#weddings!!!!!

It’s the tenth of October amidst a beautiful autumn in Boston, and Michelle’s getting married today.

She’s getting married today. Her sixteen-year-old self would be furious.

Though the identity of her soon-to-be-husband might lift the teenage MJ’s spirits.

She’s been in love with Peter Parker for ten years and been dating him for five, and though they were among the first of their friends to get engaged, the proposal had been a long time coming. She remembers being eighteen and lying on a blanket in the middle of Central Park, running her fingers through Peter’s hair as he told her how much he loved her. “I hope this isn’t too intense or anything, but Em, someday I’m gonna ask you to marry me.”

Her heart had soared. Love was so dumb and embarrassing and heart-wrenching and wonderful. “Yeah?”

He’d smiled brilliantly. “Yeah.”

“Then I’ll say yes.”

“Yeah?” Impossibly, his eyes had lit up even more than they already were. Like they always were whilst settled on MJ.

“Yeah.”

He’d promised her that afternoon, years ago, that he’d marry her. She used to despise the idea of marriage, and couldn’t understand why people ever participated in it so voluntarily. She gets it now, though. She understood as soon as she fell in love with him. Though it was the twenty-first century and marriage wasn’t a prerequisite to long-term commitment, there was something about the official, ceremonial process of weddings that made having one feel essential. Only when it involved Peter, though. He was it for her.

Currently, she makes her way to the kitchen to make her morning tea. Their apartment felt empty without her fiancé, since he’d slept over at Ned’s to honour age-old tradition. It both kills and excites her to know that the next time she’d be seeing him, he’d be at the other end of the aisle, and she’d be moments away from becoming his wife. The word makes her shiver.

Peter had proposed to her in March. They’d both had the same Saturday free, which was rare for a journalist and an engineer, and she’d (rightfully) suspected that he’d bribed J. Jonah Jameson into giving her the day off. First they’d stopped at Delmar’s, picking up their favourite sandwiches. He’d slyly mentioned the fact that they’d eaten there on their first real date, and it was then that she’d predicted the day’s end. They’d brought the sandwiches to Central Park, laid out a blanket, and had a picnic. Just like they did at eighteen. Her suspicions grew stronger still as he’d continuously gushed about the last five years being the best of his life — besides the three months she’d been out of it because of Strange’s spell a few years ago. They'd been the worst months of his life, he’d explained, because though there’d been many different factors for that, not being with her was perhaps the most unbearable.

Then, with cloudy eyes, he’d pulled a sparkling, lone object from his pocket. Michelle’s ring is so truly her it’d baffled her upon seeing it for the first time: the moss agate pear-shaped diamond sat on a simple gold band; tiny pearls on either side of it, perfectly unique. He’d told her later that he’d wanted to propose with May’s wedding ring, but because it was buried with her, he’d added the pearls as a tribute to his deceased aunt, since her ring had had a plethora of them. He’d added that he hoped she didn’t mind, even though they both knew that MJ missed May and had loved her albeit only having a few months with her. Of course she didn’t mind. She’d taken his face between her hands and had assured him that if he’d been able to give her May’s ring, she would’ve been overjoyed and so, so honoured, but since the heirloom was unavailable, the ring in front of her was the most perfect thing she’d ever seen. His reaction, former anxiety turned relief and complete adoration, had made MJ cry. Her fiancé is sweet and thoughtful and sentimental and good .

God, she loves him. She gets to marry him today. She can’t wait.

Tiptoeing over to the corner of the kitchen, MJ pours cat food into the empty bowl on the floor as she tuts quietly. “Mayday, are you hungry?”

Her and Peter’s sweet, quiet cat meows in response, grazing her black fur across MJ’s calf before heading towards her breakfast. “Mommy and Daddy are getting married today,” she tells the munching cat, and though the statement falls on deaf ears, it feels so wholly huge and exciting and MJ needs to say it out loud every so often as if to not overwhelm herself with the information. She doesn’t think Mayday minds assisting her with this.

As she stands back up, she hears a persistent knock on the door, and goes to open it. Felicia, Cindy and Betty barge into the small flat without waiting for MJ’s permission, contagious excitement, beauty supplies, and wedding plans in hand. A flurry of “MJ!!!”s and “How are you feeling?!”s surround her and she reassures them with a confident grin.

Only two hours later (an eternity to a slightly nervous Michelle), her maids-of-honour have completed her hair and makeup. “Ta-da!” Cindy announces, grabbing MJ’s hand and pulling her in front of the floor mirror in the bedroom. And oh, wow.

She looks absolutely beautiful.

Her hair is left in its natural curls in a half-up, half-down sort of do, and the top section of hair is braided on each side, meeting at the back of her head in a loose ponytail. A few curls are left in the front, too, framing her face perfectly. MJ’d pleaded with Cindy to leave it as lowkey and Michelle-esque as possible, and though Cindy had groaned and begged to add some dramatics and flair, she’d succeeded. Her makeup matched the easygoing air of her curls, and Felicia too had wanted to do something bolder. Alas, they both knew their friend; MJ wasn’t one for anything drastic. A bit of mascara, concealer, highlighter (she fought Felicia on that one, but gets it now), and lipgloss are present on her face and it’s exactly what she’d imagined. She looks fucking awesome.

Her friends stand behind her, the two blondes both teary-eyed and the brunette grinning widely. “Wait until you put on the dress!” Cindy squeals.

Michelle hadn’t really cared about going dress-shopping, but knew that her friends would enjoy the experience and decided to humour them. The four of them — Betty, Felicia, Cindy and Ned (of course) were astonished at MJ’s nonchalance, but she had to admit, their enthusiasm made the bridal pressure ease up a bit. She definitely hadn’t been very excited at first, and the first eight dresses were pretty disappointing. Several were much too feminine, a few too detailed, and one of them frighteningly donned sequins on the bust. She’d gone back into the large fitting room with a huff; feeling impatient and even a little let down. She could tell that Lisa, the attendant, was getting fed up with her pickiness, even if she hid it well and was nothing but kind. MJ felt bad, and debated choosing the next dress solely to give the poor woman a break.

Lisa had entered the fitting room with a new dress after ten minutes of searching the store. She had a hopeful smile on her face as she helped Michelle into the gown, zipped her up, and after stepping back to look for herself, the attendant gasped and immediately spun Michelle towards the mirror. “What do you think?”

MJ’d timidly glanced at her reflection, and quickly did a double-take. Jesus Christ. She’d found it.

The dress, like her ring, was Michelle Jones to a T. Lowkey, but not boring, and just old-fashioned enough without being out of touch. The form-fitting bodice was a soft satin, and hugged her waist and hips comfortably. The ivory of the gown was so off-white it was almost beige, and the fabric fell to her feet lightly, boasting a thigh-high slit on the left leg. It wasn’t low cut, and the straps secured the form over her shoulders and met across her back — the only part of her torso that was left uncovered. It was perfect.

She’d gaped at herself in the mirror, and had a similar expression on her face now as she smoothed out the bodice, having put it on with the exciting knowledge that she’d be married when she took it off later.

Or, you know, when Peter took it off later.

It’s not like that infamous tradition wasn’t one they were going to follow. She’d had sex with Peter countless times in the last five years, so she’s not sure tonight will actually count as ‘consummation’, but hey. It’ll be the first time she gets to fuck her husband.

Her husband. What a mind-blowing phrase. MJ briefly wonders how on earth anyone’s ever been casual about using it.

The next hour flies by much too quickly for her liking. She’s shoved into Felicia’s car, driven to the venue (a quiet grassy area in the outskirts of Boston, now beautified by the autumn leaves on the trees), and helped out of the car by a fussing Betty. “Peter’s already walked the aisle, so you’re up whenever you’re ready, okay?” Michelle nods. “I love you,” Betty adds, throwing her arms around her. They would’ve arrived earlier, but, true to character, Felicia had made them leave later than they’d planned. It didn’t matter. She was here and just in time and about to get married and she just couldn’t fucking wait to see Peter.

They’d decided to skip on the whole bridesmaids/groomsmen/flower-girls shebang. MJ had never liked the whole father-giving-daughter-away thing either, for obvious reasons, something that Peter had always agreed wholeheartedly on, so Mr. Watson sat joyfully teary-eyed in the front row. MJ’s eyes found him straightaway as she peeked past the makeshift curtain that separated the venue from the rest of the park.

Deep breaths, she told herself. It’s just a goddamn wedding.

Today’s the day her and Peter will one day tell their child about. Totally not a big deal.

(Michelle always imagines said child as a little boy with her wild curls and Peter’s dopey grin. It makes her heart stutter every time she pictures him.)

Focus, MJ.

Later, she’ll assume her mind went on autopilot at this point. She’s walking down the makeshift aisle, faced with almost everyone she’s ever cared about. A few are blatantly absent. Michelle and Peter have lost so many. She aches for her mother to be here. For her sister to be here. Harry. Gwen. Peter’s parents, who she never met but respect and adore regardless because they made the love of her life, and Ben, another of Peter’s loved ones who she wishes she could meet and thank and know and love.

May.

She likes to think, as her well-worn Converse lead her down the aisle, that May is in the empty chair they’d sentimentally saved for her. There are two unclaimed seats in the audience: one for May, and one for Michelle’s late mother. Rather than their absence breaking her heart, it soothes her to know that both of the amazing women would be so incredibly proud of her and Peter. So happy for them. So excited for them. And MJ is at peace with it all.

She reaches Peter, grasping his hand. She matches his adoring grin, though his is paired with glassy eyes and hers is not. That bit was predictable, Michelle thinks with amusement.

And then they’re going through a simplified version of a wedding — Peter’d been fine with cutting out the unnecessary bits, but insisted on keeping the vows in the ceremony. This had made MJ groan and grumble because she’d always thought vows were particularly humiliating and stupid.

She’d never tell Peter this, but as she stands across from him and repeats her carefully transcribed sentences, she doesn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment. There’s nothing there but love and truth behind every word. And Peter is two seconds away from weeping, which is something she’s admittedly proud of. She’d aced it.

His are just as sickeningly sweet as Michelle guessed they would be, but they make her eyes water and she’s blinking rapidly as she listens to Peter talks about wanting to kiss her in Paris when they were seventeen. He is hers and she is his and she’s content. She feels so whole.

MJ barely registers Ned pronouncing them as husband and wife before Peter’s spinning her to his other side, dipping her, and kissing her dramatically. Everyone disappears and it’s just them on a bridge in London, Peter donning quite a different suit and the beloved black dahlia necklace in her hand instead of around her neck like it is now. As he tips her upright again, he breaks the kiss and mutters, “We’ll be continuing that later, my incredible, beautiful wife.”

Fuck, she has the biggest crush on him. He’s charming and sexy and hers and she can’t wait to get him alone.

Later.

Turns out, later doesn't come soon enough (and neither does she). Peter’s made it worse for her. He’s been teasing her ever since the kiss at the ceremony. She counts the series of events silently so she knows exactly how much payback she's owed.

One. As soon as they’ve been ushered into their cutely decorated ‘just married’ Toyota, he’s gripping her inner thigh over her wedding dress as she drives them straight to Chipotle.

Two. When they arrive at their small reception, held in Felicia’s large backyard, he’s hissing his impatience under his breath: “Can’t wait any longer to take this gorgeous dress off. It’s sexy, and it’s in my way.”

Michelle tries her best to hide the way his neediness makes her feel as she subtly bites her lip and smiles. “Later, weirdo.” As if he wasn’t making her hot-and-bothered.

Three. He teases her again as he pulls her in close, of course, to dance to ‘I Believe’ by Stevie Wonder. It’s their song, and normally she’d be thinking about that instead of how Peter’s sneaking kisses to her neck, a bite to her earlobe, a sly squeeze to her ass as he pulls her against him even tighter and her heart’s beating really fast because that was close. Not for any other. reason. She was just nervous that their guests almost saw him being a complete dick.

She considers threatening divorce but they’ve only been married for three hours and the ink on their marriage documents isn’t even dry. MJ cares less about that as the reception goes on, though, because the way that Peter’s licking cake off his spoon is conjuring memories of his tongue moving the same way a couple nights ago. Her breath is shallow and he’s an asshole and god, it’s been too long and she needs her husband and it’s only been a few days. She's so getting him back for all of that later. Much later.

But alas.

Finally, finally they’ve made it back to their one-bedroom apartment. She parks the car and he’s telling her to wait where she is. “Why?” She wonders aloud, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, until Peter runs over to the driver’s side of the car, opens the door, and scoops her up out of her seat. “Pete!” She squeals, both giggling as he runs up the three flights of stairs with her in his arms. They pass a couple neighbours on the way up, and are a little too horny to remember that there’s no way he should be that physically capable. The weird looks from the strangers, though, aren’t paid any attention, because Peter’s shifting her into one arm as the other unlocks their apartment with ease.

Peter opens the door ceremoniously with a proud “Welcome home, wife," and she’s doing that terribly girlish giggle again. She’s far too focused on his muscles to care, though. Michelle just really wants him. The sky is blue, grass is green. Peter is hot.

“You asshole.” She tries to look angry and sort of succeeds. He looks confused, raising an eyebrow in question. “Peter. You fucking teased me the entire day and you think I’m gonna give it to you that easy?”

She watches him pretend to think for a moment. He grins, then replies with a simple “yes.”

If she wasn’t this goddamn horny…

He’s absolutely right. MJ tells him so while she tugs at his slightly-wrinkled button-up. “…but I’m making you pay for today next time, Pete. Swear to god.”

He doesn’t answer her. He’s busy sliding her wedding dress down her body and groaning when he finds his wife nearly naked underneath it, save for the tiny white lace of her thong and, of course, her Converse. Her husband (god that word) drags his tongue from her breastbone to her navel. The dress hasn’t even left its bunched-up state around her ankles. Peter wants her, he wants her, he wants her.

Michelle frantically pull Peter up from his crouch and messily crashes her lips with his. She wants him, she wants him, she wants him.

Five minutes later, though it seems like five hours, the newlyweds have made it to their lumpy bed once a bastard but now the first place she gets to fuck her husband. He’s just in his briefs, and the only thing she’s kept on is the lace because she knows from experience that he always fucks her harder when her panties have been carelessly shoved to the side. And she needs it hard. Fuck, she needs it. Peter finds home between her legs, pinning her to the mattress with his body weight, and jerks his hips forward on instinct and need. The animalistic movement earns a high-pitched whine out of Michelle, and he watches her shut her eyes lustfully as he wraps a hand around her neck. Squeezing it ever-so-slightly, he thrusts his greedy bulge against her core once, twice, a third time, gaining momentum with each snap of his hips. “Look at me.” He orders her, gripping her jaw. Her eyes fly open and she’s never seen him look more needy than he does now. It’s overwhelming sometimes, knowing she’s that wanted. That needed. That loved.

Peter snakes his other hand down to the lace and shoves it to the side. MJ’s eyes widen in surprise when she feels the thin cotton prison of his briefs rub directly onto her swollen clit. She’s never been this wet, she swears it. He feels it too when he drags his imprisoned erection from her gushing entrance back to the sensitive nub. This is new. He works harder, maintaining his grip on her neck as he drops his head on the mattress next to it. As he ruts even harder against her, she picks up on his mutter, so low she could’ve missed it. “You gonna cum for me like this?”

She nods. No, wait. Words are important when he’s in charge. “Uh huh.” The faint whimper is all she can manage.

“‘M not even inside you, Em. Haven’t got my cock or my fingers or my tongue in your cunt, and you’re still gonna fall apart, yeah? Fall apart with my cock rubbing you off.” It’s a hiss, and she moans brokenly at that. He sits up on his knees to shove his boxers down and off, then returns to his wife in mere seconds. Without the fabric barrier, and after he stops to position himself, his dick slides perfectly up her pussy, parting her lips, and his leaking tip tortures her quivering bundle of nerves. They both cry out at the sensation — it’s intense, to say the least — and Peter begins moving his hips again and again and again and again and fuck fuck fuck she’s there and he’s gripping her hair and jerking her head back to watch her cum .

“What a fucking sight.” She hears him growl as she comes down from the high. Her chest is heaving, legs shaking and breath stuttering and he has her so fucked up. Mind body and soul. Everything that is Michelle Jones is driven mad by her want and love and need for him.

Before she can process anything besides his face, he’s gripping her hips and flipping them with a strength only a superhero could muster. She’s confused. There’s no way he expects her to ride him, not after that intense orgasm, right? But before she can ask, he’s mumbling, “Let me do the work, baby. I got you.”

She nods eagerly, heart melting. The coupling between Peter and Michelle is sometimes intense, sometimes lazy, sometimes mindless and hard, but whenever they need to just feel each other, she’s on top. It connects them and it's simple and Michelle loves feeling loved by him. There aren’t many other situations in which she feels it more so than this. And while it’s always passionate and fuelled by adoration, it's also her and Peter. Sex rarely remains slow and romantic even if it starts that way. She just calls it range.

Yes. She and Peter are sexually versatile. That's all.

Because they're so versatile, when Peter lowers her onto his aching cock and gives her a moment (her superhuman husband isn’t exactly small or even average), she knows that in a minute, he’ll be too impatient to take his time. Fuck. She loves it when he doesn’t take his time like this. In fact, if he waits any longer to fuck the absolute shit out of her, she’s gonna take the fucking reigns. Fuck him.

Oh…oh, fuck him.

Because Peter gives up on 'slow' after the fourth slow-paced thrust, shoots her one of those looks — she’d been fucking him for long enough to know his non-verbal cues — and after a nod of her head, he’s rearing back and pounding into her without any hesitation. When he doesn’t hold back, she finds Peter breathtaking. Sometimes literally. His stamina could prove efficient well into a twelfth round of fucking and more often than not she'll sound like an Olympic sprinter after they're done. Michelle both wishes she could keep up with him and is glad she can’t.

His determination stuns her as she’s witness to it now. Her elbows are shaking too much to hold her upright anymore, and she’s collapsing onto his chest as he fucks wildly into her. MJ’s pretty sure that’s her voice she’s hearing; the one whimpering Peter Peter Peter over and over again pathetically. She would be embarrassed if she was coherent enough, but perhaps she wouldn’t because it’s Peter and they love each other and he knows what she’s like when he’s fucked her up. Plus he’s told her he likes her like this. He likes knowing only he can make her feel this way. He told her about that when they were twenty-one and he’d admitted that he might be Spider-Man but he never feels more powerful than he does when he’s got her like this. Thoroughly fucked and sobbing for him and falling apart on his cock again and again. The confession, given right after sex, had made her throb and his dick was down her throat before he’d even finished talking.

And quite honestly, if she keeps thinking about shit like that, she’s gonna fucking cum again. So she does her best to focus on present Peter.

...Except focusing on the Peter below her and inside of her does nothing to ward off another orgasm. No, no, it summons it, because one look at his sweaty, perfect, blissed out face and she’s hurled off the edge yet again into pleasure’s abyss. In it she finds his eyes.

Always his eyes.

Peter slows down for a moment or two, but Michelle doesn’t get to fully recover. Not that she wants to. She hasn’t even caught her breath before he’s flipped her beneath him, positioning her on her side, and pounding into her again. She cries out and her entire body is shaking from the overstimulation. Harder and harder still he wrecks her and she unabashedly stares at his six pack flexing at the strain of it all. He gives her everything and that is how roughly he fucks her and she craves it whenever he’s not inside her. Her husband is magnificent.

That word again.

Peter seems equally enthralled by the equivalent, because she picks up on a, “good girl. Good fucking girl. You’re so fucking good for me. Take it so well, don’t you? My perfect wife. So fucking sexy. Look at you, fuck!” He accentuates the word with a swift slap to her ass, making her jerk and wail loudly. “Sexy and powerful yet so eager to please. Such a good girl for me. Take my fucking cock, Em. Wanna fuck you so good you’ll feel me inside you for weeks.” He stops muttering to take a few breaths, staring at her face as he speaks again in a softer tone: “God, I love you."

The declaration is all Michelle needs to cum for the fourth time tonight, ears ringing as she falls with a weak whimper of his name. It’s all she can manage but she knows he understands. She loses consciousness for a few seconds. The intensity is more than she can really bear.

But he’s here and he’s gently removing her (ruined) underwear and she’s not sure when he filled the tub up because after a few minutes he’s lifting her from the bed and lowering her, after a short trip, into a warm bath. MJ’s coherent enough now to smile and stroke Peter’s face. “I love you too.”

“We got married today.” He whispers, awed.

“We totally did.”

They laugh together, then, at the dramatics of it all; how everything feels different now but so incredibly the same that it makes Michelle’s heart squeeze. It's her and Peter against the world and as corny as it sounds, she truly believes that nothing in the world is stronger than their love for each other. To be seen, to be known, to be loved. Maybe finding That Person always meant that quotes from classical literature she once thought were god-awful before him now make complete sense after him. She understands Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Eyre and Catherine Earnshaw, because Peter is Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester and Heathcliff. Though she hopes for a happier ending than Wuthering Heights.