We are out of drink, Eddie.
Eddie squints at the bottle in his hands and frowns. He tips it back with a defeated swing, catching the last drops of beer on his tongue before tossing the bottle away where it clatters against the others.
His chin settles onto his chest as he flips through his phone. Anne. Anne laughing over dinner. Anne kissing his cheek on New Year’s. Anne sleeping, her hair mussed, a glimmer of drool wetting her pillow. Anne clutching her bare chest, offering herself with a wicked, beautiful smile. Eddie groans.
We miss her.
He rubs his face and collapses against his ratty couch. If Eddie closes his eyes, his mind swims, emotions dulled like nails dragged against his clothes, felt but not painful. Venom’s quiet presence thrums, an ambiance like white noise warming his bones.
But we can give you what you need.
Tendrils follow its low, raspy speech, half-heard through drunken stupor. There’s a rustle of cotton, a sudden, short lived chill.
It’s hideous. We like it.
Eddie hisses. A hand, his hand, their hand, palms his cock, half-soft but twitching, the haze of booze doing little to dissuade it.
“Don’t call m’dick ugly,” he slurs, blinking rapidly. Eddie buries his cheek against the cushion moments later, a thick gasp rattling from his chest.
It doesn’t feel like jerking off, the warm, ever shifting flow of Venom on his skin, inside him, controlling, protecting. It slides his fist down the fat length of his cock, its curiosity, its heat, threading through Eddie’s thoughts.
Spindly tendrils drag along his neck, plucking and twisting like mouths; its searing, slick tongue curls just beneath his ear, the hint of teeth catching the shell, its heated exhale warming Eddie through.
We taste good. Better than heads.
“Dun eat me,” Eddie moans as he clumsily shifts into its touch. No, nothing like doing it himself. Venom suckles his cock, throbbing and velvet soft, Eddie’s calluses lost beneath the parasite. Like a fleshlight, maybe, or the warm clutch of a throat—
Not a parasite.
The tendrils split and grow, slithering around his balls and squeezing, just barely, just enough that apprehension tightens his chest. Eddie shivers, spreads his thighs mindlessly as a mass of symbiote wriggles lower.
Anne wouldn’t. We will.
Eddie’s laughter sounds punched out and wild, even to himself. Venom’s actually up his ass, licking inside him, sucking and urging him open. His eyes widen comically, the moan spilling from his lips as loud and stupid as his laughter. Venom twists, fluttering against a spot he’s only ever teased once or twice with his finger, ashamed and alone under his bed sheets.
The hot catch of its tongue unlatches from his throat and writhes at the edge of Eddie’s mouth, stuffing inside between gasps and groans.
We feel good. We like the control, Eddie. We like you, Eddie.
Each breath wheezes over the symbiote’s tongue, just enough air to stay conscious, lungs tingling, his cock aching and hard like a stone, blood red and leaking, swallowed and tugged in rhythmic, maddening pulses.
Flicking twists at his nipples, plucking and carding through his chest hair, squeezing his pecs.
We are not thinking of her. We want it inside. More, more.
No longer a quiet suggestion in his mind, a comforting haze. Venom’s consciousness slams into his own as it fills him, battering his prostate in a way no fingers or anything else could, perfectly wide and grinding, reading his reaction, each minute shift aching and perfect. Eddie screams around the tongue that writhes and claims his own, thick spurts erupting from his cock as he shakes through it, shouts eaten, its pleasure, their pleasure shattering, blood roaring in his ears as he spills and spills and spills into their grip, caught and filled and owned.
Venom undulates, rocking inside him, lower body slick and tingly warm when the symbiote recedes. Pressure at his mouth, chaste. Eddie kisses it back between gasps for air, feeling drunker, lighter, scraped clean.
He feels Venom’s thrill.