#don't know whether I almost pissed my pants from fear or disgust

[filmista]

Blood, Sweat and Tears: Martyrs (2008, France)

France is notorious for its brutal horror movies, of which the most famous or shall I say infamous is ‘Martyrs’, highly controversial, it is a film that has been called deep by some as they say it critiques senseless violence, by directly, mercilessly confronting us with it. 

Or that it shows the phenomenon of how some people abuse the fact that they have more power over someone, whether that's physical, mental or social and actually get away with it. 

Yes, it shows us a cruel world where people can commit heinous acts and not be punished ever, or they only are after their reign of terror has gone on for years... And that's why I think it's so scary because that world exists whether you want to be confronted with it or not, it's a film that truly does wake up the survival instinct, part of me simply wanted to run out the room a few times.

Others say that it's a piece of torture porn trash made by someone with a sick mind (the director, Pascal Laugier suffered from severe depression when he wrote the script) that it's an inhuman film and that it is unbearable, true torture to watch. All these various statements about it have for quite some time created a sort of morbid fascination towards the film in my mind though.

Just a sort of curiosity, because often with things that are polarising it's for a reason, be that a good or bad reason. Some people say that 'Martyrs' is a film with absolutely nothing redeeming that you needn't waste your time with it, others say that it's a film with cruel acts yet also occasional acts of extraordinary kindness, that it's human in its cruelty. 

I've been told by plenty of people that know I'm a horror fan that I should watch this, that it is one of those horror films that you just have to have seen in your life and one of those film experiences you just have to have had, you just have to see it; to believe how impossibly cruel it is, just to give an idea it has supposedly made people in audiences faint and vomit...

As I've said all of that did create some sort of morbid fascination, but it also made me nervous and admittedly slightly scared. I like horror, but there's a limit to what each of us can take right? What if I got to see a spectacle that I would never ever recover from? But then again people have watched it and they have survived so I finally decided to submit myself to it. Newsflash: I am not deceased. Thought I was gonna be a few times though.

Filmmakers like Pascal Laugier don't have it easy. It is to be expected that production companies and distributors will not be eager to work with you if you turn in a script like that of 'Martyrs'. It's at least as hard a job to get actors and actresses ready to work with you on your brainchild.

Laugier sent the script to a number of candidates but got the steady return with the announcement not to bother them with such a sick mess. Eventually, he found them, two main actresses, who were prepared to go out of their way and to the limit. It became Mylene Jampanoï (Lucie) and Morjana Alaoui (Anna), they play characters that must survive the most horrible torture to eventually become 'martyrs'.

For torture, there is in 'Martyrs'. The film has been rejected by many critics as a protagonist of the torture porn genre, as known for example by Hostel, Haute Tension, L'interieur and numerous Asian productions, but 'Martyrs' has more than the average extreme horror movie in which sadism is purely filmed for entertainment.

It is not meant to give anyone pleasure, it's not supposed to give the "Oh this is so gross but so fun to watch sentiment" (we all know it) 'Martyr's' is supposed to make you disgusted, it wants to disgust, to induce panic sweats and make your blood run cold, it aims for physical and mental reactions.

The difference is that in most films you are very aware that it is not real thus you're not at all that scared, or you are but there is always that voice of reason that says: "you can always turn it off, it's not real, it's only got a few more minutes left", but 'Martyrs' does a darn good job of almost, almost making you forget it for a while, at least that's how consumed I was watching the film. 

In the above-mentioned films, the victims are usually colourless, characterless puppets, serving only as slaughter cattle, as defenceless clowns who entertain the public with their blood, screams, swearing, moaning and intestines. 

Laugier, however, dives deep into the psyche of his character Lucie. Being saved from the arms of a bizarre sect does not mean she's safe from misery. Her life has become a hell on earth and she seeks fruitless ways to deal with it.

Jampanoi's performance can handle the ordeal: pain, sadness, panic, despair and crazy are all splashing off the screen, they are an assault on the emotions and are far more terrifying than the bloody parts. Alaoui does her best and outdoes herself; impressive as there was a lot being asked of her as a beginning actress. Laugier also plays handily with the expectations and needs of the horror community.

Instead of punishing the perpetrators after the viewer knows what they have done, it begins with revenge and the viewer does not even know if it is justified or not. The script is full of unexpected twists and turns, making the film everything but a crowd pleaser, that being said,  it's very possible that you dear reader might dislike it. Juicy torture scenes are there, but not free-flowing: the director has added the required dose of psychological horror to deliver a cruel film.

'Martyrs' is about the traumatised young woman Lucie, who returns fifteen years after her escape to the house of her abductors. This time, however, she is armed with a shotgun and she is determined to give her abductors a taste of their own medicine. When she stands eye to eye with the people who have mercilessly mistreated her as a child, she does not hesitate one single moment and pulls the trigger instantly.

The story begins with cold sweat inducing panic shots: a half-naked girl is running across of an industrial site, clearly running from someone, clearly running in fear of her life. From this flashback, it becomes clear that it's a memory of Lucie. It turns out she has been severely mistreated, to which the injuries on her body bear the evidence.

The authorities can not figure out where she came from, so they have placed her in an orphanage. In her fifteen years she grows up, she joins forces with Anna, who is also an orphan and becomes her best friend. (Anna wants to be Lucie's lover, but Lucie is too psychologically damaged to be able to return that, she needs love but first most not in that way, she needs someone who can help her sort her mind and calm her fears, Anna does, however, do everything for Lucie). logical since they really are the only ones they have in the world. 

Once grown, Lucie goes looking for sweet revenge. She stumbles across an unsuspecting family and pulls out her shotgun. Ruthlessly, efficiently she shoots them all down. Next Lucie calls Anna and tells her that they were the ones who abused her in the time she was locked up.

However, you can rest assured and believe that, that's not even the tip of the iceberg. 'Martyrs' has so many plots turns that, that does not even give an idea of what the film is about. Too much is happening and your mouth too often falls open from astonishment. However, this is something that you have to see yourself, I just can't describe it. 

One can even wonder if it does the film justice to straightforwardly discuss it in a review. Words alone can not describe what an experience this movie is: 'Martyrs' is horrible, deadly, shocking, violent, merciless, monstrous, insane, macabre, hostile ... yes maybe even malicious.

Yet all these words are lacking. For the reason,  that 'Martyrs' is too much an experience, an experience and, above all, a calculated,  well landed, hard, and painful punch in the face of the viewer. The shock that it leaves is indescribable by a pen.

The roles are filled in by French actresses Morjana Alaoui (Anna) and Mylène Jampanoï. (Lucie) They were pretty unknown actresses at the time because they didn't come out of Hollywood. According to the director, it was difficult to find actresses who wanted to play these roles because of the difficult subject. After reading the script, the ladies must have been convinced and said yes.

They deliver convincing acting, it seems to me that they were heavy roles to play, especially because they have to act so intensely that they really do look pained and desperate. The duo is beaten, kicked, starved and humiliated in a variety of ways. The severe pain they undergo can be read in their faces and it seems as though they are really undergoing the misery. 

This movie is not the French answer to 'Saw' and 'Hostel'. This film goes far beyond that. 'Saw' and 'Hostel' were films with a lot of torture, but resembling an episode of an average children's series compared to this. The difference is that 'Martyrs' itself is a martyrdom to go through. 

You are not safe in your chair looking at others who are tortured but are yourself part of that torture. Therein lies the difference. Even comparing this film with the ones targeted at the American audience is almost a shame (not that they aren't good films, they're just not the same in degree of intensity and can't really be compared) it seems that it once again was Europe that went more risqué, but in this case, it paid off. That being said, the in Europe big fat 18+ rating on the cover is utterly deserved, in America, here’s no doubt in my mind that it’s an R.

What the film is, is an extremely violent view of the world. A film that is still painfully up-to-date. A film that flawlessly embodies what makes us instinctively afraid, it has everything that you're parents have ever warned you about. 

Not that long ago, masked murderers preying on innocent teenagers terrorised us and caused the light to stay on at night. Today, the images of Marc Dutroux and Josef Fritzl are reflected on our collective memory. However, there was rarely a film that depicts this fear so visually and horribly.

Reading that could give the impression that this is a quick shock therapy, creating a sort of macabre circus. There may be some films like 'Saw' and 'Hostel' that to some extent do that, but 'Martyrs' is too intelligent for that.

"Martyrs" is not afraid to throw in, in addition to a lot of current issues some troublesome philosophical questions as well, especially the question of how far we want to go to get to know the truth.

It also turns out to be a question that is being asked directly to the viewer, because how far do you actually want to go to discover how the film ends? The film does not show any mercy and asks for more and more of the viewer's endurance. You’re forgiven if you look away, this film is without question unbearable and utterly heartbreaking...

As mentioned, 'Martyrs' is not ordinary torture porn. It comes much closer to being the Last House on the Left and Texas Chainsaw Massacre of this generation. Just as groundbreaking. Equally shocking. Equally horrible. Equally disgusting. Equally confronting.

As it kept going I got more and more furious, teary eyed and scared all at once It almost made me wanna scream at one point, I couldn’t stand it anymore, it just made wanna get a cold shower, to rinse off all the disgustingness and inhumanity but screaming at a tv is futile right? It made me think: this gross, sick shit should not exist, it should never have been made, ever!!! This kind of was the sentiment at a certain moment:

WHY THE FUCK DOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS EXIST???!!! WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON IN THIS MAN’S MIND???!!!, AND MORE IMPORTANTLY AGAIN FUCKING WHY???!!! AND WHO THE FUCK GETS OFF ON THIS SICK SHIT???!!!

Sorry but I couldn’t control myself, I just had to scream at y’all for a minute, a normal tone does not suffice to express my level of emotion right now. I’m Sorry for all the fucks too... Well not really, but I’m almost sorry for not being sorry. ;)

But you know the horrible, haunting truth I realised then? And that I wish I hadn’t, and almost made me wish I could go back to being an innocent, careless five-year-old girl? When my biggest worry was whether I was gonna get that chocolate cookie I liked so much or not, yeah huge fucking deal...

That almost nothing that happens in Martyrs is impossible. That reality is often crueller than fiction, the human psyche is capable of everything; some human beings are or can be the ultimate monster on the face of the earth, some of us are the monsters under each other’s bed.

But my ultimate conclusion? I’m probably not gonna want to watch it again in this lifetime, it’s already unforgettable, unforgiving, punishing and traumatic enough and that doesn’t even sum it up... This film is disgusting, it simply is. I hate it. I absolutely hate it with every fibre of my being, or maybe I don’t hate the film but what I saw. But that's precisely the reason some part of me liked it as well, it sounds twisted I know but there's a logic behind it: 

Sometimes it's nice to be reminded of the limits of our conscience. How insensitive are we? How far can we let ourselves go? What can we handle? When do we start to wish we could look away? Or wish that we could intervene to make something stop? Even when a part of us realises perfectly well that it's not real... 

When does the mind begin to disconnect fact and fiction? When do you start to feel guilty for perhaps being completely desensitised? For not feeling anything? When do you become ashamed of yourself for that?

When do you wish you had a stronger emotional response? it's also likely that apart from experiencing or questioning yourself about these questions you’ll also find yourself relieved to feel, to be repulsed, to respond humanely. These are all things that intrigue me and maybe that is morbid, and I admit that but I just call it “being interested in the human psyche”. 

'Martyrs' is one of the films that can help you explore that, but still from the safety of your sofa, if you want to stop the ordeal you can, just turn off your TV or take out the Disc of the player. It’s a film that’s very likely to stay with you for a while after watching, and that could give you very strong yes possibly even scary emotions. 

That’s why I’d urge that it’s best to watch it in the afternoon or early evening and not before you go to sleep, and not because you're a child and have to go to bed early (then you shouldn't watch this) but because it’s likely you just might not sleep whatever age you are.

So I’d suggest getting yourself comfortable, making yourself some nice coffee or tea for yourself or whatever your poison is. And if you also wish to lock every window and every door in your house, or if you get the irrepressible urge to look over your shoulder more than once I'm absolutely not judging you! Been there done that. 

'Martyrs' is the kind of film I'd thought I'd never be able to sit trough, and a few years ago I know I wouldn't have been able to and part of me would have said, fuck this shit is gross I don't have to sit through this, I don't want to sit through this! Get it the hell away from me! And if you don't get it the hell away from, me, I'm going to get it the hell away from me. 

It's the kind of film that if I had found someone else watching it would have made me go, eww what the hell are you watching, what is that?! Why are you watching that? That's nasty! What are you getting out of that? Followed by some I don't understand why you're watching that. 

And part of me even if I now can watch it, still feels that way; and that's what I ultimately found rewarding and relieving about it, that it is one of those films that literally puts you face to face with your own humanity, and sometimes that's unpleasant and painful as hell, sometimes it's uncomfortable, confronting; it makes you feel bad, even ashamed. 

Think of coming face to face with a wild animal and being able to observe it safely, yet still being completely blown away by it even overwhelmed by the notion that it is stronger than you and could finish you if it wanted to. 

That's what watching 'Martyrs' felt like for me you're acutely aware of how vulnerable you can be, how fragile, how easily impressions are left on the mind, and how long they can stay there if they go away at all, how quickly you can feel afraid, panicked, repulsed, but also of how strong you are, how much a human mind and body can take before it crumbles. 

The admirable thing in all of this and its ultimate strength lies in the fact, that it always sides with its heroines, everything is seen from their point of view, unlike some horror films it doesn't shift it's point of view into that of the tormentors ever.

The last thing the film would want is that you could summon some kind of sympathy or understanding for these people, as they are utterly inhuman. It explains their actions, but it does not excuse them or make them human, it doesn't go for the classical and cliche "he or she had severe mental problems and just lost it, or something traumatic happened in the past" and that usually gives some sort of catharsis and release you can let go, you can relax, you can breathe. 

This illustrates that some people simply are sadistic without reason because they can and more precisely because they just want to hurt other people for their own pleasure and are very aware of what they are inflicting, they just don't care that is the uncomfortable truth, (two other films that do this exceptionally well are The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Hush).

It forever urges us to sympathise with the heroines to feel, to look at what’s happening to them and to feel it as if it were being done directly to you, and 'Martyr's is one of those rare films that does succeed in transferring what it's characters feel onto the audience, that's one of the reasons that make watching it such an intense, emotional, sometimes very difficult experience. 

We watch not from a distanced lens, but through being close to them, from one of kindness and humanity, to see how cruel the violence is, to find our ability for compassion, our humanity. It’s one of the few films, that have almost made me feel ashamed to be a human being. 

Because it genuinely hurt to see what human beings can do to each other human beings and that it can create that sentiment of true repulsion and at the same compassion gives it more heart and soul than some similar films, very few horror films have made me cry this one I will say without shame is one of them. 

Yet while it is as I said disgusting and I don't really like this film, I really don't, you just don't like 'Martyrs'. You can like what it is trying to convey through its violence, but you very likely won't like what you're seeing, you just won't. 

It is still very well made, it's atmosphere of fear and coldness is meticulously crafted even through its simplicity and it's acting is for the genre simply insanely strong and I truly do mean insanely so, these women are heroines for wanting to act in this.

Even if I could act and got offered who knows how many Dollars for it, I’d probably still not do it, because I’m a scaredy cat, I don't like submitting myself to pain when I don't have to and there’s no doubt that these roles didn’t inflict some kind of mental pain on its actresses.

You see that they must have had truly well-armed convictions, that they truly believed in the power of the film, otherwise you just don't do that to yourself, I just can't believe you would... (unless your name is Leonardo Dicaprio and you’re just dying for the oscar) Or you’re insane. You’d have to just really blindly trust the director or you’d have to be afraid of the person standing in front of you.

I’d say essentially it is an essential film for every true horror fan because it confronts us with our own humanity or a part of our own possible inhumanity and it does it in an extreme way; if you are positively comfortable while watching 'Martyrs' and don’t even flinch once, It’s maybe possible you may need psychological help, or you've just watched one too many horror films, and they finally no longer have any effect whatsoever, but still here's a film where you'll truly feel relieved to be afraid at least once. 

Enough talk now, I do want to include the article that finally made want to face it, The Telegraph considered it the best horror film of the 21st century, I may not necessarily agree entirely but It’s an excellently written article, and I included an another one that I particularly like: 

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/film/what-to-watch/martyrs-2008-pascal-laugier/

http://www.btchflcks.com/2014/09/martyrs-female-friendships-can-be-bloody-complex.html#.WPx_GneZMdV

“It's so easy to create a victim, young lady, so easy. You lock someone in a dark room. They begin to suffer. You feed that suffering. Methodically, systematically and coldly. And make it last. Your subject goes through a number of states. After a while, their trauma; that small, easily opened crack, makes them see things that don't exist.”

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Smut?? *sigh* Oh how i've missed it. Also, how do I choose just one? Okay, how about no. 33 “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.” (Don't mind me, I'm just too fond of jealousy fics)

Your time is now, friend! You picked a good one. It went… places I didn’t expect. I hope you enjoy it!

Best Man (and a Friend of the Bride)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFWWord count: 5717

33. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.”

Peter escaped the banquet hall at a near-run while the guests were still applauding Betty and Ned’s first dance. After the newlyweds had burst into the room not long before, Ned had broken away to give Peter an important heads-up: that Ned’s mom had informed all of his cousins that the Best Man was single and they were just waiting until the dancing to pounce. It freaked Peter out to know that a bunch of strangers had been checking him out while he stood at the head of the aisle, clapping his best friend supportively on the shoulder as the music cued Betty’s entrance.

Even in the face of matrimony (and it had been right in Peter’s face for the better part of two years as he fulfilled his role as Best Man), it wasn’t that Peter was a commitment-phobe, some sort of serial one-night-stand-er. He simply wasn’t in a rush to marry young. Plus, he was trying to keep his wits about him today of all days; May had warned that people could get a little nuts at weddings, what with the atmosphere of romantic gravitas thicker than the icing on the big white cake. She was probably back there right now, trying to intercept Ned’s eager cousins to give Peter a head start.

As he moved away down the corridor towards the front of the hotel, the thud of pop-y bass transitioned into the tones of two people attempting to keep an argument quiet. Up ahead, a dark-haired man crossed out of a room and pushed angrily through the front doors. They didn’t slam, which took some of the effect out of it.

Peter wondered if he should turn back, but if the other arguer came this way, it would look like he was trying to slink away after eavesdropping. He would just… be casual and slip right past.

Except, when he was passing the room the fight had occurred in, the other person, a woman his age, walked out. He grabbed her shoulders instinctively before she could run into him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Peter told her surprised expression, belatedly releasing her.

“Oh, this?” she asked, circling her face with a finger. “It’s not fear, it’s relief. I thought you were Brad storming back in for round two.”

He could guess, but it would be better to ask.

“Brad?”

“My…” The woman paused. “…ex-boyfriend.”

Peter noticed a few tears overflowing her brimming eyes and patted his pants for a Kleenex, coming up empty. Damn, he remembered feeling one when he stuffed his tie into the same pocket after the ceremony.

“Sorry,” he said, meaning it, “I think I had a tissue in my jacket, but I left it in the… in the room.”

‘Banquet hall’ was not coming to him as she gave an unconcerned shrug and tossed her loosely braided hair over her shoulder before catching him head-on with brown eyes that were even more brilliant for their shininess. She made do by swiping away the fullest tears and patting beneath her eyes with her thumbs.

“I’m fine,” she said and he felt bad for not asking.

While she sniffled and angled her head back to keep any remaining tears at bay, Peter glanced down, taking in the length of her dark copper dress. It would probably photograph stunningly outside, against all those red and gold leaves on the trees lining the hotel’s drive. Damn Ned for dragging him into the wedding photographer conversation. Everywhere Peter looked at this place, he saw lighting opportunities and reflections of the couple’s autumnal colour scheme. Stupid scenic, postcard-town venue. He looked quickly back up to the woman’s face, which was now more composed.

“I’m Peter.” He cleared his throat. “By the way.”

She nodded and said, “MJ. Betty’s mentioned you.”

“So you’re… bride’s side?” That term came to him.

“Oh yeah, she and I go way back, or as far as you can go back when people get married in their early twenties.”

“Right.” Peter laughed. “Me and Ned too.” But the small talk was bothering him. He met MJ’s eyes seriously. “I’m sorry, but I really need to know what the fuck that guy’s problem was.”

She laughed in what looked like surprise.

“How do you know I didn’t cause the problem?”

“Did you?” he asked to humour her.

MJ shrugged, appearing genuinely thoughtful.

“Sort of. You want details?”

“Nah, it’s none of my business.” He was just quietly pissed off that some dick could breeze out and leave this woman crying. At a wedding. This was, like, the exact opposite of what May had warned him about. No romance in sight.

She leaned sideways into the wall, crossed her arms, and sighed. He copied her, minus the sigh.

“First, I want to note that someone’s ability to cite George Orwell is not a strong enough reason to stay in a relationship with them. You got that, Peter?”

“Noted.”

She sighed again and rubbed more aggressively at the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

“Would you believe the fight started with a proposal?”

Peter was usually more of a listener, but he could tell MJ needed him to contribute. Maybe she wasn’t a natural conversation-hog either.

“Isn’t proposing at somebody else’s wedding, like, bad manners?”

“Really bad,” she agreed with such vehemence that he understood why she and Betty were good friends. “It’s rude as fuck to take attention away from the bride and groom, but Brad’s a self-centered shithead like that, so I probably should have seen this coming.”

“That’s the problem with the Brads of the world,” Peter observed with sarcastic faux-wisdom. “You’re so focused on how self-centered they are and how much of a shithead they’re being that you forget the unpredictability factor. That’s the killer.”

MJ snorted.

“Right? Anyway, so I pulled him out here, because he started fucking whipping out that ring box while Betty and Ned were still dancing―” Peter shook his head in disgust. “―and while we were getting into it, I had this moment where I just stared at him and felt zero desire to keep talking, or hearing him talk. And, I guess, if I felt like that right after he tried to propose… I mean, that should be one of the emotional highlights of my life. Like, forget that his timing was shitty and selfish, I still should’ve been thrilled, on some level, that this guy I’d been with for the past two and a half years wanted to marry me. And I wasn’t. I think that’s why I started crying.”

She breathed deeply and Peter was staggered that he’d heard someone exorcise their feelings so well and so wastelessly. He admired her. Abruptly, MJ laughed.

“So that was a lot to unload on a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger, I’m your friend’s husband’s best friend!” he joked. “And I’m glad you explained. Otherwise, my plan was to assume that you were crying for Brad, because he doesn’t get to spend any more time with you.”

“You know, I’m impressed that you picked that up so quickly.”

“Well,” Peter shrugged, referencing Ned’s recent vows, “I’ve heard that sometimes you just know.”

They laughed until the front doors opening (not Brad―they both turned to look) shoved a wave of chilly air into the hotel. Peter wished he had his jacket to give her. He felt a little unbalanced, accidentally pairing up with this stranger after actively running away from the potential for that same thing down the hall. Instead of wading in, testing the waters, he’d shot down into a sinkhole. That wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping to find either. Because he hadn’t been hoping to find anything. Yet he really wanted to be around her; attraction wasn’t something he’d closed himself off to.

“We should get out of this hallway,” MJ suggested.

“Do you want to…” Peter jerked his thumb back towards the banquet hall. “…dance?” He winced. “Or is that a terrible thing to ask because, shithead or not, you were just almost engaged?”

She tilted her head side to side, considering.

“Pretty terrible. On a related note, do you want to come hang out in my room?”

His mouth fell open slowly and he straightened up. Saying ‘yes’ too fast… that would be another example of bad manners, wouldn’t it? If she asked though, he’d be lying to say that wondering how the fabric of her dress would feel sliding through his hands as he removed it hadn’t been taking up half his brain power since the second he saw her.

“We’ll go back to the reception in a bit,” MJ assured him. “I just need to take my shoes off and be blissfully alone for a few minutes.”

“I’m flattered that you can already feel alone when I’m in a room with you,” he said sarcastically, smiling to take the edge off. “This conversation is way better for my ego than dancing with one of Ned’s cousins.”

She laughed, easy, and reached out to grab Peter’s forearm. It shot a tingle through him probably even less appropriate than contemplating going back to MJ’s room with her. Unconsciously, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his lip as he watched her mouth.

“Dude, they were talking about your thighs through the whole ceremony. I was sitting in front of them.”

“You probably started it,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair away from her face like he was also a casual toucher. It was tough to tell whether she was blushing or just flushed from her argument.

“Nah, I was too busy looking at your arms. That jacket could only hide so much.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to one of his biceps. With his arms crossed, his dress shirt strained.

They were joking around, right? People flirted at weddings. All people. Including determined bachelors and brand-new singletons.

“Look who’s talking,” Peter countered, sweeping his eyes down her silky dress. The hug and drape of it.

Harmless flirting. Totally harmless. MJ gave him a thorough once-over.

“So… yes or no?”

Her hotel room had only her things in it and he wondered how he would’ve felt to encounter the heavily ridiculed Brad’s luggage.

“He left his bag in the car,” MJ explained, tossing the key card onto a table with an elegant flick. She flung her small purse to land at the head of the bed on a pillow. “He didn’t want us to stay overnight. Figured we could make the drive back into the city when things were winding down.”

“At what time? Three in the morning? Not a great plan.” Peter was puffing himself up every time he cut a slice off the absent Brad. He was aware of it, but he also couldn’t stop himself.

She sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, then changed her mind, crouching down at the mini-fridge and extracting a teeny bottle. Peter stood by as she unscrewed and sniffed it.

“No,” she gasped, quickly returning it to the fridge.

“You’re ok, right?” he asked tentatively.

MJ sat back and turned her head to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to drink myself into a stupor, I’m just curious. I like to explore my surroundings.”

Not quite an answer, but whatever.

She stood and glanced at the blank screen of the TV.

“You want to watch something?”

“Uh, no, that’s ok. We can just talk,” Peter said. Talk about how people hooked up at weddings. Right.

“Talk.” MJ nodded and sat beside him. “Sure. That’s a good idea. I think we skipped some of the general stuff when I dove straight into my drama. We could cover something a little less personal.”

“For sure.”

He caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, just like he was doing to her. In a second, they were kissing fiercely, his hands on her shoulder and the back of her neck, hers clutching the front of his shirt. They twisted towards each other and her far knee nudged his thigh.

“Are impulsive decisions ever right?” MJ wondered, eyes closed, as he nipped her lip and kissed messily over to her ear.

“Don’t ask me that,” Peter mumbled into her ear. His hand played with the strap of her dress, dragging it over her shoulder and back up. Suspending himself in that place of temptation.

“What would Brad think―”

“Don’t ask me that either,” he requested before she could finish the question.

He felt for her knee and tucked his fingers behind it, wrinkling the fabric of her dress between his warm hand and the hot place at the back of her knee. Such a little tug, he thought as they kissed again, to bring her right into his lap. Peter gripped the back of her neck and stroked his tongue into her mouth. MJ’s head was practically lolling, she was so turned on. Ok, he could concede that this was something he missed during his careful state of singlehood. But it wouldn’t have been like this with a Leeds cousin, hadn’t been like this in Peter’s last actual relationship (sorry, Liz) or his handful of Tinder nights.

This wasn’t supposed to happen―his cock thickening in his black suit trousers, MJ’s long fingers undoing the tiny buttons of his shirt―but it could. They’d collided while fleeing in two different directions and now, maybe, they could run parallel for a while. If…

“Actually,” Peter continued, their noses bumping as he shook his head, “could you not say that name again?”

“I could do that.”

His fingers flexed and she swung onto his lap, dress slipping and sliding under his hand. He pressed a palm to the small of her back until she lowered her hips to his, then, as soon as they touched, Peter grew restless and flipped them, hauling MJ up the bed on her back. Her heart was racing, he could see. Her hands were hungry as they roamed his chest where his shirt hung open. She shuffled her dress until she was able to bend her knees on either side of his hips, kicking her high heels to the floor. They (Peter and MJ) had probably damaged her braid.

Propped over her, Peter pushed the delicate straps from her shoulders, one at a time, while she watched him. He peeled the front of her loose dress down with the slight dampness of his palm, caressing along her sternum. No bra underneath. There was a zipper at the side that he hadn’t noticed; she undid it for him.

He dipped his face to kiss the center of her chest, then lifted his head again, looking seriously into MJ’s receptive, unswerving stare.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole. You realize that, right?”

Slowly, he felt her hook her feet securely behind his calves, neck lifting gracefully from the bed as she did so. Always watching his eyes.

“Works for me,” MJ said. “Though that is going to make it a lot more difficult to feel like I’m alone in this hotel room.”

She grinned and he dove into it, kissing her enthusiastically and rocking his hips into hers. Peter shoved his shiny black shoes off with the toes of his opposite feet while using his hands to wriggle the top of her dress down to her waist. With a tremulous breath he hoped wasn’t the beginnings of regret, MJ helped him out of his dress shirt and tossed it unceremoniously aside. He didn’t look away to see if the article even made it over the edge of the bed.

And that was as far as they got, the both of them topless, when MJ felt around for her clutch and extracted a condom that had been intended for another guy’s erection. His excitement was momentarily quelled. As she passed it to him, chucking her purse away, Peter glanced at the wrapper before tearing it open. Good news: it wasn’t some inferiority-complex-inducing jumbo size. He exhaled slowly through his nose in relief and gazed at the peaked nipples of her bare breasts as he unzipped himself, pushed his boxers out of the way, and rolled the condom on. MJ hiked the hem of her dress up her thighs, the entire swishy length now just a fold of fabric around her hips, shimmering softly in the yellow light of the hotel room.

Peter dug his nose beneath her jaw and felt between her thighs with an eager hand. The room was snugly still around them, the sound of his own breathing in his ears. MJ gave a little gasp and dropped her legs wider at his touch. Her underwear felt lacy and―more germane―wet. He groaned and hauled the lingerie down her legs, stretching and wrenching instead of patiently asking for her to lift her hips, unbend her knees.

His fingers returned to her, dipping into her wetness and rubbing it up over her clit until her thighs gave a tremble. He kissed gradually down her throat. Laying her hands on his shoulders, MJ ran them across to the back of his neck. Peter traced a teasing circle around her entrance with the tip of his middle finger and, abruptly, her hand was gripping his hair.

“This isn’t a slow dance, Peter,” she told him, chin tipped up to unconsciously mirror how she’d pulled his head back. Her other hand wove down and found Peter’s wrist, forcing his finger inside her. “We aren’t making memories.”

He laughed, appreciating her bluntness, and raked a hand through his dishevelled hair the second she released it.

“I guess I just normally―”

“I don’t care.” MJ smiled. “Just be the hot Best Man and I’ll be a friend of the bride, ‘cause that’s what it seems like we both need. If you can’t do that, then get on your back and I’ll do it for you.”

Peter laughed again and bit at her neck―lightly, then harder as he felt her sink into the plush comforter they hadn’t bothered to turn down. When she moaned and bucked slightly to get his finger (positioned by her) moving, Peter curled it inside her and kissed her mouth to swallow some of the sound that was making his blood so hot.

“No, you’re definitely staying on your back,” he muttered against her lips.

MJ just nodded lazily, eyes shut, when he added another finger and pumped them faster. Her grip twisted gently around his wrist and Peter’s eyes nearly rolled back imagining the same motion on his dick. He didn’t know her―not ‘that well,’ but know her, period―but he was sure it was exactly what she wanted him to imagine.

He watched her stretch a hand over her head and grasp the edge of the mattress, fingers sneaking between it and the headboard. Kissing her hard, Peter hooked his fingers into her twice more, then withdrew his hand (she moved hers to the back of his neck). Arousal smeared her thigh as he clutched it and nudged his cock against her entrance, pressing inside when the angle felt right.

A little while for him and, for her, the first time in years with a new partner. They both had something to get used to and they both started off gasping, quickly rearranging their limbs to hold each other closer as Peter sunk deeper. A quick squeeze from MJ’s legs tangling around the back of his jerked him all the way inside her and she immediately bore down with her hips like she could pin him there from underneath. The forcefulness of it was hot. Liz had never been very… but no, they weren’t bringing their exes into this. Not into this hotel room, not into this bed.

Peter wrapped his arm all the way around MJ, stretching beneath her back to grasp her ribcage with firm fingers. He resisted slipping his other hand into her hair because it would demolish whatever remained of the braid that suited her so well; instead, he braced his forearm on the bed and cupped her bare shoulder in his palm. The heat and friction of the two of them moving against each other was raising the scent of whatever MJ had massaged into her skin to make it so soft. He inhaled deeply, tracing his lips down to her collarbone to leave a lingering kiss. With his arms bound up by her body and his legs increasingly swayed by the guiding action of hers, Peter went to rapid work with his hips.

Panting and groaning, MJ was as collaborative as she was combative―dragging him in with her legs and rocking her hips fiercely in pursuit of pleasure―and he wasn’t sure at all that she’d really surrendered, despite remaining on her back. But that wasn’t really what he wanted, was it? Wedding hookups, by whatever definition of them existed, were supposed to be easy, and yet Peter wanted a second go-round. Wanted to see her lotion lined up with her hair products and her makeup by the sink in the en suite when he brushed his teeth.

He inhaled and gave his head a small shake. This wasn’t his hotel room and MJ wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t looking for that. He wasn’t looking for that. Ugh, he couldn’t think about this anymore.

Peter struggled to find a good moment to change positions and ended up just flipping them while she continued to writhe. He thought it was reluctance to put too much space between their groins, but, on his back and tossing a curl of hair off his forehead, he was staggered when MJ progressed to torturously drawn-out rises and falls of her hips. Obviously unembarrassed to be suddenly astride a near-stranger, she’d pressed her palms to his chest for leverage as she eased herself up and down.

“Not a slow dance,” he groaned, hips bucking pleadingly each time she withdrew. But it felt deliriously good and Peter smoothed his hands somewhat possessively up her thighs.

“What,” she panted, tugging the pooling skirt of her dress out of the way as she rode him, “do you have to give a speech or something?”

Peter laughed, just once―it was all he could spare the oxygen for, huffing to thrust up into her.

“I do, actually. But Betty scheduled everything to the minute. The speeches don’t start until nine.”

“Lots of time,” MJ decided, jerking forward and back on his lap, so incredibly tight around him after months of his fingers and palm.

“Mmm,” Peter agreed. He slid his hands a little higher and started trying to intertwine their fingers.

She shook him off, returning her hands to his chest, and glanced briefly down and away.

“Not that we’re going to take long.”

“No.”

What could he do but agree? He exhaled, chest falling beneath her hands, wanting to tumble MJ down on top of him. She gave him a look and he thought it might’ve been because he wasn’t totally convincing (spending the night with her would be nice!) and he held her gaze until her eyes appeared panicked. Too intense, he told himself. Then Peter elbowed her wrists aside to collapse her onto his body, rolling them to land on top of her again.

“You’ve got good form,” he joked, slamming his hips forward so he struck deep, making her mouth open in a silent scream, “but you just take too goddamn long.”

“Show me how it’s done then, Best Man,” MJ shot back when she could get the words out.

With an eager grin, Peter pounded into her like he’d warned her he would. She didn’t try to trade places, or even voice a request to do so, too busy sucking in air each time he drove forward. Keeping himself on his elbows, he groped her breasts. Pinching her nipples made MJ speak his name in a high whine―“Peter”― that exhilarated him into a faster pace with his hips. He slid easily in and out of her slick channel, beginning to tremble with the feeling.

Meeting his wild thrusts, MJ reached up again, planting her palm against the headboard. Peter had to move one hand off her chest just to stroke down the underside of her arm. Her mouth quirked up in an unfamiliar expression; he realized what he’d done tickled her. To distract himself from wanting things he couldn’t, shouldn’t, have, Peter dropped his mouth to the center of her chest. He kissed her sternum before tracing his tongue over to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She let out a small scream and clenched fleetingly around his dick.

“Can you get off like this?” he mumbled, barely lifting his mouth from her, hips hastening.

MJ just nodded rapidly and closed her eyes. Maybe Peter watched her expression a second too long, because the question of whether she was imagining that he was Brad right now entered his mind. He still moved his hips, but he was numb until her free hand suddenly gripped his hair (fair, for her to wreck his carefully gelled down hair after his actions had made a mess of her braid). He almost laughed in relief and lowered his head to bite her nipple. He’d only seen the jerk for a few seconds, but Peter remembered Brad’s straight hair, shorter than his own. MJ could only be thinking of him, Peter, as her fingers loosened the curls he’d flattened with product to look more… what? Sophisticated or something, for the bridal party.

For these seconds, as her back arched, trapping his hand between them (not that he minded in the slightest), and MJ called out Peter’s name, she’d forgotten. Like he’d promised her. Fulfilling that promise was so monumental in his mind as his thrusts turned sloppy and he lost himself in her, that he nearly repeated the thought aloud. Luckily, he managed to turn it into a gravelly grunt, delivering forceful final thrusts that shook her beneath him; MJ’s arm had gone limp in her bliss, no longer bracing her against the headboard. Those arms folded around the back of his neck as he slowed to a stop and let himself―just for a minute―rest on top of her.

“My hair is totally fucked,” she murmured against his forehead.

Peter laughed weakly and kissed MJ’s neck, then, with a crease between his eyebrows, drew himself out of her.

“Not to mention my dress,” she sighed as he stumbled a bit on jellified legs into the bathroom to toss the condom.

He fumbled with hitching his boxers and dress pants up and swung the door partly shut for a minute to splash cool water on his face before confronting his expression. Dazed. But would the guests―would Ned and Betty―suspect sex dazed? His gaze shifted up to his hair. Oh right. Yeah, that was probably a giveaway. Peter gave fixing his hair a half-hearted attempt, then left the bathroom, stretching his arms back and his chest forward.

MJ’s gaze was waiting for him. Probably not waiting for the proudly (if accidentally) displayed flex of his stomach and arms, but it seemed like it went over well; her mouth fell open. It had to be retaliation when she raised her hips from the mattress and pushed her bunched up dress down her legs to lie there totally nude. Then, she sat up, stood, and strode past him into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a I know exactly what I’m doing to you smirk. She shut the door and Peter had to mentally get a hold of himself so he wouldn’t walk straight into it like a lovesick idiot and break his nose.

He found his shirt on the floor, looking like a used tissue―it was riddled with an impossible number of creases. Peter sighed and went to the hall closet where hotels always tucked the iron and ironing board. The wrinkles came out easily and he hung it on the back of the chair at the neat, untouched desk, pacing unhurriedly as he waited for MJ to emerge from the bathroom. She was probably trying to salvage her braid. No point in throwing his shirt on until they were ready to go. Assuming she’d want to head back at the same time. Shit, he was overthinking this again.

Peter caught sight of MJ’s crumpled ball of an outfit as he turned and figured he might as well iron her dress while he had the stuff out. His gaze also fell on her lacy black underwear, which he did not approach, for fear of sneaking them into his pants pocket (she’d know―one look and she’d know). He assessed the fabric, letting it slip sweetly between his fingers, then laid it across the ironing board and draped a clean towel (also in the hall closet) on top to protect it from the iron.

Exiting the bathroom as casually as she’d entered it, MJ went first to the bed; she collected and stepped into her underwear. Which was not really dressed enough for Peter’s dick not to care. His jaw tensed. The moment she spun towards him, the situation (his situation) was diffused. She laughed.

“You’re ironing?”

Peter shrugged, continuing to smooth the iron across the towel.

“You were right about your dress. It was pretty fucked and I wanted you to feel good walking back in there.”

She appeared taken aback, but maybe in a good way, a surprised way, dropping her eyes to the floor and smiling to herself. When she glanced up again, she was trying to conceal the softened expression, rubbing a thumb over her eyebrow. Her hair looked good, he noticed. Not as tidy as it had been, but the escaped strands that waved around her face… they looked… well, then looked… Peter swallowed and quit staring.

“I steamed the dress at home and changed into it here,” she offered, crossing her arms over her naked chest. With her wide stance, she looked way more at ease than he felt. “The material’s kind of delicate, so you have to be caref―”

“I’m being careful,” Peter assured her. “My aunt taught me to iron, like, a decade ago.”

“Oh.”

“You’re surprised,” he noted with a grin.

He watched her back up and sit on the end of the bed.

“I’ve never had a man iron my clothes.” She snorted. “I would’ve been so shocked if Brad had ever…” MJ’s expression fell and her eyes flicked to his. “Is it ok if I say his name?”

Peter gave an awkward shrug and shifted the dress to iron the last foot or so. Too awkward. She sighed heavily.

“Peter, we should talk.”

“Hey,” he interrupted in a cheerful tone, “I’m just the Best Man and you’re a friend of the bride.”

“It’s too soon.” MJ laughed humourlessly. “It’s way too soon. Neither of us needs… this.”

Which instantly made him feel like he needed this. Because he’d forgotten everything with one glimpse of the woman in the dress like melted copper.

“I think this is just about done,” Peter said, shamelessly trying to divert her from speaking any harsher truths by drawing attention back to the dress. He set the iron aside, unplugged it, whisked away the towel. Everything was fine.

“I don’t mean this to be condescending,” she said, gently and absolutely not distracted, “but you might not know what it’s like to end a serious relationship. I don’t regret what you and I just did, but I know that, after ending things with Brad, having time to be by myself is vital, Peter. I don’t want you to feel―”

“I was engaged.”

The room was quiet, apart from the faint hiss of the cooling iron.

“Yeah,” Peter confirmed, though she hadn’t said anything. “I was engaged to my last serious girlfriend. Maybe you know Liz Allan?” He met her eye and MJ didn’t say anything. “She’s friends with Betty too. Obviously RSVPed ‘no’ to this particular occasion. It’s been more than a year since we were together, but… There were a lot of reasons.”

“For me and Brad too.” She sighed and he felt like it had come from his own lungs, releasing some tension. “Though it always feels like just one in the moment you break up.”

He nodded and glanced at the dress, then at her. MJ stood and walked over to him. Peter held her dress out to her, zipping it up along her side with intimate care as she got the straps to lie where she wanted them.

“You did an incredible job,” she said, inspecting the length of fabric once again draping her body. “Thank you.” The strength of his desire to tell her she deserved to be taken care of ached in his chest. “Come here,” MJ insisted. Peter was powerless.

With a wry smile, she lifted her hands to his hair, combing the sides between her fingers and pushing the front off his forehead.

“That’s better.”

He chuckled.

“Well, it couldn’t get any worse.”

They went back to the reception together, MJ holding the door open for him with an, “After you, Best Man.” She looked absolutely stunning and, if there were any Leeds cousins around, Peter didn’t notice them.

The two of them danced once or twice, then more when the less committed wedding guests headed to bed. Somehow, Peter and MJ weren’t among them and, with fewer partners in the room and on the floor, it was easy to drift together over and over. Eventually, they just stayed that way, exchanging calm smiles with Betty and Ned until the happy couple left too.

“I didn’t mean never,” MJ whispered when it was just them in the empty banquet hall.

The DJ was off the clock and they’d switched over to music from their combined playlists. Heart thudding, Peter held her closer.

“I know. I can wait.” After a minute, he added, “I’m pretty sure you’re what I was waiting for anyway.”

MJ leaned her head into his as he swayed them.

“You wanna go back to my room? We might as well sleep together in the less exciting sense and I’ll count today as one big exception.”

Peter grinned, leaning into her in turn and settling in for a little while longer.

“Come on, MJ. Give me one more slow dance.”