Eddie groans. It’s not that Venom’s wrong. It’s a real nice view. But sordid, sweaty clubs aren’t really Eddie’s thing. Or -- perhaps more accurately: they’re not really Eddie’s thing anymore. Five years ago? Maybe. Ten years ago? Absolutely. These days, he just finds them kind of sad. Like a reminder of his wasted youth spent in places like this, chasing after the high of a nameless hook-up, the addictive rush of being at the mercy of his own reckless desires.
Tonight, Eddie had been minding his own damn business, walking down an albeit shadier street than usual, when he had caught sight of the place. Darkened windows, neon signs. Familiar in its architecture, its design, its promise. He hadn’t even looked all that long.
Long enough, apparently.
All Venom ever needs is a glimpse, a spark from a Eddie’s memories past -- and then he’s intrigued. Then, Eddie’s limbs aren’t his own anymore.
Earth is such a beautiful place.
Venom’s voice is loud, even over the heavy thrum of the bass in his ears, brilliant over the neon lights. Eddie snorts and orders himself a whiskey at the bar, because, again,Venom’s not wrong: it’s a nice view. There are people up on what could be generously called stages in the middle of it all-- men and women alike -- bodies undulating to the music, a sea of people dancing below them, churning and swaying like unsteady waters. Some onlookers have got their eyes up toward the dancers, toward the heavens, glazed over, hypnotized by the movement, by the lights, by the music. By the sheer humanity of it all.
It’s a little cleaner than the clubs Eddie remembers from his youth. Less grim, less disheartening. Much less overtly depressing, honestly.
Kinda less fun though.
But maybe nostalgia is making all of the grime and the drugs and the unsafe sex seem much more shiny and appealing than it has any right to be.
Eddie’s in a better place now. He doesn’t need to yearn for the fevers of his wasted youth.
Even the music’s gotten worse. But, then again, maybe Eddie’s just getting old.
Your memories made this seem much more thrilling.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Eddie breathes into his glass of whiskey. He doesn’t have to talk to Venom out loud, he can kind of do it in his head at this point, but it’s too second nature not to, sometimes. He’s gotten a little better at hiding it in public, though.
He lets his eyes wander a little when Venom quiets down. Or maybe Venom is the one who lets his eyes wander, who makes them roam across the room. It’s not really easy to tell, all the time, who’s in control of what. Sometimes, it’s crystal clear. Others? Not so much. And it usually doesn’t matter -- like now: Eddie is perfectly content to admire the people dancing. And he doesn’t even feel bad about watching: that’s why they’re here, that’s why he’s here. That’s why people come to clubs like this to begin with. To watch, to be watched -- to feel more human.
Or, they come to blow someone in the grimey bathroom because they’re nineteen and all kinds of stupid.
Six of one.
Well -- or, you’re Eddie Brock and you’re giving an alien parasite a whirlwind tour of humanity, completely at the whim of said alien parasite and its greedy cherry-picking of your thoughts.
Get closer, Eddie. Once more into the fray.
“Loser,” Eddie says, “Watching one movie doesn’t make you a cultured parasite.”
He tips back the last of his glass straight down his throat. It burns a little on the way down, but it’s a good kind of burn. The kind that used to promise a bit of a buzz, but doesn’t much anymore, not with Venom around, not unless Eddie drinks a lot. And not unless he asks Venom to specifically let him get fucked up.
Which is kind of a difficult thing to ask for. Not that it stops Eddie, sometimes, but still.
Once he’s out on the floor, Eddie doesn’t so much as dance as simply push himself through the thrum of people, letting them move up against him. It’s nice, being so up close and personal with the heat and sweat of others, even if he isn’t particularly engaging with them. It’s been a while.
Sometimes, it’s easy to let go with Venom riding shotgun at the back of his head. Others, Eddie’s a little more self-conscious. There are some things that Venom just doesn’t get. Eddie figures dancing would be one of them. Eddie hasn’t even really gotten to exploring anything else. Nothing more sordid, more depraved.
Besides. He doesn’t need to dance right now; he’s getting groped enough as it is, just moving through the crowd. He doesn’t really need to pick a partner either and stick with them -- he’s not short attention, out on the floor.
It’s not bad. But it’s not really good, either. Just reminds him that he’s got an itch he’s been wanting desperately to scratch, but hasn’t quite figured out how exactly he wants to go about that.
“You done?” Eddie asks, not bothering to hide his voice. No one else can hear him over the music. With someone behind him trying to reach around and dip their fingers into the waistband of his pants, it’s getting kinda hard to ignore the very human needs he’s been trying his best to forget these past few months. Unfortunately, sometimes, they’re not so easy to dismiss.
He kinda wants out. He kinda wants another drink.
I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
And again, it’s hard to argue. There’s a certain appeal to the dance floor of a club like this. The hot press of others, the near-palpable lust in the air, the stink of sweat and booze all around. The air is heavy with memories, ripe with potential energy.
Well, yeah, Eddie thinks. This kind of thing is a much more enjoyable hands-on experience.
He looks pointedly at a couple nearby who are making out -- and doing much more, hands in places that are not strictly legal for the number of people around. But it looks like they’re having heaps of fun, with the way they’re moving together, with how they’re eating up each other’s noises.
It takes pretty much every ounce of willpower he has to not let Venom reach out and suddenly touch the nearest person. Eddie slams his hands down against his thighs with an audible slap and thinks: No! No touching!
Why not? Those people over there are touching a lot.
You don’t just touch strangers, Eddie thinks, even though it’s not entirely accurate. There’s a nuance to it, a ritual that he doesn’t feel like explaining right now. It’s a whole thing, and Eddie’s not letting Venom loose on the dance floor -- Eddie Brock is the one staying in complete control right now.
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says, pushing his way back out of the crowd and toward the bar again. Where it’s quieter. Where there’s no one for Venom to reach out and touch without permission. “If I get another drink, will you let me enjoy it?”
I’ll think about it.
Eddie rolls his eyes and orders two fingers, neat, because he might as well, if this is what Venom has decided they’re doing with their night. Venom clearly isn’t ready to leave, because whenever Eddie starts trying to make a move for the door, Venom steers him back into the heat of it. Eddie figures he might as well settle in for the long haul.
So, he drinks. And then he orders another.
It’s not hard to find someone to chat up in a place like this.
Not that Eddie ever needs to find someone to chat up. He’s never really alone, these days. Is never wanting for someone to talk to, not when he’s got a voice in the back of his head, sitting pretty on his amygdala.
But -- it is a bar. And when in Rome.
Or -- something.
Eddie doesn’t know. All he knows is that he feels a little bit like he could be lonely, despite the fact that he’s not really one singular entity anymore. He’s still kinda alone -- just with a shadow. A really sentient, chatty shadow with the moral compass of a hookworm. But even though he’s getting used to that, Eddie still doesn’t have human companionship -- and honestly? It’s wearing a little thin.
Venom’s gone quiet, letting Eddie enjoy his drinks, so he lets himself move around a bit, finding a good place to sit and look available. He’s good at that. It’s a practiced skill, looking like he’s easy to talk to. Well-honed. Easy, at this point in his career, in his life.
After a few drinks, Eddie’s rethinking his stance on touching. But only on his terms, and because of his own desires -- not Venom’s. And definitely not on the dance floor, surrounded by people, by distractions.
In the end, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.
Maybe not the best fish, but pickings are sometimes slim at clubs like this. And Eddie didn’t even dress nice tonight: just sweats and a tee, and some ratty sneakers. And, even though he knows he looks good, he knows he’s not as young as he used to be.
That doesn’t stop him, though. Within minutes Eddie’s already waist-deep in some idle chit chat that is clearly going places, with a guy who is good looking enough.
You don’t seem very interested in this conversation.
Venom’s voice is loud in his ear, an annoyed shiver rolling down Eddie’s spine at the sound of it.
That’s because the conversation is the least important part of what’s happening here.
What’s the important part, then?
You’ll see, Eddie thinks, tipping another drink down his throat.
He’s not quite drunk, but he’s a little past tipsy, too, he realizes as he leans into this other guy’s space, unsteady on his feet. Eddie can barely hear him, but that doesn’t really matter, because this guy’s got a wide grin and strong looking hands. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying or how he’s saying it, just that he’s got his meaty fingers on Eddie’s hip and is ordering him another drink.
There’s a spike of warmth in his gut at the touch, at the feeling of someone else’s hands on him. Especially calloused fingers, digging into his hip -- it’s been a while, since Eddie’s had that.
This isn’t too bad.
It’s definitely not too bad.
Eddie knows that Venom can feel the curl of desire inside him, the fire these touches keep stoking. It’s a little strange to share it, to know he’s sharing it -- but that’s not bad, either. Maybe, maybe there’s a little thrill in that, too.
It’s not bad. Just new.
“You wanna get out of here?” The guy asks Eddie, lips so close to Eddie’s ear. Breath warm enough to make him shiver.
Eddie makes a face. The idea of going home with someone is a little much, a little more than he bargained for when he decided to go call it a night after work. He’s only really here because Venom wanted to check the place out. He’s not looking to go home with someone. That’s just so involved.
Besides. He’s kind of longing for the thrill of the old days. The fumbling, the charge of the moment, the danger of getting caught.
“Bathroom?” Eddie suggests.
It’s the guy’s turn to make a face, like hooking up in the bathroom of a club is somehow below him. Eddie just rolls his eyes.
“Alley?” The guy offers, those strong fingers wrapping around Eddie’s wrist to tug him a little closer, to pull him encouragingly toward the door of the club before Eddie can even agree. His grip is tight, bruising.
It sends a thrill down Eddie’s spine.
The word reverberates around him, sinking into his skin, thrumming like the bass of the song currently playing -- but better.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes out, heartbeat picking up. He doesn’t care about anything now, as long as this guy keeps touching him like he owns him.
You like that.
It’s not really a question, but Venom’s curiosity swirls in his ribcage, regardless, a familiar feeling at this point. It had taken a little while to get used to the way Venom feels different things, but Eddie’s mostly got a handle on it, these days.
Can we talk about this later? Eddie thinks, though it’s kind of hard to keep the words straight in his head. They get all jumbled and torn up, but Venom drops it, so Eddie counts it as a win.
The guy gets distracted on the way to the door. Tugs Eddie to the side and shoves him roughly up against the wall. Eddie’s expecting a kiss, but he gets a bite to his neck, instead.
It’s rough and mean and Eddie groans into it, pushing back just to feel the guy shove him again. Eddie lets him, eating up the thrill of it.
There’s another thrum from Venom, the hum of a question around Eddie’s lungs. He knows Venom wants to fight back, wants to push this guy and show him who’s stronger -- but Eddie doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be stronger for once, just wants to let someone push him around a bit.
Yes. This feels good.
“No shit,” Eddie breathes out, rocking up against the guy’s thigh as it slots between his legs.
But no sooner does he start to feel real good than the guy decides to break it off. He pushes himself back and grabs Eddie again, making a beeline for the door after a moment’s hesitation.
Eddie doesn’t even have it in him to argue. He just lets the guy yank him through the crowd, fingers tight around Eddie’s wrist. He probably won’t bruise, because he’s got Venom now, and Venom keeps Eddie from getting too black and blue. It’s kind of a pity, but probably for the best tonight. Eddie doesn’t really need the reminder of this -- admittedly -- stupid and reckless thing he’s about to do.
“Wait,” the guy says, as they get outside to the fresh air. “I just gotta tell my friends where I am.”
He pulls out his phone, but pushes Eddie up against the wall at the same time, slamming him back until Eddie feels the breath knock straight out of him. He slots his knee between Eddie’s thighs and pushes, letting Eddie rock into him like that. Right in front of the club. While he’s texting, basically ignoring Eddie. For the moment, anyway.
Eddie should probably be a little more annoyed. But it’s kinda hot at the same time. He hasn’t been this turned on in months.
Besides, he’s just letting his friends know he’s not been, like, kidnapped or anything. Just getting his dick wet -- BRB.
When do we get to eat him?
Sometimes, it’s really hard to ignore Venom.
No, Eddie thinks, harshly. You don’t get to eat him, oh my god.
Are you sure?
Eddie tries to focus his attention on the way the guy occasionally shoves his body weight against Eddie, making it hurt in just the right away as his hips snap against the solid muscle of his thigh.
He doesn’t even know this guy’s name. Hadn’t even bothered to ask.
It’s been way too long since Eddie’s gotten laid. Way too long since he’s even jacked off, honestly.
“Okay,” the guy says. “Let’s go, babe.”
The alley behind the club is dark and narrow, dingy in the way all back-alleys promise to be. It’s not quite the ambiance of a bathroom that Eddie’s been fantasizing about all night, but it’ll do. The guy pulls him around with those rough fingers around Eddie’s forearm, dropping him only to shove Eddie back with a hand placed straight to Eddie’s sternum, sending him back against the brick wall with a thunk.
I want to eat him.
“No,” Eddie hisses out.
They’re really going to have to talk about boundaries. About times that Venom needs to keep a low profile. Times like now.
“No?” The guy says with a grin, wide and trying for cheshire-like, but missing the mark a little bit. Maybe Eddie’s just been spoiled by Venom on that front. “Too much? You seemed pretty into it inside.”
“Sorry,” Eddie says, chest heaving with his breaths, cock hard enough to ache. “I’m absolutely into it.”
“Good,” the guy says. He steps forward. “Get on your knees.”
Venom is mercilessly quiet when Eddie drops to his knees. He’s quiet as Eddie shuffles forward and gets a palm over the other guy’s groin. He’s quiet, quiet, quiet.
“Is that a gun in your pants,” Eddie says, “or are you just --”
“It’s a gun,” the guy says, shoving Eddie onto his ass with a boot to the gut, pulling out a gun from his waistband.
“Man, really?” Eddie says.
He can’t believe this is happening to him right now. His dick is still hard, even though his sweats are covered in alley-grime and his ego’s got a boot-print right down the center of it.
Can I eat him now?
Venom has the audacity to sound sarcastic and pleased and angry, all at the same time.
“Uh,” Eddie says, feeling like his mind is spinning, trying to switch gears too quickly. His body’s still ready to get off and it’s dragging his thoughts through molasses trying to catch up, trying to make life or death decisions on the fly.
“Hey,” the guy says, impatient. “I’ve got a gun, in case you didn’t notice. Gimme your wallet. And your cell phone, guy.”
Pretty please, Eddie.
And, like, Eddie gets it, though. He understands that sometimes people get put in shitty situations and they need money. He’s probably just in a rough place in life; everybody’s got problems.
The guy probably isn’t even gonna use the gun.
“No,” Eddie says. To both Venom and the guy.
The gunshot echoes loud in the alley, static following deafening in its wake.
Eddie blinks. The gun is pointed to Eddie’s left, at a dumpster. There’s a hole clean through it.
Oh, Eddie thinks, wobbling on his knees a little. So maybe the guy will use the gun, after all.
He can still hear the thrumming bass of club, though. Probably loud enough that the noise won’t attract too much attention. Then again, the neighborhood? Not so great.
“You wanna be a hero today, buddy? Because me and my friends don’t have any problem showing you how we treat heroes.” When Eddie looks to the side, there’s two other guys standing a little ways away, between him and the mouth of the alley, guns pointed charitably at Eddie. “You wouldn’t even be the first person we killed this week.”
“Man, we coulda had a good night,” Eddie says, annoyed.
He starts pushing himself up off the ground.
“Hey!” The guy shouts waving the gun at him. “Get back down. Give me your shit and I won’t shoot you.”
“You would be really stupid to shoot me,” Eddie says.
He can feel the excited ripple of Venom at the base of his spine.
I hope he shoots us. I’m so hungry.
The funny thing is: Eddie kind of is, too.
Mouth watering, teeth feeling a little too sharp.
It happens quickly, because everything always happens quickly with Venom, Eddie’s human reflexes not quite fast enough to keep up.
There’s the crack of a gunshot and then -- nothing.
Or rather -- it’s like Eddie been shoved underwater: which means Venom’s out, surrounding him, blanketing Eddie in everything that he is. It always takes Eddie a moment to reach equilibrium, where he can see through Venom’s eyes, where he can offer up suggestions for movements. The first few seconds are always the most disorienting, like being knocked over by a wave, vision and hearing overwhelmed and overloaded. Like he's weightless, breathless. At Venom’s mercy.
“You shot us,” Venom says. “You shouldn’t have done that,” they say.
The man screams.
He tastes like iron and fear. His bones crunch under their teeth.
Blood drips down their chin and dribbles onto the ground in wet, round, droplets.
His friends don’t run fast enough.
“Man, I can’t believe you ate them all. Like. All of them.”
Yes you can. They deserved it.
And Eddie can’t even really argue. Because they did shoot him. Multiple times, in the end. If he didn’t have Venom, he’d be bleeding out in an alley behind a seedy club right now. Chances are, he would’ve been shot even if he had forked over his shit willingly.
He wishes he felt queasy. Instead, he just feels content. And a little disgusted in himself. But mostly, unnervingly content.
Eddie shouldn’t be getting used to eating people -- but it’s where he’s at. Sometimes life’s just like that; strange and bewildering.
You find pleasure in justice.
“No,” Eddie says, throwing his keys down on his table, slamming the door to his apartment behind him. “I find satisfaction in bringing bad people down. Helping them get what they deserve.”
...It’s just that justice these days is a bit of a toss up. Sometimes, it’s a scathing expose -- and sometimes, it’s Venom eating someone’s face clean off their bones with teeth that feel a little too much like Eddie’s.
“It’s really not,” Eddie says, kicking his shoes off next to the door. They clatter against the wall.
Venom goes quiet for a little while. Long enough to let Eddie tear off his clothes and sink into the welcoming heat of the shower to wash the stray bits of blood and gore off. He’s getting too used to this, too numb to this kind of violence.
But that’s just life, too.
“Thanks,” Eddie says, when one of Venom’s tendrils passes him a towel.
He steps out of the shower and towels off his hair, then his face, and then does a haphazard job of drying his body. He runs hot enough now that he won’t stay damp for long.
What was the objective of the encounter?
Venom’s voice breaks through the silence of Eddie’s nighttime routine. Eddie doesn’t jump, but he does choke a little on his toothpaste. Venom often goes silent for long stretches and somehow, every time, Eddie never expects it when he just suddenly jumps back in.
Eddie spits into the sink.
“To get off,” he says, because he’s tired, because he’s not about to play coy with the alien parasite in his head.
There's a dizzying moment where Eddie is keenly aware of Venom flipping through his memories like a rolodex. Too fast to get much, but extensive enough to get the jist of it.
I’ve seen your memories. You enjoy getting off.
Eddie laughs, rinsing out his mouth with water from a cupped hand. “Yeah. Everyone likes getting off.”
Are you disappointed your plans did not come to fruition?
“I’m disappointed some guy shot at me.”
I will not let any harm come to you, Eddie.
“I know,” Eddie says, because he does. Because he appreciates it, too. “But it’s still fucked up, being shot at.” He flops backwards onto his bed, letting out a sigh. “But yeah, okay, sure: I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to get off tonight. Alright?”
They’re sharing this body. It’s a topic Eddie can’t evade forever.
He feels a little bit like a loser, admitting to it. But maybe that’s the good old Catholic guilt creeping up on him, the shame of having impure desires and not being able to curtail them, or whatever. Sunday school really did a measure on him for that.
Venom says nothing.
It doesn’t do much in terms of the ingrained shame, but at least Eddie doesn’t have to explain anymore.
You liked it when he was forceful with you.
Eddie’s eyes are only half focused on the popcorned ceiling, just decompressing, by the time Venom breaks the silence of the room. Or, perhaps more accurately, of Eddie’s head.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Got it in one.”
Who has time for shame, these days?
Certainly not someone who doesn’t get an ounce of privacy anymore.
Eddie’s hands are resting quietly on his stomach.
Suddenly, one of them flies up and lands by his head, with a thud, pressed into the mattress with a weight and a vigor that cannot be Eddie’s own. The other one follows, a mirror image on Eddie’s other side.
“Uh,” Eddie says.
“Uh,” Eddie says again.
The weight on his wrists increases. Black tendrils snake out of his skin, encircle his wrists, and then squeeze. Just like the guy had done at the bar, with his meaty fingers. Eddie’s heartbeat picks up.
It’s not a question.
“A little,” Eddie breathes, a rush of heat flooding his head, fever-hot, dizzying. He feels a bit like he could be dreaming, a bit like he’s gone off the deep-end, permanently. He talks to himself all day long -- it was only a matter of time.
You liked it when he moved you. You liked it when he was rough with you.
Eddie nods, a little frantic with it.
This can't be happening. Venom can't be suggesting what Eddie thinks he's suggesting. But --
It’s almost embarrassing how hard Eddie is already.
He shouldn’t be. Maybe. But then again, Eddie’s life is a sea of uncharted waters, now. There’s no instruction manual for having an alien parasite taking up residence inside your brain and body. There’s no right, no wrong, no normal. So -- maybe he shouldn’t be embarrassed. Venom’s already seen so much of him -- what’s just a little bit more?
Eddie’s always been kinda easy to get. All Anne ever had to do was loop a tie around his neck and tell him to come and he was there. His buttons are big. Glaring. Outlined in neon.
Venom shifts Eddie’s hands just because he can. Eddie groans.
You liked it when he treated you like you were his.
Eddie nods. A little hesitant to admit something so deeply personal.
You’re mine, Eddie.
Venom flips him. Suddenly, Eddie’s in the air. Then, he’s face-down on the bed, wrists just as pinned as before, but now the rest of his body’s held steadfast, too, ass in the air. It would be embarrassing, if it wasn’t so stupidly hot.
There’s a pressure at his lower back, something like -- but not quite like -- the press of a hand, shoving him down, grinding his hips down against the mattress in a sinful motion. It's like rocking against the heat of the stranger’s thigh -- but better.
“You don’t have to --” Eddie says, but then Venom shoves him again and Eddie’s hips roll against the bed and his words dissolve into a moan.
You are mine. I will give you this.
“Okay,” Eddie says, as Venom moves his hips in something like a rhythm. Nothing predictable. Something a little inhuman. “Yeah,” Eddie pants, because it feels good, because it feels natural, somehow. Like the inevitable progression of things. Like maybe having Venom in his head has fucked him up a little more than he’s been willing to admit, given that he likes the fact that this all feels a little wrong, more than a little alien.
“God,” Eddie says, as Venom loosens the tendrils around his wrists only to then tighten them again, snaking more up Eddie’s arms at the same time, so they’re patchwork with the black vines of his symbiote. Like he's tied up in beautiful, twisting, knots.
It’s by far more thrilling than anything else Eddie’s ever experienced. After this, rope is gonna seem way too vanilla.
He tries to rut his hips up against the bed again, seeking more friction, more pleasure, but Venom holds his body fast. He doesn’t need the tendrils to control Eddie -- he’s got control over Eddie’s whole body, an idea which sends a shiver of sheer, drunken delight down Eddie’s spine.
It shouldn’t be a surprise when he feels more tendrils ooze out of his thighs in a prickle of sensation, tendrils that move to slide over the curve of his ass in a firm caress -- but it is.
“Uh,” Eddie says, pulling, truly at the bonds Venom has made for him, for the first time tonight. “Uh,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to express the mild feeling of panic in his rib cage coupled with dark excitement.
Don’t be so surprised. I’ve seen your memories. I know you enjoy this.
And, like, yeah, okay: Eddie Brock loves getting dicked down. Absolutely. Venom’s not wrong. His little tour of Eddie’s Greatest Hits spank bank has served him well, apparently -- but this isn’t exactly the same.
“It’s not the same,” Eddie says. For lack of any better argument.
Venom gives him no opportunity to argue.
Eddie gasps and jolts as something wet and slimy trails up his ass crack, writhing, lapping, snaking. It takes him a moment to realize that Venom is licking him, that he’s using that tongue -- face and vicious teeth present or not -- to get Eddie groaning, to get his hips rocking back against the tease.
It’s not the same, Eddie thinks, as Venom’s tongue presses inside, the slide of it so easy, so smooth. Breaching him. Invading him. Slithering inside.
It’s so much better.
Venom’s voice reverberates through Eddie’s head, sending shivers down his spine. Coupled with that tongue, the strange wet slide of it, Eddie feels like he’s died and gone to heaven. It’s slick, it’s perfect, it’s alien. It knows exactly how to shift against him, exactly where to press to get Eddie moaning loud.
You like this.
Venom sounds delighted with himself.
Eddie can feel his cock leaking into the sheets beneath him. He’s achingly hard, cock twitching at the prospect of being touched. Greedy, like getting rimmed by his alien parasite somehow isn’t enough.
“Yeah,” Eddie pants. “Yeah, I do. Fuck -- let me touch myself.”
He’s way past embarrassment now. Making noises like the walls of his shitty apartment aren’t paper thin, panting, begging like it’ll make Venom relent and let him get a hand around his dick.
Venom’s tongue twists sinfully inside him and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Oh god,” Eddie breathes out, voice muffled against the sheets, head turning, twisting, like that’ll help him. There's a wet spot under his head from where he's been drooling. Another, underneath his hips from how he’s been leaking. “More?” he manages, without sounding too pleading.
Who’s he kidding? At this point, he’d cry for it, if Venom wanted him to.
But Venom’s never been about that. In fact, he seems to enjoy taking care of Eddie. Protecting him, feeding him, fixing him. Venom’s here now, doing just that, giving him what he wants, because Eddie got a little pouty about not getting laid. Which is -- a lot, honestly.
So, it’s not a surprise when Eddie feels the tendril of Venom’s tongue shift inside him, thickening slowly, as foreign weight presses Eddie’s limbs even more firmly against the bed.
“Oh god,” Eddie says, when he starts to really feel the press of girth against tight muscle.
It’s been a while since he did anything like this -- his muscles aren’t used to it, his body not accustomed. And yeah, Venom makes things easy, but it’s like he’s not trying to loosen up Eddie’s body -- which means, somehow, he knows that Eddie likes the bite of pain from his body slowly leaning to relent to it.
That Eddie likes the ache of being fucked open like a slut.
“Can you -- can you feel this?” Eddie asks, panting as Venom gives him moment’s reprieve. The tendril inside him -- tentacle, if he wants to be more accurate and also a little more obscene -- is as thick as Eddie’s cock now, and is pressing teasingly against his prostate. Rolling a little. Undulating.
Yes. I can feel your pleasure.
“God,” Eddie says. “This feels so fucking good.”
A thrum of pleasure rolls down Eddie’s spine, liquid and hot. It’s half his own, half Venom’s -- and the thought of that, of their feelings swirling into one, is kinda hot in its own way. Heady. Dizzying.
“More,” Eddie says, rolling his hips back against the invasion. Venom lets him this time, allowing him to move in a way that feels perfect, cock dragging against the sheets with each thrust.
Slowly, Venom begins fucking him, giving Eddie what he wants, more of what he’s been taking with each roll of his hips. With each thrust it feels like Venom’s getting bigger, wider, thicker. More practiced in his movements. Like he’s learning how to play Eddie’s body like an instrument. Venom slows his pace the larger he gets, like he’s teasing Eddie. Torturing him. Playing him for all he’s worth, dragging it out. Giving Eddie everything he wants. No -- everything he needs.
Until he's so big, so thick, that it feels like he’s splitting Eddie open at the seams.
“Holy shit, holy shit.”
Venom slows his movements to a standstill. Just lets Eddie’s body get used to the aching, impossible stretch of it.
It happened so quickly that Eddie barely noticed. Just got caught up in the pleasure of it. Now, he’s being stretched wider than a fist. Maybe even more. However wide, it feels like he’s gaping. Ruined. Pulled open wide, obscenely stretched around Venom’s thick intrusion.
Eddie gags for it, choking at the idea of how depraved he must look.
Then, Venom’s tentacle doesn't thrust -- it writhes. Slick and wet and alien, inside him.
You are mine to take care of. My host. My human.
Eddie nods jerkily. His fingers claw at the sheets as Venom presses in, against his prostate, a thick mass of alien goo stuffing him full. Rippling against tight muscle, teasing against his sensitive rim. Stretching. Stretching. Stretching.
I will always give you what you need, Eddie. Your pleasure is mine.
Tendrils snake and slide up to Eddies neck, to his jaw, to his mouth. Touching Eddie like a lover. Caressing him. Holding him steadfast, possessive. So much better than the guy at the bar. Than anyone else he's had before.
Inky blackness snakes into his mouth to press down onto his tongue, curling against it in a facsimile of a kiss. Hotter than one. Wetter.
Tendrils cascade down his throat as his pleasure crescendos, getting louder and louder in his head, nerves screaming, crying, buzzing with stimulation.
It feels almost like he's going to choke, or gag, but it never happens. He knows he won't. Not with Venom being a part of him. Even with his throat full, Eddie can feel nothing but pleasure.
Please, please, please, Eddie thinks.
Venom thrusts in deep. Once, twice -- and then Eddie’s coming untouched, spilling all over his chest and the bed below him, shooting off in violent spurts, orgasm lasting longer than it ever has before.
The tendril snakes out of his mouth to cup his chin and coil around his neck, allowing him to breath heavy as the world comes back into existence around him.
“God, god,” Eddie pants, vision going white, then black around the edges. Blurry with pleasure and fatigue. “Holy shit.”
Venom milks him through until the end of it, thick tentacle undulating against Eddie’s prostate until he’s gasping, groaning, hissing at the feeling of his cock weeping against the bed even after he’s done coming.
“Ah -- god, uh -- too much,” Eddie chokes, trying to shift his hips away from the invasion of the weight in his ass -- not that there’s far he can go from the parasite who lives inside him.
This feels good, though.
The tentacle ripples against him again and Eddie whimpers, the white-hot flash of pain from too much pleasure hitting him like a punch to the gut. Like needles into his spine. His hips jolt with every exploratory press.
“Too much,” Eddie says again.
But he can feel more of Venom’s mass oozing out of his stomach, tendrils snaking down from his ribcage to wrap around his cock. Sliding against it, tracing over the too-sensitive head.
Eddie sobs. He nearly shouts, pleading over and over, like Venom’s gonna listen. Like if he just gets loud enough, Venom will be able to hear him. It’s too much, too fast -- he feels like he’s gonna die.
Eddie squirms, writhing against Venom’s bonds. For the most part, Venom lets him. Lets Eddie twist himself until he’s flat on his back, hips straining off the bed, trying to buck away from the touch that’s going nowhere.
“Please,” Eddie begs.
You like this.
And -- Venom’s not wrong.
Eddie’s nearly crying, his whole body shaking with overstimulation. And he’s loving it. Sure, he feels like he’s going to pass out, but he’s also never felt better.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes out. “Don’t stop,” he manages, as Venom strokes those tendrils wetly over his cock, stroking him back to full hardness.
I wasn’t going to.
The pressure in his ass has gone down, though Eddie still feels full, which means Venom’s still stuffing him up -- just with something smaller, perhaps shrinking down to the size of Eddie’s cock again.
You are fun to play with.
Pleasure cascades down Eddie’s spine at the words. It’s the implication of it, the idea that he truly is Venom’s. Venom’s host, his toy, his plaything. And, realistically, Eddie knows that he’s got more say than that in their relationship, their little arrangement -- but there’s something about the fantasy that he doesn’t have a say that gets him squirming. That gets him aching as his hips jerk up and off the bed.
Venom plays with his cock like a toy, tendrils rolling over Eddie in waves, jerking him off in movements that feel too liquid, too slick, too wicked to be human. When Eddie looks down, watching himself, he groans, eyes going wide. Venom’s tendrils are snaking around his cock like vines, writhing and pulling and jerking him in a flurry of fluid motion.
It looks sinful.
It looks absolutely inhuman.
Eddie comes with a shout, orgasm slamming straight into his chest, stealing all the air out of his lungs. He paints his torso in come, long ribbons of it, groaning out as Venom jerks him through the last of the waves of it.
“Fuck,” Edie moans, still sucking in gulping lungfuls of air as he comes down.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes out, as Venom’s tendrils retreat from his cock. He gasps as they give him one final squeeze before disappearing entirely, back into Eddie’s body. “Real fun,” Eddie says, because it was.
You enjoyed yourself, Eddie, didn’t you?
“Yeah,” Eddie says, smile a little crooked on his face.
He can feel Venom shifting out of his ribcage, can see him coalescing into a mass of eyes and teeth next to Eddie, admiring his handiwork. And maybe even alien parasites need some positive feedback every once in a while.
“Thank you,” Eddie says, as Venom’s eyes trail over his body. “That was -- really fucking good.”
I will take care of you.
Eddie shivers when Venom’s tongue trails over the plane of his stomach. Slick, wet, exploratory. It takes him a second to realize Venom’s truly licking him, and a quick glance confirms what Eddie already knows: Venom’s slobbering up Eddie’s come.
It shouldn’t be so hot. Not after two orgasms. Not after getting jerked off by an alien tentacle. Not after getting split open by one. Or rimmed by one. But it is.
Venom is slow about it, careful. Tendrils of him ooze over Eddie’s torso in ribbons as Eddie watches, fascinated.
He should be concerned about the teeth. About the way they so easily can tear into flesh. About how they ate the face clean off of someone, only a few hours earlier. Eddie doesn’t care. He’s too braindead, too fucked out. Venom’s tongue slithers over Eddie’s muscles, over his ribcage. Circles his belly-button and then his nipples. It feels good, his nerve-endings hyper aware of every touch, every press of sensation into his skin.
It takes Eddie way too long to realize he’s still full.
It’s only when Venom’s tentacle wriggles deliciously over his prostate does Eddie really get the picture, does he realize that he’s still stuffed to the brim with alien slime.
“Uh,” Eddie says, a full-body shiver overtaking him.
You could go again.
Venom feels delighted.
“No, I can’t,” Eddie says.
“No, it’s too much.”
Don’t be a pussy.
Eddie feels Venom shift. Feels him pump in, and then out -- and then, slowly, grow larger. He can feel his rim, stretched and a little raw, protest. Can feel the way Venom fills him like Eddie’s made for taking it. Can feel the way his own body responds.
Cock, still mostly soft, but thrumming again with need.
When Venom’s tendrils wrap around Eddie’s dick, Eddie can’t do anything but whimper. And whine. His wrists are pressed rough against the bed with renewed force now, allowing Eddie to go nowhere at all. Caging him. Possessing him.
Reality starts to blur, a little bit. Everything a swirl of colors and sensations. A discord of sensations.
It hurts, Eddie thinks, just how sensitive his cock is.
But it feels so good, too, as Venom works him over. As Venom gives and gives, unrelenting.
Half-aware, Eddie feels the tentacle inside him swell, growing until it feels like he’s full enough to burst. Like he’s going to come apart at the edges.
It’s so much.
He’s dimly aware of himself pleading, moaning, whining. Venom’s tongue, his tendrils, his tentacles, occupying all of Eddie, touching him everywhere. Giving, taking, squeezing, thrusting, filling.
It’s more and it’s more and more, until Eddie knows he’s going to break, knows he’s going to shatter into a million pieces.
Venom pushes. He gives. He saturates.
There are teeth, over Eddie’s ribcage, over his neck. Grazing, scratching, breaking skin.
Pain, and pleasure, all wrapped up into one.
Eddie shouts and shudders and lets his world fade into black.
He comes to in the middle of his bed, limbs useless and heavy, chest still heaving with each intake of breath.
It’s definitely not morning yet. Given the fact that his body’s still shaking, Eddie can guess he’s only been out for a few seconds, maybe a couple of minutes. It’s also still dark outside. Or as dark as it ever gets in Eddie’s shitty apartment, city lights filtering in orange from outside.
The good news is that his parasite’s got a sense of humor.
The bad news is is that his parasite’s apparently found a new favorite toy. And that toy is Eddie.
“I think you’re gonna kill me,” Eddie says.
He feels a little empty now. A little untethered, now that Venom’s not touching him. His head is light, airy. His brain -- not quite all the way there, yet.
I would never harm you, Eddie. I will always give you what you need.
Thick tendrils ooze out of his skin. Eddie doesn’t move to look at them, but he can feel them, traveling up his arms, over his torso like careful fingers. Caressing here, encircling there. Mapping the expanse of Eddie’s skin in waves of body-temperature matter.
You like this, too.
Venom’s never wrong.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, relaxing into the sensation.
It’s like being held, like falling into warm, comforting waters. It’s like a dream. Like a lover’s embrace.
Go to sleep, Eddie.