But the other part, the one that’s all Antichrist and therefore the part that’s completely taken over him, sees a child solely as a means to an end. A way to secure his father’s bloodline and cement their rule on Earth. You wouldn’t submit anybody to that fate, least of all a helpless child.

With your mind made up, you meet Michael’s eyes and shake your head. “No.”

“No?” His brow furrows, taken aback from hearing this answer from you.

“No! I won’t bring a child into this fucked up hellscape of yours.”

Michael’s smile falls. “Yes, you will. Maybe not today, but you’ll come around.”

“That’s a pretty bold assumption.”

“Is it? After all, our contract says that we’ll have a child within five years. We’re three years in, and time is only ticking.”

“The contract?” you gasp in shock, reeling back from the bed. “You’re really bringing up that stupid fucking contract right now?”

You can’t believe that after all these years, all the progress that you made individually and as partners (progress that was, of course, shattered with the press of a button), he’d betray you and bring up the very document that made you feel so much like a prisoner when you first met him. Though you try not to, your eyes don’t listen to your will and begin to well with tears.

Michael remains unmoved by your emotional display and instead attempts to explain. “I only do to remind you of what’s expected of you, of both of us.”

“Fuck you, Michael. I will never have a child with you.”

His eyes steel over as he clenches his jaw. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

“I guess we will.”

You charge a path to the door, praying that Michael doesn’t stop you. Somehow, he has enough sense left in his brain to remain where he’s sitting, simply watching you throw open the door. Before you leave, you look back at him.

“Tell your father what I’ve told both of you before. If he wants your wife to be some perfect little Satanist that bows to every one of his, and your, whims, then he’s going to have to kill me and find you another poor girl to force into marriage.”

With that, you slam the door and walk down the hall toward your own room, tears blurring the path in front of you.

It’s only when you’ve locked the door and can feel the sturdy wood behind your back that you allow yourself to actually break down. Sobs rip loudly from deep within your chest, and you slap a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the sound. You’d hate to interrupt the Halloween party currently taking place below you, and you’d hate even more for people to come and ask you what’s wrong right now. If they did, you know what you’d say. That everything is wrong, from the clothes that you wear to the way that people act, and that the past eighteen months are like being the unwilling lead in a horror movie.

Those words can never be spoken aloud, because there’s not a single person alive that would understand them beyond Michael Langdon. Unfortunately, the Michael Langdon that you knew is dead and replaced by the spawn of Satan that’s always been lurking inside of him. Sometimes he does a good job of playing the part of Michael Langdon, a good enough job that it can momentarily fool you. But the demon will always rear its ugly head, reminding you again and again that you’re truly alone in this world.

It feels a little childish to throw yourself on your bed and cry yourself to sleep. But in this situation, you think it’s warranted.

You’re eventually ushered back to consciousness by the feather-light touch of fingers brushing your cheek. It’s a struggle to unglue your eyelids after they grew stuck together due to your drying tears, and you hesitantly pry open one eye to glance at what, or who, has woken you up. Upon making a positive identification, you groan and drop your head against the mattress.

“I hate this dream,” you grumble.

A soft laugh comes from next to you. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

It takes a moment for you to work up the courage to actually speak your thoughts. “Because it reminds me that you’re gone.”

The mattress shifts. “Open your eyes.”

You really don’t want to do that, because you know what the result will be. After all, you’ve had dreams along this storyline before. Dreams where you’re taunted with your innermost desires, dreams that feel so real that you wake up expecting them to be fact. They never turn out to be real, though, and you’re dreading being faced with that same disappointment once more.

But hope is cruel, and it’s tantalizing. In the end, you’re no match for hope.

Instead of being greeted by nothing but air when you finally open both eyes, someone is still sitting next to you on the bed. You take in their black wardrobe first—a long-sleeved black dress, with a matching cloak fastened around the neck. Next is the hair, beautiful dark waves, with a golden headband nestled among them. Finally, you meet a pair of warm, brown eyes that twinkle with excitement.

You sit up abruptly in shock. The breath gets caught in your throat, and you have to work to make a sound. Even when you can, your voice comes out shaky and unsure. “...Mallory?”

A familiar smile spreads across her face. “Hi.”

Your hand has come up without you realizing it, and it hovers now above Mallory’s shoulder. Though you want so badly to touch her, you’re sure that the moment you do, she’ll dissipate into thin air like smoke. You don’t know if you can handle that kind of heartbreak, not after what you’ve just been through.

Mallory takes your hand and intertwines your fingers with hers. In your grasp, you can feel the muscles of her hand flex, her skin warm and real against yours. A sharp gasp rips from you, tears already falling once more (you’ve cried so much tonight) when you raise your gaze to meet hers once more.

“Oh my god, Mallory!”

She says your name with just as much tenderness and awe, her voice a balm on your bruised and battered soul. It’s another second before you’re being pulled into a welcomed, bone-crushing hug. You meet her with the same level of enthusiasm, holding onto each other as though, at any moment, forces will try to rip you apart. The forces of the universe can try any tactic possible, but they’re guaranteed to fail. Your best friend is back and in your arms against all odds, and you’re never letting her go again.

“How the—how—you—” Mallory waits patiently for you to remember how to speak. “You’re here. And you’re alive. How are you alive?”

“Witches don’t die easily.”

“I can see that!” You pull back from the embrace just enough so that you can look her in the eyes and be reminded of the fact that Mallory really, truly sits before you now. “I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

Her face somehow softens even more than it already has. “I’ve missed you too.”

While you could spend hours in silence and simply enjoy her presence once more, there are explanations to be made, ones that, in your mind, simply can’t wait. “I have so many questions.”

“Ask, then, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

You work to untangle the jumbled mess that your thoughts have become. “How are you here? I’m talking the whole process, from surviving the apocalypse to somehow traversing a nuclear wasteland and coincidentally ending up at the same Outpost we’re visiting.”

“To make a very long story short, when you called me that day that you and Michael fought, I knew that we were running out of time. His anger sped up the process of the apocalypse by months, which meant that I had to speed up figuring out how to stop him. While my research in those ensuing weeks was fruitful, there was no chance of actually having enough practice to successfully execute any sort of plan by the time the bombs dropped. So, I pivoted. I’d work as hard as I could, right up until the end, while also knowing that I had key members of the coven in place to help me after the nuclear war.”

“Your coven survived?” you ask hopefully. An army of witches would do a lot to help right now.

Her face twists in pain. “Michael would have sensed it if an entire coven survived the apocalypse, so I made one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life. I sent the girls home on a ‘break’ and told them that I and a couple of their teachers had to go meet with a European coven. They got to spend their last days with their loved ones, which is a small comfort to me.”

“I’m sorry, Mallory.” What you want to say is that you’re sorry that this happened, and that you’re sorry that the man you’re fated to love is the reason why. If you get started on that path, though, you know that you’ll be apologizing for hours about things that, at the end of the day, aren’t your fault (even though they feel like they are). Instead, you give Mallory a tighter squeeze and hope that it accurately conveys all that goes unsaid.

Mallory clears her throat, lifting a hand from you briefly to swipe at her wet eyes. “Anyways. I took only those who I knew would be a great help to me when the time came. Two of my friends, who also taught with me, and I went to ground. Bayou mud carries intense healing properties, and it kept us safe for eighteen months of hibernation, for lack of a better term.”

You’re mildly horrified at the fact that Mallory and her friends basically buried themselves alive, but Mallory continues before you can say anything.

“Then, an older student who comes from a very rich family volunteered to help. I wiped her mind of her identity as a witch and ensured that she would be here, in Outpost 3, so that we would have as many on our side as possible.”

“Who…” you trail off. “Coco!” That’s why her name sounded so familiar! Mallory had likely mentioned her to you in passing during one of your many conversations after she assumed the title of Supreme.

“Yep.”

“Is she always so…” you pause, trying to think of a nice way to phrase what you want to say. “Bitchy?”

“Before she came to Robichaux’s, yes.” She grins cheekily, and you feel your heart twist at how much you’ve missed seeing that. “Hence the bitchy attitude here.”

“Was Outpost 3 just a lucky guess?”

Mallory shakes her head. “No. I knew that Outpost 3 would be Michael’s crown jewel when it came to the Outpost project. He was never shy in his hatred of warlocks and Hawthorne—he hated both of them almost as much as he hated Cordelia. It made sense that he would choose this as his final stop. He wanted to prove to himself, you, and Satan that he was nothing like the boy that first arrived here years ago.”

“So, you sent a spy here and took as much help with you as you could. What’s your plan now?” How are you going to get us out of this mess? you want to ask.

She turns serious. “Before I tell you, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything,” you promise.

“I’m going to ask you to stand with me and against Michael. And if you can’t do that because of your soul bond with him, I understand. In that case, though, I need to ask you to stand aside so that I can do what I need to do.”

There’s no need for any sort of deliberation, nor is there any hesitation in you. This answer comes just as easily and surely as one from mere hours ago, only this time, the result is the opposite. “Of course, I’ll stand with you.”

She sighs in deep relief, apparently worried that you were going to turn her down or, worse, side with Michael. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

Mallory begins to explain her plan and your role in it, one that you’re happy to play. You’ve been forced to be a bystander for too long, and now, you refuse to let that be your identity. You want your world back, and with Mallory and her witches at your side, you feel confident that this is how you win.

///

Tag list: @thatonehumanbeing05 @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @aftertheglitterfades @iamlivingforturner @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angistopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox @ajokeformur-ray @iamavailablesstuff @redroses07

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #michael langdon imagines #mad love musings

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periprose · 8 months

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Florence - Chapter Seven

It's Harry and MJ's wedding day, and you feel a million different emotions at once. Happiness, fear, an urge to never part from Peter's side. Finally, you come to a resolution about you and Peter's burgeoning relationship, ecstatically so.

Wedding stuff, ceremonies and reception, lots of emotions, cheesy romantic things (kissing, overly dramatic proposal stuff), smut (riding + lots of tension coming to a head (pls skip over this segment if you're uncomfortable)), I can't believe this took so long to write

Masterlist | Previous Chapter

Peter feels elated. On top of the world, even.

Yeah, it was just a kiss– hardly the most invigorating, erotic thing he could’ve done– but, as cheesy as Peter feels when he thinks this, it was a kiss with you.

“Ugh.” He smacks himself in the face, cringing at how much he loves these intense feelings. He’s lying in his bed– the villa bedroom that was selected for him was perfect, down to the mattress that keeps Peter’s back pain at bay– but he can’t help but grin bashfully under his hands.

You had had the same sort of look yesterday. After Peter had finished kissing you, MJ had come and stolen you away for more bridesmaid duties– speeches, readings at the church, etc. – and despite your shy small smile, your hand clinging onto his as MJ dragged you away with a very questioning, sly look, he had to let you go. Unfortunately so.

Peter knows he loves you. He spent most of the night tossing and turning, thinking about how to properly ask you to be his girlfriend, his partner, his significant other. To be the one that he knew you were back when the two of you were just kids.

He was just too stupid to see it.

Hell, even Logan told him that it was obvious. After years and years, he apparently always wondered when one of you would make the first move and get it over with. This was coming from the guy who couldn’t bear to ask out Ms. Grey and ended up ending it over nothing, too.

Peter clambers out of bed, rubbing his face, getting ready to brush his teeth, knowing that because he’s known you for so long– his method of asking you to make things official would come naturally.

You’re watching the sun rise over the gorgeous trees and groves of the villa, leaking through the windows of the house. Your room has a teeny balcony– you never noticed it before since a table obscured the door, and it’s a lovely space to spend time thinking before the wedding.

Outside, a cool breeze makes your hair loose, blowing away strands lightly, and you feel at peace. You feel glad to be here.

Siena is quite beautiful… but you’re very excited to actually go back to Florence today. It’s the best part of Italy to you, and you share too many memories with Peter to not want to be there with him today.

Especially after he kissed you. You find yourself blushing, but that’s okay. It’s too special for you to know how to deal with– you’re finding that you’re easily flustered, going over countless memories of sunny beaches and ice cream and studying algebra and Italian architecture, cobblestone streets and sun dresses and tanned skin that always stayed with you long after you would come home to the cold autumn airs of New York.

But the best part was that Peter would always be with you throughout it all. Not just in Florence, but in high school, at home, being neighbours and bothering each other all time. You never had to have a break from him– he was like your own personal summer vacation.

You know you have had your moments, pulling away, feeling stupid and neglected– the sorrow you feel is fairly terrible– but the gratitude, the satisfaction you have from having Peter next to you now is unlike anything else you’ve ever felt.

You wonder if Peter feels the same, that he’s feeling an overwhelming amount of emotions all at once– love, affection, but also fondness, familiarity, relief– you hope so. You want to talk to him again.

You didn’t sleep very well last night, and you know that’s bad for the wedding– but you’re not tired at all. No, no.

For the first time in your life, you feel really awake.

“Howlett?” Peter’s voice calls, and you turn– you stumble for a moment.

“Hey, watch it!” Peter comes through your grabs your forearm, steadying you. You weren’t in any risk of falling over the railing of the balcony, but Peter’s got that strange sense, and his brown eyes peer into yours, checking to see if you’re okay.

Once he feels that you are, his gaze softens and he settles into a smile. His brows furrow as he grins at you.

He’s still wearing PJs, as are you– clearly you weren’t the only one struggling to stay away.

“I– I’m okay.” You hold his hand, trying not to beam. “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.”

“Couldn’t exactly let my girlfriend fall off the balcony, could I?” Peter ruffles your hair, and you feel an alarming amount of excitement and earnestness at his words. “Not after I finally got one.”

“Hey.” You point your finger at Peter’s chest, and he raises his hands in an oh-ho, let’s see what you have to say sort of way, and you can’t help but smirk a little even if you’re mock glaring at him. “You’re admitting that it could’ve been any girl? And you would’ve been happy?”

“Oh, Howlett.” Peter reaches over and tries his best not to snicker– he fails– as he starts this overly romantic, purposefully terrible soliloquy to you. “It could only be you. I’d walk across a thousand burning coals for you. I’d reach up into the sky and take the moon and give it to you. I’d rake my balls through shredded glass just for the chance to kiss your sweet, chapped lips.”

You cackle at that, and Peter giggles while holding you close, holding your face.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” You laugh, and you shake your head at him. “What’s with the use of girlfriend, anyways? When did you ask me to be your girlfriend?”

“Was it not obvious yesterday?” Peter purses his lips. “Should I kiss you again, and make it more clear?”

Peter leans in but you stop him with your hand, and he kisses your hand anyways.

Licks it, too.

“Yuck.” You shake your hand away. “You can’t just claim me like a primitive man-ape, Peter. You gotta make it official, properly. I’ve waited too long for this moment for you to go and just make it so.”

“Oh, really?” Peter looks bemused. “You spent a great many algebra study sessions fantasizing about me, huh?”

“Obviously.” You roll your eyes, and Peter pushes down the urge to kiss your endearingly annoyed expression.

“Okay. Deal.” Peter takes you by the hand, and leads you inside. “Do you think we have time for a morning coffee?”

It’s a very hectic time to go and sneak away like this.

MJ is currently doing an intense skincare regimen– she enjoys it a lot typically, but in this case it’s to give her a wedding glow– numerous products are slathered on as she lays on her bed. Face, arms, legs covered.

She gives you the okay to go, as long as you’re back in five minutes to help her get dressed, and Peter promises it will take two.

Peter makes his coffee– it’s easy, it’s just black with no sugar or cream– but for you he adds in a lot of sweetness and sugar and cream and even if you don’t usually take your coffee that sweet, you appreciate it anyways.

“You used to drink it like this in high school.” Peter admits sheepishly, and you know he’s right– it’s cute how he remembers that.

MJ is so glad you’re back, shooing Peter away to the groom’s side of the house. As two makeup artists work on her hair, her face, her skin, working in even more products and massaging her muscles (MJ is so particular about reducing her frown wrinkles) she feels relaxed, luxurious, amazing… if not for the fact that she’s having wedding panic.

“Seriously, what if Harry gets cold feet again?” MJ blinks her deep green-blue eyes, tears hanging onto her pale, mascara-less eyelashes. “I knew we should’ve waited a few years. He’s been so worried about his father, about everything with Oscorp… God, I’m so fucking stupid!”

“MJ– No.” You shake your head. “You’re just freaking out. Deep breaths, Mary Jane.”

She inhales somewhat dramatically, but shuts her eyes, and you watch as MJ’s flushed, red skin calms into her fair, even skintone.

“Harry wouldn’t have proposed if he didn’t want to do this now.” You remind her carefully.

“And he wouldn’t have invited his dad if things were that terrible, right?” MJ nods, and she watches as you nod, too. “Okay. Hold my hand, Lettie. It’s scarier than I realized.”

“Getting married?” You sit next to her, squeezing her palm in a warm grasp, and try to avoid the makeup artist currently applying a peachy blush to MJ’s cheeks.

“Yeah. Not to be crazy, but… it’s literally marriage. It’s Mary Jane Osborn from here on out. Mrs. MJ, wife to Harry Osborn.” MJ inhales. “I know I want to do it, but I just�� I have so many nerves!”

“Pretend it’s one of your modelling shoots?” The hair stylist arranging MJ’s red hair into a loose bun chimes in, as she works in lilies through the strands.

“No… that won’t do. Thanks though, Clara.” MJ sighs. “It’s not like that. It’s just… it’s been so long since I’ve had to really… shed the image.”

“Bare your soul?” You respond, and MJ nods. “I get it. You need to be candid about your feelings.”

“Yeah, it can’t be all image work. And I just worry that I’m going to come across as a influencer woman being shallow and vain rather than, well, the real me, little MJ Watson from Queens.” MJ’s voice turns small. “I almost wish I wasn’t famous at all.”

“Too late for that, cupcake.” The hairstylist comments again, and MJ snorts despite herself. “Listen. If Osborn knows you’re being real, then that’s good enough. Outsiders are always going to judge.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” You agree, and MJ swallows, before sighing with relief.

“Okay. Okay. I’m okay.” MJ fixes her glance on you. “Don’t leave me though.”

MJ looks perfect– even more so, in your personal taste, than she ever has during her glammed up, avant garde beauty shoots– she looks just like herself. Enhanced, a little, with her freckles still shining through dewy, glowy makeup, topped off with shimmery, sheer gold-glitter eyeshadow, and poppy red lipstick, blotted so not to be too much. She looks like your best friend, but also like… the best possible version of herself. You tell her as much.

She beams. “Thanks, Lettie. Do I look like a bride?”

“Of course!” You shake your head at her. “We just need to get you into your dress…”

MJ isn’t one to care about being nude anymore, after being desensitised to designers stripping and dressing her, and she undoes her robe with a simple pull of the strap, exposing her bare breasts and panties– you’re reminded just how much taller she is than you when she stands up straight, all legs and taut stomach, sharp collarbones and angular shoulders, muscles and bone contorting into a physique that just screams model. It’s like she was made to wear anything in an editorial context.

“This is how I feel. Standing in that church, telling everyone I love Harry…” MJ crosses her arms, causing her tits to jut out more, and you snort, totally indifferent to her naked body. You’ve seen it a million times. “I’m going to be emotionally and spiritually naked.”

“And that’s harder than having your tits out?” You joke, but MJ points at you, seriously agreeing. “Alright, arms up.”

The dress is quite beautiful. An off-white, almost blue in tone mermaid dress, custom made by Dior, it fits MJ like a glove, snatching in at her bust, waist, and her hips, but then flaring out in an elegant a-line skirt, all silk and lace detailing. There’s quite a bit of rhinestone work from her sweetheart neckline, down to her hips, and the effect– as you pull it up on her, tightening the corset straps as she reaches around to make sure it’s all fitting– it’s like a halo glow.

Yes, as you carefully adorn MJ’s veil over her head, you feel in your heart– she’s an angel. No doubt about it.

“You look beautiful.” You grin at her, and to your surprise, MJ’s eyes water a little, and she hugs you tightly.

“I’m so glad you came here.” MJ murmurs. “I never would’ve wanted to get married without you by my side.”

“Same. I mean, if I get married–”

“Stop that. You’re going to get married.” MJ laughs, cackles, really. “You and Peter– you guys are so meant to be. I’ve never been more glad that you two hit it off this week.”

“Even though we could be stealing the spotlight?” You joke.

“Especially if it means you’re stealing the spotlight.” MJ squeezes your arms. “You really deserve it, Lettie.”

There’s a sudden lump in your throat. Never have you ever assumed that you deserve any of the good things life throws your way– you always assume that it’s just due to luck. A cushy coding job? Luck. Being friends with Harry, who’s willing to give you a much higher salary, and MJ, who gives you the best fashion advice? Luck. Peter somehow being interested in you? Luck. What’s really special about you?

“I know that look.” MJ shakes her head. “You’re a catch, babe. Now go get dressed and blow that man’s socks off.”

“I… thought you were going to finish that sentence differently.” You admit, glad that MJ stopped your spiral into depressive thoughts. “Isn’t it ‘knock your socks off?’”

MJ shoos you out, laughing.

After very quickly putting on your makeup, It’s not hard to dress yourself. The dress, pretty as it is, all forest-green, flowing lace and silky details that you loved from the moment you saw it, just has one simple zipper.

Unfortunately, your hands scramble for purchase– it is just out of your reach, and it’s exceedingly annoying to try and zip it from the back when you can’t see it.

The dress is flowing loosely around you as you sigh loudly, and decide to turn towards your bathroom, where you can estimate better with a mirror.

“Howlett?”

Peter comes up behind you, and you feel your skin warm. He’s too close– you’re not even fully dressed– and you hold your hands against the top of your dress, trying to stay modest.

“You’ve caught me in a fairly compromising position, I admit.” You joke quietly, and Peter chuckles.

“Maybe that was my intention.” He whispers half-jokingly, and you close your eyes, trying not to laugh or be turned on by the insinuation. “Kidding. Do you need privacy? I can go.”

“No, no, I need your help.” You mutter. “Could you just– zip up the back of the dress? I can’t reach it.”

“Of course.” Peter gently grasps the zipper, and you feel his hand press against your lower back, the heat emanating through the silk fabric, and with one fluid motion, he zips you up, the dress fitting perfectly, no longer free flowing but now clearly draped and styled in a way that accentuates the way you look.

Peter twists your shoulders so you’re facing him, and with an uncustomary amount of emotion, feels his breath hold. You look so gorgeous– so stunning, in a way he almost feels reverent when he looks at you– and he cannot help but voice it.

“Wait, you look– amazing–” You had no idea Peter was wearing his suit already. He looks dapper, sweet, calming.

“Me? Oh man, Howlett. You look so pretty. I don’t even–” Peter harshly swallows. “It almost makes me regret never taking you out to prom.”

“It’s alright, Peter. This can be our do-over.” You kid with him, but he’s still solemn.

“Why was I so stupid?” Peter scowls at himself, and you get the feeling he’s actually going to be upset about this for a long time. “I couldn’t even see what I had, Howlett. You should’ve smacked me upside the head.”

“No, that’s too harsh.” You snicker at his antics. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. If anything, it kind of… brought us closer together? Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Shared trauma.” Peter laughs to himself, but he leans in a little closer. “Sorry, I gotta make up for lost time.”

Before you can admonish Peter for trying to ruin your lipstick, he’s already pulling your face forward in a strong, firm kiss, his lips pressing against yours without preamble or hesitation, and he holds you there– while you feel your insides turn warm, all jelly like, as Peter strokes your hair and face and jaw. He lets go for just a moment– but still presses cute, short kisses against your mouth, little pecks, really, and then he actually stops.

Peter’s lips are that soft red colour you picked out for yourself– he’s basically eaten your lipstick off.

“How many kisses do you need until you feel it’s enough for all the years you missed?” You tease him, gently wiping away at his lips.

“Honestly, Howlett, it’s never gonna be enough. Seriously, you’re going to want to invest in a real good lip balm treatment because I am going to kiss your lips off.” Peter proves his point by kissing your fingers as you’re wiping his lips, and you snort.

“Real smooth.” You pull out your lipstick and re-apply. “You’ll get tired of it eventually.”

“No.” Peter’s serious. “I’m not gonna get tired of getting to kiss you. It’s a privilege and I can’t take it for granted, so…”

He presses a kiss to the top of your hairline, not wanting to mess up your makeup again, and together you leave to downstairs in the foyer where everyone is waiting for the limo, and you can witness the wedding event of the year.

Peter obviously sits next to you in the limo. The bridal and groom’s party are all grouped together in one giant limo, while MJ is being escorted in a very fancy, ivory white Volkswagen beetle with her parents, which will then be the newlywed’s car to drive off in, and Harry– being Harry– is driving in on a fast motorcycle, leading everyone to the Florence Cathedral.

There’s plenty of space in the limo. Gwen and Miles are taking pictures of each other using an instant camera, while Gayle and Betty gossip about some of the guests posting stories on instagram– supposedly someone is wearing white, and Gayle launches a plan to help her sister out and “accidentally” throw some red wine on the dress.

The other groomsmen mostly keep among themselves. You blink and realize that you’ve never really conversed with them– they’re mostly Harry’s friends and they have their own stuff to talk about.

Betty offers to take a picture of Gwen and Miles– somehow turning out stunning under her adept fingers, with just a smartphone camera– and you know that’s why MJ loves her. The one time Betty shot MJ for the highschool newspaper, it was all over from there– it basically launched her career after it went viral.

Then Betty turns the camera towards you and Peter. “Smile for the camera, Howlett. You too, Parker.”

She’s as deadpan as ever, but you and Peter lean into each other over the seats, smiling with not a hint of irony. You’re happy.

The film prints out, and Betty holds it away from the light, shaking it a little, and as the image appears, she hands it to you two.

“Wow.” Peter traces the edge of the photo. “This is… maybe better than my photography skills, somehow.”

“I know that’s a real compliment if it’s coming from your egotistical ass, Parker.” Betty sniffs, and shuffles away to gossip with Gayle again.

“Howlett, you’re so…” Peter inhales and sighs, as if he really can’t believe he’s around you, and you feel yourself blush. “I’m putting this in my jacket pocket. Just as a sweet memory.”

“Aw, you sap.” You giggle, and Peter laughs.

There are loads of people in the Florence Cathedral, all admiring the architecture, the religious art pieces, the tile work. Far more people than you would’ve accounted for– but then you remember that many of these guests are not staying at the Villa. You see more models, more tech billionaires, but also…neighbours, friends, family. Sweet memories connected with all of these people.

To your surprise, your father is already at the church, having left with Norman an hour ago. He’s conversing with a mature, pretty redhead that you recognize instantly.

“Oh my god– Ms. Grey?” You shove Logan out of the way, and he grumbles but smiles to keep up appearances. Jean fixes him a glance that totally tells you she knows about his grumpy history, and she likes it. “You’re here?”

“Of course I am.” She’s wear a teal blue dress, light gold heels, and somehow, despite a few wrinkles and spots– she still looks like your second grade teacher. “You’ve grown up into a lovely young woman, Howlett.”

“She has.” Logan pats your shoulder, looking the part of a proud father. Actually, if you really look into his eyes– you can see that they’re wet.

“Oh… thank you.” You swallow sincerely, hoping you won’t make your father cry. “You look very nice, too, Ms. Grey.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Peter chimes in from behind you, sounding very… wistful. You giggle.

“Oh wow. I never would’ve expected you to be so tall now, Peter!” Jean pinches his cheek. “Thanks.”

Peter is definitely fulfilling some childhood fantasy right now, with how deeply he’s blushing, you think. But you still ask Jean why she’s here.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know?” She laughs. “I’m MJ’s aunt. Well, more like a family-friend aunt. Not really related. But still.”

“Wow, really?” You want to ask more questions, but the church bells have started ringing.

“Well, I must go take my seat now. Thanks for being such darling students, my dears.” Jean Grey leaves you two– not before giving Logan a rather loaded, heated look. Maybe slightly inappropriate for church.

“You’re probably not going to wash that cheek, are you?” Logan teases Peter, scratching his own jaw. “Don’t blame you.”

“Why don’t you go after her, Dad?” You cross your arms. “Why not just… try?”

“It’s not that simple, kid.”

“Sure it is.” Peter holds Logan’s shoulder– and to your surprise, Logan doesn’t shove him off. “You told me not to give up on Howlett–”

“I told you not to break her fucking heart again, Parker.”

“Okay, same thing applies here. Why end things with Ms. Grey? Because you think you’re not good enough? You’re a washed up veteran?” Peter scoffs.

“Watch it…” Logan warns him.

“Right, right. Sorry. Have you ever thought that maybe Ms. Grey’s waiting for you to make a move? Maybe you’re giving up because you’re sabotaging yourself.” Peter shakes his head. “You don’t deserve to be alone after… after…”

“My namesake.” You flatly comment.

“Yeah, her.” Peter’s eyes soften, and Logan actually seems to be listening. “Give yourself a chance, Logan.”

“Wow. Normally I’d have to beat your ass for talking so disrespectfully to me, Parker.” Logan exhales. “But even I can admit you’re not… wrong. I’ll think about it.”

And Peter flashes that smile at you, that overly confident, I-just-fixed-it smile that you absolutely adore.

Peter lends you his arm as you walk down the aisle again, slow, smooth, everything moving as it should. It feels strangely perfect, in a way that you’ve never felt that your life was, and you can’t help but grin at people– they smile back at you, too.

You catch little details in the church pews– floral details, lace and chiffon draping over seats, and a candlelit glow make everything seem particularly magical. The Cathedral’s artfully designed dome and tilework lends itself well to the feeling that something spiritual, something momentous is about to occur.

The gold chain bracelet MJ gifted you a few days ago glints against your wrist– as Peter’s does, too. You wonder if MJ and Harry planned that together. Some sort of pre-engagement ring type of deal.

Peter smiles at you once you part at the altar. Really, he kind of– chokes out a smile, a huge grin that he can’t help but convey towards you. And you know that you love him.

The rest of the wedding party walks in, MJ being the very last. You watch as a silence falls over the people of the church, a hush of emotion and awe, to finally see the bride on her big day. MJ looks sweet, reverent and graceful, and she grasps her parents’ arms tightly, while Harry catches her eyes, and you can see his adam’s apple bob up and down. Maybe Harry’s getting soft.

The priest begins the wedding service for real. MJ looks pleased, nervous, obviously running on nerves, while Harry is bashful, shy, like a little boy again.

Before you know it… it’s over. You and Peter are called over to be witnesses to the wedding document, and you sign it, feeling an air of relief, some sort of satisfying completion to this wild journey.

Harry dips MJ– tall as she is– at the front of the church, in a sweeping kiss that has people clapping and cheering.

The Villa is full of thumping music when you arrive back. People are already dancing, swaying, eating, drinking, either in the outdoor garden space, or inside the house itself.

But you only want to be with Peter. You’re not even spending time with the other bridesmaids– but Gwen, Betty and Gayle seem to understand deeply about your affection for Peter, and they let you go with smiles that seem to know something.

Peter and Harry are already taking tequila shots at the bar, wasting no time, and Harry’s mouth stretches into a large smile when he sees you. “Hey, speak of the devil!”

He motions for you to come over.

“You guys were talking about me?” You snort, and Peter turns a little pinker.

“Duh, as if this guy can talk about anything else.” Harry playfully punches Peter. “Howlett, you might have to marry him, or he’s never gonna shut up.”

“Uh… yeah, that’s just my drunk brain talking. I don’t mean any pressure.” Peter tries to excuse himself by drinking another random shot.

“He doesn’t know I want to marry him too.” You whisper to Harry. “Since ninth grade, I think.”

“He’s a dude, Howlett. Coming from another dude– we are blind sometimes.” Harry passes you a shot. “Have you made things official yet? Settled the deal?”

“That’s the business talk coming out.” You joke, and Harry laughs.

“True. But trust me, Peter can be dumb. Until you really… make it official, he’s not gonna believe that you’re into him of all people. He’s really insecure.” Harry sounds distant, sad, as Peter continues talking to the bartender, totally oblivious.

“Oh. I told him that he has to ask me to be his girlfriend before I really agree to it.” You respond, and Harry shakes his head with a wry smile.

“Who’s the one with the business talk now?” He laughs, and you shrug as if you really are that shrewd.

“I think I’ve suffered long enough.”

“That, you have.” Harry cheers to that and hands you a shot, which you drink gratefully.

After a bit of erratic, half-drunk dancing– whatever DJ was hired for this is amazing at picking songs that force you to, at the very least, bop your head– Peter pulls you aside.

“What’s up?” You ask him, still a little sweaty and frazzled from the music.

“I want to get some water. Like the icy water from the fridge? Just to sober up a little.” Peter shrugs, and you glance upwards at him.

“You really need me to be there for that?” You raise your eyebrows, and Peter scrambles for a response.

“Well… I… uh, I just want you there. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” Peter admits, and you snicker.

“I will. I needed a break from dancing, too.”

Together you stroll through the garden, up to the backyard doors of the house, laughing about how fun everything is, and you really meander– taking a lot of time to stare at Peter, and him at you– and you don’t notice something is off until Peter pulls you to the side, just behind the bar counter of the kitchen.

“Wh–” You cut yourself off, watching a deep-red ponytail bob up and down at rapid speed, with gusto. Tan shoulders and just a hint of bare breasts coming up past the counter, where you can see her.

It’s definitely Ms. Grey. Uh… Jean. You can just make out the edge of her side profile from beyond the counter, as she convulses on the floor, riding someone unseen, and she moans, “Logan, oh my god, Logan–!”

Peter pulls you away by the hand, down the hallway and into a random closet, before you can let yourself fully grasp the idea of potentially seeing your father deep in the throes of passion. You are so glad you didn’t see or hear anymore than that.

“Damn. When I told Logan to go for it… I didn’t think he’d do that.” Peter comments after shutting the door, and you, despite your very childish horror at the whole thing, start giggling. Peter smiles, and you can tell he’s trying to cheer you up.

“I mean… at least he’ll be getting over my namesake.” You raise your eyebrows. “You think Ms. Grey wants to be my mom?”

“Howlett, I’m pretty sure Logan is about to make her one. Without your involvement.” Peter replies drily, and from how clearly you can hear the rasp in his throat, you can tell this closet must not be very big.

You laugh, a little awkwardly now, because you’re still not used to being so close to Peter, not in this context anyways. A dark, shady closet, where it’s just the two of you, feeling body warmth emanate from each other. Peter’s breaths are hitting somewhere around your hairline, and if you came any closer– you’re sure you would be enveloped by his chest.

“Peter, did you bring me here just to get some alone time?” You tease.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that water.” Peter leans in a little, and you get the sense that he’s actually holding himself back. “But to be honest, Howlett? You’re a pretty good alternative.”

“Right. Because I’m curing your thirst.” You roll your eyes, and Peter laughs.

“See, this is what I love about you. You always know what I’m about to say.” Peter says, and he watches you, in the near darkness of the closet, tense a little.

Peter searches around for a light switch, and finds it. A tiny, yellow bulb lights up in the centre of the room, and you realize the closet is bigger than you thought.

A chaise lounge, grey in color, is off to the side.

“I just wanted to see you.” Peter answers the question he knows you were about to ask.

“Oh.” You smile up at him, but there’s still uncertainty in your posture.

“Howlett, what’s wrong? Am I being too much?” He looks into your eyes, and you just don’t know how to answer.

“No. I just… I’m bad at this.” You grow shy under Peter’s watchful eye.

“So am I.” He takes your hand. “But you know what? It’s time to be adults about this. I’m gonna reiterate it, I love you.”

Something about his emphasis on the word love has you spluttering and laughing, and Peter repeats it anyways, in different stresses and tones, “I love you. I LOVE YOU. I love you. I love you, Howlett.”

“I know, I know. I love you too.” It spills out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, but Peter grins eagerly and nods. “You’ve already told me that before.”

“You mean when I was drunk a couple days ago, right? Well I meant it then, and I mean it now.” Peter nods firmly.

“Do you remember that you’ve kissed me before, too?” You ask just out of curiosity, and Peter turns a little pink before admitting that he does.

“Who could forget the beach sunscreen kiss? I still think of that as my first one.” Peter laughs quietly. “But yesterday was more… um…”

“Real.” You whisper, and Peter nods again, this time with a little more agitation in his eyes, and you watch him mull over something, obviously thinking about kissing you after speaking about it, and you know you want to after the heated memories of yesterday, and his eyes glance towards your mouth, before he decides on it.

Peter sweeps you up in a kiss that’s far more lustful and tense, grasping around your waist and hips as he pulls you in, and you feel his lips soften against yours, melting as you feel a rhythm occur naturally. You kiss him back and you know that knowing Peter for so long has enabled you– it’s like the two of you were made to be together.

He kisses down your neck, and pulls down the silky front of your dress– as much as it will allow, at least– and kisses soft, open mouthed kisses against your cleavage, which causes you to writhe against him a little. Eventually Peter finds the zipper of your dress and pulls it down halfway, allowing him to really dip his mouth against your bare breasts, and you groan as Peter lightly sucks on your nipple.

“...Jesus Christ, Howlett…” Peter murmurs in between kissing your chest and upwards on your neck and jaw. “I don’t even… know how long I wanted to do this.”

There’s not many words to be shared from you as you feel yourself turn lightheaded, and you kiss Peter again, taking control of his mouth, relishing the feeling of his tongue swiping against yours, leading him back towards the very convenient chaise lounge chair. There, Peter discards his blazer and unbuttons his shirt, and lies back against the chair, his dick clearly straining against his pants.

You kiss him again, sitting right on his bulge, lifting your skirt a little higher so Peter can feel the shift of your bare skin against him, through the fabric pants, and his eyes roll back into his head as you kiss him, grind a little. Maybe it’s too much– Peter grabs your ass and pulls up the skirt even higher, pushing you down on his clothed bulge with too much intensity– and you feel pleasant tingles spread across your skin as his bulge presses into you, almost inside you, against the thin underwear that you’re wearing. You’re very slick– you shudder as Peter pulls down the zipper of your dress fully, and you feel his hands roam across your bare back, and then into the inside of your dress, feeling your waist and breasts.

“I didn’t bring a–” Peter starts, as you let your hands trace up his chest, and he clearly has trouble saying no.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m on the pill.” You say, matter-of-factly, mostly interested in staying on top of Peter until he begs for more. “Just for hormonal reasons.”

“Oh… okay…” Peter inhales as you press more kisses against his neck. “Howlett… it’s a lot for me to handle.”

“Huh?”

Before Peter can really answer, he whispers an apology before tightly gripping your waist, and he sits upright, pulling you flush against his chest. Then, as he zips off his pants– he somehow takes them off completely, leaving him in just his boxers. There’s a wet spot– and Peter is pulling his boxers off, too.

His dick is hard, almost painfully so based on his expression, and you understand you riled him up a little too much. With one hand– Peter reaches under your skirt, and you help him pull off your underwear with shaky, sweaty hands.

You’re aroused enough that it doesn’t hurt. When Peter slowly enters you, as you lower yourself down on him, you feel electric on the inside, some sort of satisfyingly sick combination of love and lust overtaking you, and you feel full from the pressure, feeling Peter throb inside you, and you’ve never felt so close to him as you do now, and he starts a rapid pace of thrusting into you, holding you tightly against him as he does, his thighs smacking against your ass.

You do feel pleasure, a sharp ache starting to build in your lower regions, as Peter continues to press overly hot kisses against your jaw, but you also feel loved. It doesn’t feel like a hookup, and you know it isn’t. You know as Peter wraps his arms around your waist, he’s not just using you, he really loves you.

He watches as you fall over his shoulder, having reached the peak of your climax, and Peter pulls out, letting himself finish on his own leg.

“You didn’t… have to…” You sleepily tell him.

“I know. I was just taking a precaution.” Peter whispers, and he holds you close as you fall asleep on top of him. “Love you, Howlett.”

He’s really glad this closet has a locked door.

The morning after the wedding, you wake up to find yourself mysteriously dressed in a oversized tee shirt, and your panties. You’re lying in your own bed, but you don’t know how you got here.

Peter is sleeping next to you. His brown hair is dishevelled, and he’s wearing a random tee shirt too. Actually, you think you recognize that from Harry’s wardrobe.

“Peter. Hey, Peter.” You shake his shoulder. “Peter Parker!”

“Huh? What’s that?” He sleepily rubs his eyes. “Oh, morning, Howlett.”

“How did we get here? After we… I mean, you know.” You blush. “What did you do?”

“Oh.” Peter lets himself get up for real, sitting up on the bed. “I waited it out until no one was near the stairs, and then I took you upstairs to your room. I changed your dress for you. There were randoms in my room, so I hope you don’t mind that I stayed in here with you.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” You wrinkle your brows, frowning. “I just wonder why you did all that even though I’m not your girlfriend.”

Peter pauses. Actually, he genuinely stills, no movement at all.

“Oh, Howlett. You scared me.” He shakes his head, before grabbing your hands. “I just kinda assumed after yesterday, you would believe that’s enough evidence.”

“Humor me.” You slightly smile as Peter agrees with a little shake of his head.

“I’ll be serious. I am serious.” Peter grows solemn. “Howlett. I’ve known you my entire life, practically. I can’t picture it being without you. The year or so that it was, was maybe the worst year of my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just appreciate you all the more now.” Peter traces your knuckles. “I’ve grown– we’ve grown up a lot. I needed that, so I could be here to ask you now. Would you be my girlfriend? My partner, if that sounds more equal and appropriate to you?”

“Yes.” You pull Peter into a hug, surely one of many from now on, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m so glad we went on this trip.”

Peter smiles fondly. He’s never been more glad, either.

“I never want to let you down again, Peter.” You admit shyly. “I hope it’s not cheesy to say I want to be around you all the time.”

“It isn’t.” Peter presses a very chaste, soft kiss against your lips, and he feels, finally, that his life is really coming together.

So do you.

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