Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.

You knew about the man behind the mask.

You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.

Webbing.

It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.

Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.

“Peter—”

His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.

The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.

The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.

“Stay back.”

You didn’t.

You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”

A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”

His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”

“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”

Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.

“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”

You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.

“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.

“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”

He cut himself off, throat working.

Peter moved.

Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.

“Get out.”

The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”

You stayed exactly where you were.

“I’m not scared of you.”

A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.

“Liar.”

Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.

“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”

Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.

Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”

You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”

The admission landed heavy between you.

For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.

“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”

He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.

“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”

His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.

“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.

“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”

The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.

Peter’s control was slipping by the second.

And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.

He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.

“Say it again.”

“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”

Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.

Peter went still.

Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.

“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”

He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”

His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.

“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”

The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.

“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”

You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

Peter’s eyes went completely black.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”

He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.

Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.

A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.

“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”

His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.

Peter Parker was gone.

What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.

He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.

Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.

“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”

The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.

When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.

Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”

He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.

Why would he?

One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.

Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.

“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”

He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.

“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”

The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.

Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.

“Tell me you still want this.”

“I want you.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.

The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.

Then he moved.

He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”

You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.

“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”

The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.

Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.

There was no pretense that you were in control.

Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”

One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.

Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.

“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”

The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.

“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”

His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.

Your strength gave out all at once.

You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.

Then the change happened.

You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.

Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.

“Oh my god.”

His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.

“I—what did I just do to you?”

Peter’s hands were careful now.

He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”

He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.

You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.

When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.

The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.

For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”

The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.

When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.

“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”

His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”

You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.

“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”

Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”

You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.

“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”

Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.

The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.

You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.

It's just a normal day in his life, boring even - until it isn't anymore. You become friends rather quickly, and as time passes by, you start flirting with each other. It's nothing serious at first. John doesn't even know if he's ready to start a new relationship, but it's getting more and more obvious to everyone around the both of you.

Even Dorian points it out on multiple occasions. He mentions how John's heart rate increases as soon as you enter the room or every time anyone says your name. John acts like it's nothing, but Dorian's right, and deep down, John knows it.

That's when he starts background checks about you. To him, you are perfect. Not flawlessly perfect, but perfectly imperfect. He adores your eyes, your smile, your personality, even your quirks.

He's relieved when your background come back clear. He isn't really surprised, but his mind still tells him to be cautious. His heart, on the other hand, already tells him to go for it. 

It might be almost unexpected for you when he finally makes the move and asks you out. You're close friends and all, but he always seems to keep his distance. You don't take it personally,  though. You know about everything he's been through. It had been all over the news for weeks.

John won't plan anything too fancy for your first date. He's pretty old-school and casual, after all. He'll take you to a restaurant, maybe a place where you can get Asian noodles, or to the cinema.

He doesn't have expectations or anything, he just wants to spend some quality time with you and get to know you better.

Your first date is almost perfect. You're at an Asian restaurant, talk and laugh, and have lots of fun. Afterward, he takes you home, being old-school and all.

When the two of you reach your front door, there's an awkward silence and you don't know if it's the right moment to kiss him already. 

You're attracted to him, both mentally and emotionally. But you don't want to rush it. And he doesn't want that either. So he hugs you. A bit too tight and also a little too long. He doesn't kiss you, though. You're a bit disappointed, but you understand him.

On your second date, you go to the cinema to watch a movie. It's an action film you don't even like that much but John's face is it all worth it. He's obsessed with the fight scenes and the expensive cars.

His wide smile and sparkling eyes could light up the whole cinema hall. He can't believe you're there with him, still by his side, and that he can share his interests with you.

You keep admiring his beautiful face profile next to you. During the final battle of the movie, you both grab the armrest between you, and it's unexpectedly pleasant when his hand finds yours.

Just like after the first date, he takes you home again. You reach your doorstep, and as you say your goodbyes, he pulls you in for a tight hug. And then, when you least expect it, he lets you go just far enough so he can look at you. He admires your face, your eyes, your lips, and your smile.

That's when he kisses you for the first time. He's almost a little clumsy for a few seconds but he puts his whole heart into it, finally being able to let his guard down and express all those suppressed feelings.

You can't help but kiss him back, fiercely. From this moment on, you two feel closer to each other than ever. One of his hands finds the small of your back while the other caresses your cheek. Things get heated and you're separating from him just long enough to gasp for air. Then you invite him in, but he politely declines.

You trust him with your life and crave him, his body, his soul. But you want to give him all the time he needs. 

It takes him until your third or fourth date until he invites you into his apartment. You're excited to finally see where he lives and you enjoy spending the evening together. You're with him on his couch, watching the movie you chose. John sips on his bourbon, and you're nipping on your favorite drink.

Halfway through the film, you both start making out. At first, it's a glance. Then a touch, followed by kisses. Things get heated - again - and before you know it, you're taking off each other's clothes while you're still kissing. Your hands exploring each other's body.

None of you holds back this time until you're left in your underwear, now fumbling with his belt buckle. That's when he gets insecure for a moment. He trusts you just like you trust him, but a part of him is still scared of showing you his synthetic leg for the first time. He barely can accept it himself - so how could you?

But you assure him it's all right and that you can stop if he doesn't feel comfortable. You give him a tender smile, your his face in your hands and your face in his.

John barely thinks about it for half a second, your loving eyes being all the reassurance he needs. His iconic smirk returns to his face, and he immediately grabs your hip, pulling you into his embrace.

John still doesn't know if he believes in love at first sight, but he does know that he loves you with all his heart - and that you genuinely love him, too.

It was even harder seeing how deep those scars go once you two began your relationship. It took awhile for Eren to help you understand that his love for you wasn't transactional. It wasn't conditional. It didn't depend on the size of clothes you wore, or how many achievements you could tack onto your resume. That you didn't have to walk on eggshells every waking moment just to make sure you didn't misstep. He just loves you. You're still learning that, and trying to show him the very same kind of deep and unyielding love for him.

Even so, Eren has his mom. Carla has been able to show him nothing but pure and unconditional love from before he can remember - a stark contrast from Grisha. He was able to start healing and separating himself from that toxicity from a young age, and hasn't really spoken to him since. Your situation is different - both parents, both different yet similar brands of harshness, both still in contact.

It's complicated. He knows it is. You've even said it yourself.

Doesn't stop him from being so, so gentle with you. From waking up every morning ready to protect you and remind you how much he loves you. It started like that from the very first minute he lay eyes on you, when he knew instantly how much he was going to love you, to now, and every moment to come.

So when your parents kept insisting they had to meet him, Eren tried to convince you that it wasn't that important. That they could try and do this over FaceTime first, test the waters a little bit.

You honestly didn't want to share him with them at all. He's such a sacred part of your life, something so good and pure and wonderful. You're scared that if he sees where you come from, just how bad it can get with them, he'll leave.

You're always terrified that you'll scare him off.

You tell him so one night, as you're wringing your hands together, panicking after yet another passive aggressive text about meeting Eren. It stresses you out more and more every time.

Eren doesn't say anything at first. Just wraps you up in his arms. Pulls you against his warmth. Cradles you against his broad chest, stroking every part of you he can reach with a featherlight touch.

"Baby," he croons, "there's nothing you could show me that could scare me off."

Your stomach swoons every time he calls you that. Can't be helped. He giggles a little at the stutter in your breathing with the pet name, but doesn't poke fun at you just now.

"You're already so goddamn patient with me," you whisper shakily, his name for you unable to sway you from anxiety, "I just don't--"

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, "I will always love you. I just want you to feel safe and happy, and I'll do everything I can to make you feel that way. Got that?"

Despite the tears filling your eyes, you smile bashfully and hide your face in his neck, leaving thankful and affectionate kisses all over his warm skin.

Okay, so maybe you could do this. You have Eren.

During

After much hounding from your parents, you and Eren find yourselves standing outside the door of your parent's house. You've got a plate of brownies in one hand and Eren in the other. He runs his thumb over your knuckles rhythmically in a way that grounds you. In his other hand, he holds a bouquet of flowers for your mom, ever the gentleman. Carla raised him right.

Everyone's all smiles at first. Eren's impressed; he knows how scared you are, how nervous, but you're putting up a good front. But the more he thinks about it, the more your skill at hiding how you're feeling makes him sad. You've clearly had a lot of practice.

Your parents are showing the good parts of them. You've explained to Eren how there are good memories with them; they can be so loving, so kind. And right now, they're welcoming you home and Eren into their lives with open and loving arms. They're asking Eren all kinds of questions about his life and his interests. Asking about your relationship, how you met, things like that.

It starts to fall apart during dinner.

Eren can see that you've gotten a little more comfortable. Your shoulders aren't as tense, breaths coming a little easier. It's easy for him to understand why you're at war with yourself constantly over how you feel about them.

Then somehow everyone ends up on the subject of something you're passionate about. Eren, for one, is thrilled. Watching you talk about the things you love is one of his favorite activities. Your eyes light up in the most breathtaking way, and your smile is downright infectious. He could listen to you for hours.

"Oh boy, here we go," your mom sighs from one end of the table.

Just like that the spell is broken. Eren has a front row seat as he watches your face fall, your voice cutting off into heavy silence. Your brows knit together as you look down at your plate.

"You're obsessing again," your dad adds with a patronizing laugh.

Eren looks up and in between your parents. They laugh, looking at him as though trying to include him in whatever sick joke they think they're making.

He looks back at you. You're masking it for now, but your hands are clenched in the tightest fists he's ever seen under the table. He reaches under the table and takes the hand closest to him, and ever so gently, tries to coax your fingers open. Trying to get you to let him in.

"Sorry," you say with a self-deprecating laugh, "I know I can get carried away."

Eren's heart shatters. He doesn't know how many times you said this, mostly in the beginning of your relationship and in group settings. You're always so convinced that no one wants to hear you talk, so you end up apologizing for it.

Now he sees it. Where it comes from.

Schooling his face into a friendly expression despite his rage, he squeezes your hand, saying, "No, keep going, I love hearing you talk."

"Nah, it's okay," you shrug nonchalantly, before changing the subject.

The way you're squeezing his hand begs him to drop it. So he does.

But then it keeps going.

You reach for a second helping of something, and your mom says, "How are you still hungry?"

You don't end up getting that second helping.

You make a joke about something, wrinkling your nose in that cute little way he loves so much.

"Yeah, don't tell your coworkers that one," your dad adds in.

Eren has to watch your beautiful face fall.

You're talking about how many long hours you've worked recently, how tired you are.

Cutting you off, your mom jumps in about how hard she works. Very much indicating there's no way you can be more tired than her.

Eren sees you breaking under the weight of it all. His sweet, fiery, passionate girl, reduced to whatever palatable version of you your parents find acceptable. They've tried to make poking fun at you a bonding activity ever since he stepped into their home, and despite his stone faced reactions, they just keep going.

He has to get you out of here. His protective instincts are raging at him to just get you out.

But your mom insists on pictures. So you pose together. Full group picture first. Then one of you and Eren. Eren tries to pour every ounce of love he has into the way he holds you, but he can feel you shaking. He wants to scream, but he pastes a smile on his face instead.

Then it happens.

"TTI, sweetie."

What the fuck? What does that mean?

Then, like a soldier responding to a command, he feels you suck in your soft tummy to the point where he wonders if it's painful.

"Sorry, what does that mean?"

Eren tries to ask in what he hopes is a joking manner, but you can hear the barely suppressed anger just underneath.

"Tuck Tummy In," your mom explains with a lighthearted smile, "now smile--"

"Why would you say that to her?"

He doesn't even try to hide his outrage this time. Eren, a normally very expressive person, has spent the entire night burying his need to put the people hurting you in their place. Now he's had it.

"Eren, it's fine--"

"No, it's not," he seethes, curling his fingers around your waist in a vice grip.

Your parents are silent. No one's ever called them out like this before. You've tried to have discussions with them in the past about things like this, approaching it in a very calm, polite manner, but it always ended badly.

"There's nothing she has to fix about herself to look drop dead gorgeous for a picture. Nothing."

"It's just something we say--"

"Not anymore it's not. Not when I'm here."

You're ready for the yelling to start. You flinch, curling yourself closer into Eren's side. A kneejerk reaction cultivated by years of emotionally volatile parenting. Eren tightens his arm around you. He might be ready to go to war on your behalf, but he's gonna make sure you feel safe at the same time.

Your dad steps forward, a self righteous glare on his face as he looks at Eren.

"You don't speak to my wife that way--"

"Oh, you mean the way you've spoken to your daughter the entire night?"

Heavy silence fills the room. Eren worries that he's gone too far, but then he feels you press even closer to him. If you were upset, you'd be putting distance between you two.

Your parents look at you, expecting you to come to their defense, but you don't. You won't.

"He's r-right," you whisper shakily, "I've told you before how the kinds of things you've said tonight make me feel."

Then, like clockwork, your mom gets misty eyed. Your dad gets stern, condescending, and loud.

"I just wanted a nice night."

"Look at how you made your mother feel."

"I guess we're just the worst parents."

"We'll talk about everything soon," you murmur politely, reaching down to lace your fingers together, "but Eren and I are going home now. Thank you for dinner."

As you go to lead Eren out of there, he tugs you to a stop. You turn and look at him quizzically, wondering what else he could possibly say to them (not that you're complaining). He gives you the sweetest of smiles, the one he reserves just for you. It's the one that says, Don't worry baby. I've got you.

"Since we've already gone there, might as well add some things for the record," he says as he turns around to face them, his hand still holding yours.

"Number 1, it's a goddamn privilege to listen to her talk about anything she wants. For as long as she wants. Anyone who's in the room when she decides to share her passion should count themselves lucky."

Tears gather in your eyes. The happiest of tears.

"Number 2, there are days when I barely see her eat a thing. Those are the days she tries to make herself as small as possible, shrink in on herself. Today was a good day. You took that from her and you should be fucking ashamed."

You start to smile, so in love with this man. Even as your dad starts to raise his voice at Eren's cursing.

"Number 3," Eren says assertively, silencing him, "her belly, the one you shame her for, is one of my favorite parts about her."

Your parents are silent. They stare at Eren in shock, not daring to believe someone could call them out on behaviors they've refused to acknowledge for so long.

Eren turns back to you, green eyes shining with love, and says, "Ready to go?"

You nod. He wraps an arm around you to tug you into him, and leads you out of the warzone.

After

When you and Eren first get in the car, doors slamming shut behind you, he's instantly apologetic.

"I'm so sorry, I let my emotions get the best of me. I never should've gone that far--"

You cut his words off by kissing him, trying to pour every bit of gratitude and love into the way your lips move against his.

The kiss ends, but you stay close to him, resting your forehead against his.

"I'm gonna have a hard time tonight," you warn, your entire body trembling with the emotional aftershock of your confrontation. Once the adrenaline wears off it'll be even worse.

"I know," he whispers, kissing your nose lightly, "it's okay. I'd be more worried if it wasn't."

He goes to pull away so he can start the drive home, his protectiveness ever pushing him to get you to a safe place, but you stop him. You place both hands on his face to bring him back to you, kissing him softly again. You open your eyes, meeting the vivid green of his, and you fall even more in love with him.

"Thank you. For keeping me safe."

"I'd do anything for you."

He says it so simply. So factually. He leans forward to kiss you once more, then finally tears makes himself pull away so he can start the car.

As Eren starts the drive down the sleepy residential street, he keeps one hand on your knee, making smoothing circles on your skin. You grab his hand and bring it to your mouth, kissing his loving fingers, before setting it down again.

"I love you so much," you say.

"Love you more," he answers.

*******

And that night is bad.

The hurt sets in and pulls you under. Your self-esteem, already so fragile, seems to break apart from under you. You feel meaningless and empty.

That's what happens when the people who're supposed to love you the most reduce you to a shell of a person. When they work tirelessly to smother every part of what makes you you. When they dampen that fire that keeps you going, gives you purpose.

It's what they've been doing all your life.

But now you have Eren.

The darkness doesn't feel as all encompassing as it has before. He doesn't let you isolate yourself, knowing it's your self-destructive instinct to do so. Eren keeps you close to him, the best comfort there could possibly be.

He gets you out of the clothes you trapped yourself in to impress them, getting you into a hot shower with him so he can wash your hair for you. He holds you close under the hot stream of water, kissing every inch of your skin he can reach.

Afterwards, Eren dresses you in the most comfortable clothes he can think of. The ones he's seen you happiest in. It just so happens to be one of his t-shirts and a clean, comfortable pair of underwear.

Eren doesn't think he's ever seen you more beautiful.

He curls up with you on the couch, turning on your favorite comfort show to try and distract you. He holds you as close as he can, enveloping you in gentle touches and soft words.

You don't have the words to process everything that happens tonight. Eren doesn't expect you to. He just holds you, showing you how much he loves you. How much he values you. How he can't live without you.

As you climb into bed with him that night, Eren sees you poking at your belly, mouth twisting in distaste.

He reads you better than anyone in the world. Even in the darkness of your bedroom, he can feel how unhappy you are. He can practically hear the hurtful words you hurl at yourself in your head.

So he rolls on top of you, settling himself so you're nose to nose. You look up at him with big eyes, and Eren can't help but smile. He leans down and kisses you.

"You're so gorgeous, y'know that?"

You roll your eyes, and you open your mouth, ready to brush off his statement. But he keeps going.

"I'm so serious," he says with a laugh, "I can't even pick which part of you I love the most."

He bends down to kiss you again, his unbound brown strands acting as a curtain for both of you.

"There's this part," he murmurs as he kisses you again.

"Then there's this part," he whispers, bending down farther to kiss your neck. You sigh, reaching up to weave your fingers through his soft hair.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to your collar bone, whispering against your skin. You can't even process what he's saying anymore. The way he kisses you is enough to make every thought leave your brain.

Then somehow he's slithered down to where his face is level with your stomach. You pull it in self-consciously, trying to tug him back up to eye level, but he stubbornly stays right where he is.

"Now right here," he murmurs huskily as he lifts your shirt, "is my absolutely favorite part of you, pretty girl."

Eren's not lying. He's shown how much he loves your tummy before. He wraps his long fingers around your waist on either side, dipping his head to kiss the soft skin he loves so much.

You simply lay back and let him love you, tired of fighting it tonight. You revel in the way he adores you so honestly, so openly, so unconditionally.

Both of you know it'll never be easy, not with your histories. But Eren showed tonight that he's willing to march into battle for you to keep you safe, to prove to you how important you are.

You love him. He loves you. Even when your family makes you doubt your worth, that'll never change.

***

Writing this was like therapy. Hope it was okay <3

And Arizona’s love life is, for the first time in a long time, super awesome. She and Callie are stronger than ever, going into their relationship with better boundaries, coping mechanisms, communication skills, and understandings of each other. What hasn’t changed is the easy chemistry, laughter, and palpable, mutual attraction Arizona and Callie always seemed to share. Originally, Arizona had rented the apartment across the hall from Callie’s, but once her year-long lease was up, she, Callie, and Sofia, now a proper family again, made themselves comfortable in the far-more-spacious penthouse, with surprisingly low rent. Well, it was surprising until they found out that Carlos Torres of Torres Enterprises had ventured into Manhattan real-estate. He wanted nothing but the best for his Calliope, but Arizona doesn’t believe in handouts, so they pay a fair but below market-price rent for the four bedroom apartment. Between visits from Amelia and Teddy with Scout and Allison, Callie’s pleading looks, and her surprising ability to sic Sofia on the baby train, Arizona got on board. Callie and Arizona are in the process of becoming registered foster parents, as well as putting applications in with a few adoption agencies. 

When they realized that the fostering/adoption process would be much simpler if they were married, Callie popped the question (it was her turn, after all) during dinner at a three Michelin star restaurant. Callie had previously made a list of all the restaurants in New York she wanted to try, and although Arizona is a far less intrepid eater, she’s been holding her own on the adventure. Arizona said yes, not that it was even a question. After all, they’re Callie and Arizona, the great love story. They’re meant to be. Callie and Arizona had a quiet (legally-binding!) ceremony at their local courthouse with Sofia, but plan to have a destination wedding in Spain with the whole GSM gang once COVID travel restrictions lighten up. Sofia, a genius like both her moms and her dad, got to skip fourth grade and is loving fifth grade. She’s really excited for middle school, regularly claiming she’s all grown up now, but she’ll always be her moms’ baby girl no matter how many grades she skips or how old she gets. She has weekly FaceTime calls with Zola on her brand new phone. Arizona was staunchly against it, as The Colonel’s daughter, but seeing as Sofia took the subway on her own, Callie talked her into it.

Callie and Arizona keep up with all of their Grey-Sloan Memorial friends, past and present, but are definitely thankful to have gotten away from the drama that seemed to follow them around in Seattle. Meredith, aside from her comatose period during her battle with COVID, has done a remarkable job keeping them in the loop, with Maggie filling in when Meredith couldn’t. While Callie and Arizona couldn’t visit Meredith when she was sick, they hounded Bailey and Webber with endless phone calls for progress reports. Bailey was beyond happy to hear that the wedding she officiated ended up in a happy marriage, despite what she referred to as a little bump in the road. Richard is also happy he no longer has to be Arizona’s wingman, but the whole GSM gang still gets together for weekly trivia nights on Zoom every Wednesday, at Richard’s insistence. And whenever Callie gets into a disagreement with her soon-to-be former chief at NY Pres, one reminder that she is a close personal friend of Webber and Bailey seems to end with her getting her way. She promised she wouldn’t use that to her advantage, but she does. Her temper still gets the best of her, but not when it comes to Arizona or Sofia, which is all that really matters to Callie.

Arizona was overjoyed to hear about April’s move thousands of miles closer. She has booked train tickets to Boston for herself, Callie, and Sofia to help with the move. Sofia can distract Harriet, Arizona can be her type-A control freak self and make sure every box is put exactly where she thinks it should be, and she can stare at Callie’s ass while she carries boxes around, so, for Arizona, it’s a win-win-win-win scenario. Her apartment-warming gift to April is a very large Expedia gift card so that she feels obligated to visit Arizona often as she can get away from work. To say Arizona misses the woman she’d never have expected to become her best friend is an understatement.

Alex is still a little bitter he missed a number of years of the twins’ lives, but Arizona is helping him through that and he and Izzie are doing well. He’s, of course, the star at their dump truck Kansas hospital (not that Arizona would ever use that characterization to his face), having been Arizona’s protégé for all these years. He still calls Arizona when he needs to make a plan for a complicated case. Sometimes the cases he calls Arizona about aren’t all that complicated, but both Alex and Arizona know it’s Alex Karev’s way of checking in and catching up. He isn’t one to admit to calling people just to chat.

Cristina is hoping to make a trip out to see her god-daughter, who she still refers to as a chicken, when the pandemic restrictions relax. Until then, she and Callie talk every couple weeks, catching up on the latest groundbreaking, kick ass procedure Cristina has brilliantly invented. She says she’s married to her work, but there is a Swiss surgeon at the hospital who seems to be infatuated with Cristina, from what Callie can gather. And it appears to be mutual. Cristina is still not one to gush about boyfriends, but Callie can get bits and pieces in conversation. Every so often, Callie, Arizona, and Sofia get fancy Swiss chocolates in the mail, with a note to keep sending pictures of Aunt Cristina’s little chicken.

Addison has an open invitation to join the Robbins-Herman Center. Arizona even offered to amend the name, but Nicole was none too happy at the prospect of getting her name booted from second to third. But, again, the Robbins-Herman-Montgomery Center makes it sound like they are a man. Addison is still mulling it over, happy with her life, friends, and family in LA, but Callie and Arizona are still trying to wear her down. And Addison still regularly reminds them to thank her for Callie’s gay awakening, She was, after all, the first one to point it out.

“Hi,” you said softly, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Hello, beautiful,” he smiled at you. “Recovered?”

“No,” you mumbled sitting up.

“Why are you getting up then?” Poe asked.

You cocked your head and looked at him with confusion on your features.

“You stay there,” he said. “I’ve brought a fresh glass of water and snacks. And if there’s anything else you need let me know.”

“Poe, you don’t have to,” to argued feebly. “You must be tired too.”

“You know me, I like to feel productive. And that includes taking care of my baby.”

“Snuggle?” you asked, innocently.

“If that’s what you need,” Poe chuckled, kicking off his shoes and climbing under the covers with you.

He made sure to pull the blanket around you as you shifted to lay on his chest, putting your comfort before his own.

“How do you do it?”

“I think about what Leia’s always saying. Hope,” he told you. “And do you know what hope makes me think of?”

You shook your head.

“You. And us. And the endless possibilities that lay ahead of us. One day, all this will be over, we’ll win, and that galaxy will be ours to explore. I can just imagine it. I’ll fix up a ship that’s roomier and cosier that travelling in an x-wing, and you, me and BB8 can go on adventures, see what undiscovered planets are out there.

“Once we’ve seen everything, we’ll know where we want to settle down. We can find a nice quiet place somewhere all to ourselves, and I’ll finally make you Mrs Dameron, and BB8 can be the ring bearer. Then we’ll have kids. We’ll have so many stories to tell them, and so much to teach them,” Poe stopped and sighed.

He looked down at you to see you fast asleep on his chest. Your face was more peaceful than he’d seen it in so long as your drifted in to dreams about the perfect life he had described.