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venom fic: i will possess your heart
Title: i will possess your heart
Pairing: Eddie/Venom
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4,900
Summary: Cuddling with your people-eating alien hitchhiker is weird. So is falling in love with them.
Notes: This is some cuddlers-to-lovers bed-sharing nonsense. Partially inspired by three really awesome pieces of fanart.
[AO3]
i will possess your heart
Eddie sighs and rolls onto his side. That isn't much better than lying on his back; now one of the lumps in his mattress is prodding his shoulder. He wriggles away from it and punches his shapeless pillow a few times. He kicks at the sheet strangling his shin.
He bought a new meditation CD the other day — one that's actually in English. He's too lazy to get up and turn it on, so he closes his eyes and imagines the narrator's droning, vaguely British voice. Breathe in, breathe out. Be an orange blossom, turning to face the sun. Breathe in, breathe out. Be an orange blossom, opening for the positive energy around you.
Eddie breathes in. Breathes out. He's an orange blossom. He opens for the police siren screaming past his apartment.
"Fuck."
Eddie.
Eddie grunts out, "Yeah," and rubs his face. His clock is judging him; at the tone, the time will be three-seventeen.
You need to sleep.
He really does; he's interviewing some Big Pharma asshole at nine, and he has to drive into Oakland to do it. "I'm working on it."
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. His alarm is set for seven-thirty; if he knocks out right now, he can still get four hours. Four and a half, if he gives himself until eight. That would make things tight, but it's doable if he skips the shower and eats breakfast on his bike while Venom drives. But Venom loves the shower — loves it so much that Eddie's starting to think they're actually some kind of weird, alien seal. They'll bitch about it all morning if he doesn't —
Eddie. Something ripples at the base of his spine. Rest.
Eddie rubs his face again. "I told you, I'm working on it." There's too much noise; his new apartment's better than the one Drake's thugs ripped apart, but the walls are paper-thin. One of his neighbors is watching infomercials: with Slap Chop, you can slice, dice, and mince in seconds. "Am I keeping you up or something?"
I don't sleep.
"You know what I mean."
Venom rumbles out a noise that feels like a sigh. Yes. Your agitation is preventing me from entering stasis.
"Sorry."
Eddie rolls onto his other side, away from the street-lamp outside his window — from the yellowish light glaring through the gap in the curtains. Breathe in, breathe out. His pillowcase smells like it needs to be washed. He could use a couple shots of Jack, or maybe a hot bath. A blowjob. If that didn't work, Anne would curl up against him and murmur nonsense into his neck. That calmed him nearly as much as getting off — the weight of her body, the heat of her skin.
Venom churns under Eddie's ribs. A hand — or something close to it — grips Eddie's hip. Another curves over his shoulder, and another palms his side. Smooth-warm fingertips skim over his skin, right along the hem of his t-shirt. A thin tentacle slithers underneath him and wraps around his arm.
"What—?
Sleep, Eddie.
Eddie squirms a little; cuddling with your people-eating alien hitchhiker is — it isn't — it's weird, maybe. He doesn't know. But before he can really look it in the mouth, Venom shifts closer and tightens the hand holding his hip.
Sleep.
+
Eddie flops onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling. The light fixture is dusty. A spidery crack is crawling across one of the bald patches in the stucco.
He closes his eyes and starts that relaxation technique Mrs. Chen taught him. He imagines his body going limp a little bit at a time — first his toes, then the balls of his feet, then his arches, then his heels and his ankles. His nose itches. His blanket is bunched up under his elbow. Huffing, he shoves it away and focuses on his shins. His calves. He makes it as far as his thighs before Venom roils under his skin, buzzing with irritation.
"What?"
You wanted to sleep.
"Yeah." That's why he dragged Venom away from the laptop in the middle of Voltron. It's not like he planned on staring at the walls for an hour and a half. "I did."
I could have finished season five.
"You still can," Eddie says. He finally gave in and bought some earplugs the other day. He thinks they might be in his nightstand. "Just do it in the other room."
After a pause, Venom starts spooling out of him in long ribbons attached to his side. The sudden, draining loss makes him shiver. Neither of them like being too far apart for too long; they usually only spread themselves between the kitchen table and the toaster oven, when Eddie's writing and Venom wants to warm up another batch of pizza rolls. More and more of Venom spills out, and a hollow ache gnaws at Eddie's chest. He brushes his hand over Venom's mass. Instead of slithering out the door, they half-manifest beside Eddie on the bed.
What's wrong?
"Nothing," Eddie says, shrugging. Their night-owl neighbor is watching reruns tonight, something punctuated by a metallic-sounding laugh track. "Just insomnia."
He feels pressure at the base of his skull, like Venom is prodding at his nervous system. What causes it?
"Lots of things. Stress, anxiety —"
Nothing to fear, Eddie. I'll protect us.
"Yeah, I know."
Another pause. Then a tentacle nudges Eddie's hip. I could hold you again.
"You—" don't have to do that. It was nice, that first time; Eddie slept better than he had in ages. But there's still something weird about it. Something that makes his face flush when he thinks about it. Something — just something.
Rumbling quietly, Venom pulls Eddie closer. They sink about half of themself back into his body, then slip into his head and start poking through his memories. The images flash by in quick, disjointed bursts, but it doesn't take much to figure out that Venom is watching Eddie sleep. With Anne, with Marco, with Michelle. With a couple of bar hookups who bothered to stay the night. Embarrassment tugs at Eddie's gut, but Venom just coaxes him onto his side and presses up behind him. A huge arm wraps around his waist. Venom doesn't really need to breathe, but their chest rises and falls against Eddie's back.
Night, Eddie.
Eddie closes his eyes. "Night."
+
Eddie doesn't realize he's pacing until he sideswipes the bed. He stumbles, stubbing his toe on the box-frame. Venom keeps him upright with a tentacle around his thigh and a growl he feels behind his teeth.
"Thanks."
Venom just growls again. They've been like this since they checked into the hotel — sullen, irritable. Churning in Eddie's gut like a pot of boiling water. And they refuse to tell him what's wrong; he's already asked about fifteen times.
Between Venom's bad mood and his big interview tomorrow, Eddie's ready to crawl out of his skin. He shuffles over to the mini-bar and grabs a Milky Way and an airplane bottle of Glenlivet. Venom swallows the candy bar whole, without bothering to unwrap it. It's not what they want — heads heads livers lungs heads — but it settles them a little. Enough that Eddie can knock back the scotch without feeling like he's going to puke it right up.
He paces between the mini-bar and the bed a couple of times, hoping to burn off some of Venom's restless energy. It doesn't work, so he sits down and looks over his notes again. Cletus Kasady, convicted serial killer. Eleven identified victims. Claims to have killed a dozen more. The rest is just personal and biographical tidbits, pulled from the only other interview Kasady's ever given. Eddie isn't sure he trusts it; sociopaths are born liars as a rule, and Kasady's rumored to be a theatrical sonofabitch.
Venom thunders around Eddie's gut a little more, then bristles up underneath his sternum. Sighing, Eddie rubs at his chest.
"Come on, V. You're giving me heartburn." He hopes this isn't about Kasady. Venom wants to eat him, has been nagging him about it for the last three days. "Tell me what's going on."
Venom's silent for a moment. Then: Don't like it here.
Eddie asks, "Why not?" and glances around the room. It's a typical three-star setup — walnut furniture, a king-sized bed with too many pillows, an enormous flat-screen TV. A loudly-upholstered chaise is parked in front of a full-length window with a distant view of the San Rafael Mission. It's fancier than anything Eddie would book on his own, but it's only seven minutes from San Quentin. More importantly, the FBI's footing the bill.
Not our home.
Venom follows that up with a sudden rush of emotion — a mix of defensiveness and unease that leave a bitter taste in Eddie's mouth. But it's deeper than that, a territorial instinct that's part of Venom on a molecular level, too inhuman for him to truly understand. Eddie's apartment is familiar. It's theirs. It's where Venom can rest, where they can keep Eddie safe.
"Hey, it's alright. Nothing's going to happen to me."
No. Nothing. Venom ripples under Eddie's collarbones. You're mine.
Eddie is. In ways Venom probably doesn't even realize. But that train of thought is headed down an embarrassing track, so he asks, "You want to watch TV?"
Star Trek?
"Maybe," Eddie says, laughing. Venom loves shows about space, even though all he does is complain about the shit they get wrong. "Let's see if it's on."
He swings his legs up onto the bed and leans back against the pillow-stacked headboard. Then he turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channels. It's the usual post-primetime offerings — local news, more local news, commercials, M*A*S*H. Venom normally stays inside Eddie when they're watching the same thing, but as Eddie surfs past Seinfield, last night's lottery numbers, and a weather report, they puddle onto Eddie's chest and curl up into a tight, black ball. Eddie reaches up without thinking about it, barely stops himself from petting them like a fucking cat.
Before he can pull away, thin tentacles wrap down his arms. They pause for a moment, just above his wrists, then form into glossy, human-sized hands. Their fingers slot perfectly between Eddie's.
"You—?"
Star Trek.
Eddie laughs again. "Okay, okay."
+
Eddie looks up from his laptop and flexes his half-frozen fingers. Rain is sheeting against his kitchen window, warping the reddish neon glow coming from the restaurant across the street. The storm blew in from the bay about noon and is still going strong. Because of Venom's crazy metabolism, Eddie's body usually runs pretty hot, but tonight he can't seem to shake the cold and damp. His nose is numb, and his feet feel like blocks of ice.
A dull ache in his legs tells him that it's time to stretch, so he gets up and switches on the heater. After a few tired, asthmatic rattles, it coughs out a cloud of dust that smells like a wet dog. He switches it off, gives it the finger, and heads back into the kitchen. He swings his arms around for a minute to get his blood flowing again. Then he grabs the mocha he Postmated four hours ago and promptly forgot about and puts it in the microwave.
Venom — who's tethered out of Eddie's shoulder and watching the rain — says, Take the lid off first, without looking away from the window.
Eddie gives them the finger, which earns him a deep, squirming rumble that feels like a laugh. It echoes warmly in his chest while he waits for the microwave to count down.
The mocha comes out steaming. Eddie puts the lid back on it, then brings it over to his laptop so he can promptly forget about it again. He's working on an article about the school district's budget shortfalls, and it only needs a few more paragraphs. He flexes his fingers a couple more times and skims his notes. As he starts typing, a thick tentacle uncoils from his shoulder and wraps around his neck like a scarf. The end tucks itself into the collar of his shirt.
He knocks out the next paragraph pretty quickly, but after that he loses his groove. He spends way too long staring at a disbursement schedule he doesn't understand. The school board clearly pulled some of these budget numbers straight out of its ass, and Eddie majored in journalism, not math. His eyes are burning from several solid hours of blue light; he rubs them for a second, then touches the bit of Venom bulked up under his chin. They've shifted into something like a shawl, draping heavily over Eddie's shoulders and arms.
Certificated salaries. Employee benefits. Books and supplies. Eddie's double-checking some dodgy transportation expenditures when a tentacle thumps him behind the ear. Bed, Eddie.
It isn't that late — a little after midnight. Venom's probably just bored now that the rain is easing up. Eddie doesn't bother arguing about it; his article's dead in the water until he figures those numbers out, and Venom's doing that thing where they try to herd him somewhere without really grabbing a hold of the wheel. It's a weird feeling, like getting caught in a riptide on dry land, an invisible wave swirling around him, nudging him, pulling at his legs. It ebbs over him, slow but relentless, as Eddie closes up shop for the night.
His bed's so cold he digs his spare blanket out of the hall closet. It's a scratchy old thing that smells like Eddie's first freelancing gigs out of college — dirt and sweat, bus stations and cheap motels. He pulls it up to his chin and tries to find a warm place to put his feet. Shivering, he curls in on himself. Venom thrums restlessly under his ribs.
You're cold.
"No shit."
Human bodies are inefficient.
Eddie snorts. "Big talk from the guy using mine as a house."
A sharp, prickly feeling arcs through Eddie's chest, so quick it's gone before he can really read it. Then, slowly, Venom starts welling out of Eddie in slick patches, stretching and pooling until he's wrapped up inside them. It's like being suited up for a fight, but softer, less confining. Warmer.
Better?
Oh. "Yeah. I—yeah."
+
Eddie wakes up feeling heavy, like his arms and legs are weighted to the bed. He blearily opens one eye, just enough to see that it's still dark outside. It's quiet now; the rain stopped at some point during the night. Eddie doesn't need to be up yet, so he rolls onto his side and buries his face in his pillow.
His dick is hard. He reaches for it, even though he's already drifting back to sleep. Instead of his sweats, his hand brushes something soft and warm and slick. He — shit. Venom.
Eddie?
Eddie mumbles, "Yeah, sorry," and sits up. Venom is spread over him like a blanket, tented where his dick is pressing against them. "I—uh. Sorry."
Venom seeps back inside him. Then they swirl down into his groin, like they're investigating the heat pooling there, the building tension. A few beats later, they well up under his navel and spill halfway down his thighs. They're just solid enough that Eddie feels it when they glide over his dick, smooth pressure that makes him grit his teeth and claw at the sheets.
You're... hungry?
"Not—not exactly." Fuck. This isn't the first boner he's had since Venom invaded his life, but it's the first he hasn't cold-showered away before they got too curious. "I'm—it's nothing."
Venom must sense that Eddie's lying; they make a dark, unhappy noise and push into his head. Once in there, they dig pretty deep, rooting in every secret corner, dragging up all the thoughts Eddie's desperately tried to hide the last few weeks. His arms and legs wrapped in tentacles, pinned to the bed; his head thrown back as he thrusts and grinds against a writhing, seething black mass. Venom's enormous hands holding his thighs, their claws pricking his skin. Their tongue working him open, stretching him, fucking him —
You want me to touch you.
"I—" Eddie sucks in a breath as Venom ripples over his dick again. "We shouldn't."
Why not? You want it.
Eddie closes his eyes. "But you—"
If you want it, I want it.
And that's the problem. Eddie's the horny bastard here; Venom's just along for the ride. They only want it because Eddie's body is telling them they want it, and Eddie shouldn't take advantage of that. But tentacles start winding around his arms and legs, pinning him by his wrists and ankles, just like he imagined. Warm tendrils thread between his fingers. Something that's almost a hand cradles his jaw.
Eddie.
"Yeah." The bed creaks as Eddie arches up. "Do it."
A hand yanks at his sweats, dragging them down to his knees. A finger-thin tentacle runs up the length of his dick, then slides back down and circles around the base. It's followed by another and another and another, and they stroke him together, hard and fast, everything swirling and coiling and twisting all at once. Eddie arches again. His toes curl, and he makes an embarrassing noise, but then Venom's tongue is in his mouth, filling him, shutting him up.
The bed creaks again. Eddie shivers as a wave of feeling crashes over him — something pleased and thrumming and bright, something that's also overwhelmingly alien, too big to fit underneath this skin. Tentacles slither down his legs and curve up over his thighs and hips. He tries to thrust up, to rut against the flurry of slick warmth moving over his dick, but another tentacle loops around his waist, holding him still, pinning him down.
Eddie. Venom drags their tongue up the line of his jaw. You feel good. Taste good.
More tentacles — touching his hair, his face, the hollow of his throat. The grip on his dick tightens, pulsing and rippling around him. A thin tendril lifts up to tease across the head; the tip of it catches Eddie's slit and — fuck. Fuck. Eddie comes and comes and comes, the feeling echoing back through Venom again and again until he's drowning in it, drowning in Venom. Until he's shaking, clutching at the hands Venom made for him to hold.
+
Eddie moans and rests his forehead on the wet tiles. The mass of Venom molded against his back presses closer, slowly spilling over his shoulders and down into the dip of spine. The thread-thin tendrils teasing his nipples tug and twist, and Eddie shudders with it, bracing his arm on the shower wall. His foot skids a little, but Venom is there, holding him up. Always holding him up.
They press even closer, humming with something liquid and warm. Amusement, maybe — Eddie's too strung-out to tell. Venom's been toying with him so long that his knees are weak and the water is starting to run cold. Whatever it is, the feeling fills him up, curling into his gut and spreading up through his chest. He can hardly breathe.
Eddie.
The hand touching his dick is theirs — Eddie's, but sheathed in black to the wrist. It's just holding him, thumb skimming the head, loose enough that Eddie can't really get any friction. He tries anyway, his thighs trembling as he rocks into it, jerking his hips. Teeth graze the back of his neck, and a jolt of lust courses through him like lightning. Venom finally — finally — strokes him a couple of times. He closes his eyes and bites back a noise.
No. Want to hear you.
Venom tugs his nipples again and gives his dick a couple more strokes. Then they turn him with a tentacle coiled around his waist. The water is freezing now, but Eddie is burning up, heat sparking and shifting underneath his skin. Tentacles lift from his thighs and shape themself into Venom's head. They watch Eddie for a moment, white eyes narrowed. Then they lean in and curl that impossible tongue around his dick.
"Oh, God." It's too wet, too slick, too much. "Fuck."
His knees buckle, but Venom catches him, presses him back against the tiles. They wrap more tentacles around his thighs as their tongue slides over his dick. Eddie makes another noise — loud enough that the asshole next door pounds on the wall — and Venom thrums with something that seems to swirl around his heart. He reaches for the mass of black webbing acting as Venom's neck, slipping the glossy strands between his fingers as he begs Venom to let him come.
+
Mine.
Venom growls it inside Eddie's head, but it feels loud, like it should be bouncing off the chipped sinks, echoing between the dirty walls. Eddie doesn't argue. He can't — not with the tentacle shoved in his mouth, pushing against his tongue, inching down his throat.
He'd be lying anyway.
His jeans get yanked down to his knees. Claws scrape up his sides, and then a hand pushes at him, hard between the shoulder-blades. Grunting, Eddie hunches over and braces his hands on the toilet tank. Venom grabs him by the hips, digging their thumbs in right at the top of his ass. Eddie sucks in a breath that tastes like stale water and pine-scented air freshener. His heart is beating louder than the music thumping outside the bathroom door.
Venom says, Mine, again — out loud, this time. Then they prise Eddie open and slick their tongue over his hole. A whining noise rattles in his throat, caught by the tentacle stuffed into his mouth. Venom tugs him closer to their tongue, working it over him, hot and rough and wet. Eddie white-knuckles the toilet tank. He sucks in air through his nose and tries to keep his knees from giving out.
Venom is relentless; they lick Eddie until he finally loosens up, then fuck their tongue into him with short, quick thrusts. There's a spike of emotion behind it — something thorny and sharp, a seething prickle of jealousy that Eddie doesn't really understand. Right before Venom dragged him in here, he'd been talking to a woman at the bar. But he hadn't meant anything by it, had just been making conversation while he waited for the bartender to pour his drink. Venom has to know that by now. They have to know that Eddie —
You wanted her.
Eddie shakes his head. Spit is running down his chin.
Liar.
Snarling, Venom grips Eddie's hips hard enough to bruise. Their teeth pinprick his skin, and then their tongue is shoving into him, stretching him, plunging deep, deep. It teases his prostate — again and again and again — and he shudders all over, another noise catching in his throat. He's close to coming, so fucking close. He reaches for his dick, but the tentacle in his mouth snaps down and slaps his hand away.
"V, please."
Another snarl. Then: She wouldn't touch you like this. Wouldn't make you feel like this.
Eddie knows. He fucking knows. Venom ruined him weeks ago; he can't imagine wanting anyone else.
Mine.
"Yes," Eddie says honestly. "Yes."
+
Venom manifests in front of Eddie, forming a nearly-full body that's tethered to his knees. It isn't as big as their fighting form, but it's big enough to crush Eddie back against the wall.
Eddie.
"It's fine," Eddie says, his voice shaking. He's riding the tail-end of an adrenaline high that has him jumping out of his skin. "I'm fine. I'm not even bleeding anymore."
Venom makes a rough, furious noise and grabs Eddie's arm. They poke their thumb into the hole in his sleeve, right where the bullet went in.
"See? It's okay." But it almost wasn't; Eddie can barely hear himself over the panicked thud of his heart. The mugger they took down had a friend hiding around the corner with a gun, and he squeezed off a shot just as Venom was sinking back into Eddie's body. "You fixed it."
Shouldn't have let you get hurt.
Eddie starts to say, "It's okay," again, but then Venom's tongue is in his mouth. They hold Eddie's face in one huge hand and touch the now-healed bullet wound with the other. Eddie leans into it, his body still shaking, his heart still beating too hard and too fast. He clutches at Venom's shoulders and arms, digging his fingers into sleek, black muscle.
Venom rumbles with anxious fury, a razor-sharp feeling that bristles through Eddie's chest and throat. They press closer, crowding in until the wall bites at Eddie's shoulder-blades, until the grit of the bricks snags his shirt. They drag their tongue down his jaw and throat, let their teeth graze the side of his neck. The hand on Eddie's arm drops down to his hip. Something with the weight and heft of a thigh shoves between his legs.
They shouldn't do this here — in the alley behind the block of topless joints on Broadway, with their dinner's blood splattered around Eddie's feet. Any minute now, another mugger could come by, or a drunk could stumble outside to take a piss behind the dumpster. The cops could roll up, looking for this neighborhood's usual brand of trouble. But Eddie just scrapes his nails down Venom's back and tips his head up to open his throat for their tongue. They won't stop kissing him, won't stop grinding against him, won't stop murmuring inside his head.
Eddie. Eddie. Safe now. Safe. Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie.
+
Venom sprawls Eddie's naked body on the couch before manifesting a little, just a head and a tangle of tentacles that aren't quite arms.
Touch yourself.
"What—?"
Touch yourself. Want to see.
Eddie flushes, heat crawling over his cheeks and crowding up underneath his jaw. It wouldn't be the first time he's given someone a show, but he — it's been a while. Venom is a greedy sonofabitch, sometimes acts like Eddie's dick is their personal property. If they don't slap his hand away when he reaches for himself, they "help" him by curling slick-black tendrils around his shaft, threading them between his fingers.
Eddie. Want to watch.
Heat coils into Eddie's gut. He scoots down until his head is resting on the arm of the couch and wraps his hand around his dick. His palm is rougher than whatever Venom is made of, drier, a little bit warmer. But it feels good, and he's been hard for what seems like forever because Venom likes to play with their food. It only takes a few strokes for him to fall into a rhythm — pumping his fist, twisting his wrist, rocking his hips. He teases his thumb over his nipple. He plants one foot on the floor and arches off the couch. Venom likes it when he's noisy, so he stops trying to swallow the sounds spilling out of his mouth.
He's close to coming when a tentacle loops around his wrist and yanks his hand away. The sudden stop makes him ache; he grunts, "You fucker," and throws his sweatshirt at Venom's head. Venom ducks it easily. Then they bring his hand to their mouth and start winding their tongue around his fingers, slow and wet. They lick at him until his hand is soaked, spit running down his palm and wrist.
Open yourself.
Eddie huffs out a laugh. "You feeling lazy tonight?"
Eddie.
A tentacle slides up the inside of Eddie's thigh. He sucks in a breath, then hitches his leg over the back of the couch and slips a finger into his ass. This is another thing Venom usually hoards for themself, so it's kind of hot that they're asking him to do it, that they want to watch. He finds a rhythm again, his hips rolling as his fingers press and twist, as his body loosens and warms. Two fingers, then three. His thighs shake, and sweat starts beading on his chest. The heat in his gut coils tighter and tighter; he could come like this, if Venom would just touch his dick.
Venom hums Eddie's name. A feeling rises in them, something that brims through Eddie's chest, bright and sweet and deep and endless. It's also possessive, consuming, dangerous as it spreads through every part of his body. It — oh. Oh. Of course Eddie would figure it out now — while he's fucking himself on his own hand, while Venom is hovering over him like a horny, toothy, alien stormcloud.
A horny, toothy, alien stormcloud that loves him.
"You—" Eddie's mouth won't work. Neither will his brain. "You —?"
You really didn't know?
"Shut up," Eddie says, grabbing at them. Because they're an asshole, they slip through Eddie's fingers like water. "Just—come here."
Venom lets out a rumble that feels like a laugh. Their tongue laves the hollow Eddie's throat. A tentacle pushes into his ass, then another, and another — stretching him, filling him, too much, too much. It's rhythmnless, desperate. Writhing. Eddie heaves out a moan and arches up to meet it. Another tentacle wraps around his dick, and that it — he's fucking done. He comes, and then Venom comes, pleasure looping between them until Venom is sparking like a live wire, until Eddie is shaking and panting and clawing at the couch.
Once Eddie can breathe again, Venom puddles on his chest. Eddie strokes a hand over them, easy and slow.
Mine.
Love. Eddie kisses the tendril curling around his fingers. "Yeah. Yours."
Pairing: Eddie/Venom
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4,900
Summary: Cuddling with your people-eating alien hitchhiker is weird. So is falling in love with them.
Notes: This is some cuddlers-to-lovers bed-sharing nonsense. Partially inspired by three really awesome pieces of fanart.
[AO3]
Eddie sighs and rolls onto his side. That isn't much better than lying on his back; now one of the lumps in his mattress is prodding his shoulder. He wriggles away from it and punches his shapeless pillow a few times. He kicks at the sheet strangling his shin.
He bought a new meditation CD the other day — one that's actually in English. He's too lazy to get up and turn it on, so he closes his eyes and imagines the narrator's droning, vaguely British voice. Breathe in, breathe out. Be an orange blossom, turning to face the sun. Breathe in, breathe out. Be an orange blossom, opening for the positive energy around you.
Eddie breathes in. Breathes out. He's an orange blossom. He opens for the police siren screaming past his apartment.
"Fuck."
Eddie.
Eddie grunts out, "Yeah," and rubs his face. His clock is judging him; at the tone, the time will be three-seventeen.
You need to sleep.
He really does; he's interviewing some Big Pharma asshole at nine, and he has to drive into Oakland to do it. "I'm working on it."
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. His alarm is set for seven-thirty; if he knocks out right now, he can still get four hours. Four and a half, if he gives himself until eight. That would make things tight, but it's doable if he skips the shower and eats breakfast on his bike while Venom drives. But Venom loves the shower — loves it so much that Eddie's starting to think they're actually some kind of weird, alien seal. They'll bitch about it all morning if he doesn't —
Eddie. Something ripples at the base of his spine. Rest.
Eddie rubs his face again. "I told you, I'm working on it." There's too much noise; his new apartment's better than the one Drake's thugs ripped apart, but the walls are paper-thin. One of his neighbors is watching infomercials: with Slap Chop, you can slice, dice, and mince in seconds. "Am I keeping you up or something?"
I don't sleep.
"You know what I mean."
Venom rumbles out a noise that feels like a sigh. Yes. Your agitation is preventing me from entering stasis.
"Sorry."
Eddie rolls onto his other side, away from the street-lamp outside his window — from the yellowish light glaring through the gap in the curtains. Breathe in, breathe out. His pillowcase smells like it needs to be washed. He could use a couple shots of Jack, or maybe a hot bath. A blowjob. If that didn't work, Anne would curl up against him and murmur nonsense into his neck. That calmed him nearly as much as getting off — the weight of her body, the heat of her skin.
Venom churns under Eddie's ribs. A hand — or something close to it — grips Eddie's hip. Another curves over his shoulder, and another palms his side. Smooth-warm fingertips skim over his skin, right along the hem of his t-shirt. A thin tentacle slithers underneath him and wraps around his arm.
"What—?
Sleep, Eddie.
Eddie squirms a little; cuddling with your people-eating alien hitchhiker is — it isn't — it's weird, maybe. He doesn't know. But before he can really look it in the mouth, Venom shifts closer and tightens the hand holding his hip.
Sleep.
+
Eddie flops onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling. The light fixture is dusty. A spidery crack is crawling across one of the bald patches in the stucco.
He closes his eyes and starts that relaxation technique Mrs. Chen taught him. He imagines his body going limp a little bit at a time — first his toes, then the balls of his feet, then his arches, then his heels and his ankles. His nose itches. His blanket is bunched up under his elbow. Huffing, he shoves it away and focuses on his shins. His calves. He makes it as far as his thighs before Venom roils under his skin, buzzing with irritation.
"What?"
You wanted to sleep.
"Yeah." That's why he dragged Venom away from the laptop in the middle of Voltron. It's not like he planned on staring at the walls for an hour and a half. "I did."
I could have finished season five.
"You still can," Eddie says. He finally gave in and bought some earplugs the other day. He thinks they might be in his nightstand. "Just do it in the other room."
After a pause, Venom starts spooling out of him in long ribbons attached to his side. The sudden, draining loss makes him shiver. Neither of them like being too far apart for too long; they usually only spread themselves between the kitchen table and the toaster oven, when Eddie's writing and Venom wants to warm up another batch of pizza rolls. More and more of Venom spills out, and a hollow ache gnaws at Eddie's chest. He brushes his hand over Venom's mass. Instead of slithering out the door, they half-manifest beside Eddie on the bed.
What's wrong?
"Nothing," Eddie says, shrugging. Their night-owl neighbor is watching reruns tonight, something punctuated by a metallic-sounding laugh track. "Just insomnia."
He feels pressure at the base of his skull, like Venom is prodding at his nervous system. What causes it?
"Lots of things. Stress, anxiety —"
Nothing to fear, Eddie. I'll protect us.
"Yeah, I know."
Another pause. Then a tentacle nudges Eddie's hip. I could hold you again.
"You—" don't have to do that. It was nice, that first time; Eddie slept better than he had in ages. But there's still something weird about it. Something that makes his face flush when he thinks about it. Something — just something.
Rumbling quietly, Venom pulls Eddie closer. They sink about half of themself back into his body, then slip into his head and start poking through his memories. The images flash by in quick, disjointed bursts, but it doesn't take much to figure out that Venom is watching Eddie sleep. With Anne, with Marco, with Michelle. With a couple of bar hookups who bothered to stay the night. Embarrassment tugs at Eddie's gut, but Venom just coaxes him onto his side and presses up behind him. A huge arm wraps around his waist. Venom doesn't really need to breathe, but their chest rises and falls against Eddie's back.
Night, Eddie.
Eddie closes his eyes. "Night."
+
Eddie doesn't realize he's pacing until he sideswipes the bed. He stumbles, stubbing his toe on the box-frame. Venom keeps him upright with a tentacle around his thigh and a growl he feels behind his teeth.
"Thanks."
Venom just growls again. They've been like this since they checked into the hotel — sullen, irritable. Churning in Eddie's gut like a pot of boiling water. And they refuse to tell him what's wrong; he's already asked about fifteen times.
Between Venom's bad mood and his big interview tomorrow, Eddie's ready to crawl out of his skin. He shuffles over to the mini-bar and grabs a Milky Way and an airplane bottle of Glenlivet. Venom swallows the candy bar whole, without bothering to unwrap it. It's not what they want — heads heads livers lungs heads — but it settles them a little. Enough that Eddie can knock back the scotch without feeling like he's going to puke it right up.
He paces between the mini-bar and the bed a couple of times, hoping to burn off some of Venom's restless energy. It doesn't work, so he sits down and looks over his notes again. Cletus Kasady, convicted serial killer. Eleven identified victims. Claims to have killed a dozen more. The rest is just personal and biographical tidbits, pulled from the only other interview Kasady's ever given. Eddie isn't sure he trusts it; sociopaths are born liars as a rule, and Kasady's rumored to be a theatrical sonofabitch.
Venom thunders around Eddie's gut a little more, then bristles up underneath his sternum. Sighing, Eddie rubs at his chest.
"Come on, V. You're giving me heartburn." He hopes this isn't about Kasady. Venom wants to eat him, has been nagging him about it for the last three days. "Tell me what's going on."
Venom's silent for a moment. Then: Don't like it here.
Eddie asks, "Why not?" and glances around the room. It's a typical three-star setup — walnut furniture, a king-sized bed with too many pillows, an enormous flat-screen TV. A loudly-upholstered chaise is parked in front of a full-length window with a distant view of the San Rafael Mission. It's fancier than anything Eddie would book on his own, but it's only seven minutes from San Quentin. More importantly, the FBI's footing the bill.
Not our home.
Venom follows that up with a sudden rush of emotion — a mix of defensiveness and unease that leave a bitter taste in Eddie's mouth. But it's deeper than that, a territorial instinct that's part of Venom on a molecular level, too inhuman for him to truly understand. Eddie's apartment is familiar. It's theirs. It's where Venom can rest, where they can keep Eddie safe.
"Hey, it's alright. Nothing's going to happen to me."
No. Nothing. Venom ripples under Eddie's collarbones. You're mine.
Eddie is. In ways Venom probably doesn't even realize. But that train of thought is headed down an embarrassing track, so he asks, "You want to watch TV?"
Star Trek?
"Maybe," Eddie says, laughing. Venom loves shows about space, even though all he does is complain about the shit they get wrong. "Let's see if it's on."
He swings his legs up onto the bed and leans back against the pillow-stacked headboard. Then he turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channels. It's the usual post-primetime offerings — local news, more local news, commercials, M*A*S*H. Venom normally stays inside Eddie when they're watching the same thing, but as Eddie surfs past Seinfield, last night's lottery numbers, and a weather report, they puddle onto Eddie's chest and curl up into a tight, black ball. Eddie reaches up without thinking about it, barely stops himself from petting them like a fucking cat.
Before he can pull away, thin tentacles wrap down his arms. They pause for a moment, just above his wrists, then form into glossy, human-sized hands. Their fingers slot perfectly between Eddie's.
"You—?"
Star Trek.
Eddie laughs again. "Okay, okay."
+
Eddie looks up from his laptop and flexes his half-frozen fingers. Rain is sheeting against his kitchen window, warping the reddish neon glow coming from the restaurant across the street. The storm blew in from the bay about noon and is still going strong. Because of Venom's crazy metabolism, Eddie's body usually runs pretty hot, but tonight he can't seem to shake the cold and damp. His nose is numb, and his feet feel like blocks of ice.
A dull ache in his legs tells him that it's time to stretch, so he gets up and switches on the heater. After a few tired, asthmatic rattles, it coughs out a cloud of dust that smells like a wet dog. He switches it off, gives it the finger, and heads back into the kitchen. He swings his arms around for a minute to get his blood flowing again. Then he grabs the mocha he Postmated four hours ago and promptly forgot about and puts it in the microwave.
Venom — who's tethered out of Eddie's shoulder and watching the rain — says, Take the lid off first, without looking away from the window.
Eddie gives them the finger, which earns him a deep, squirming rumble that feels like a laugh. It echoes warmly in his chest while he waits for the microwave to count down.
The mocha comes out steaming. Eddie puts the lid back on it, then brings it over to his laptop so he can promptly forget about it again. He's working on an article about the school district's budget shortfalls, and it only needs a few more paragraphs. He flexes his fingers a couple more times and skims his notes. As he starts typing, a thick tentacle uncoils from his shoulder and wraps around his neck like a scarf. The end tucks itself into the collar of his shirt.
He knocks out the next paragraph pretty quickly, but after that he loses his groove. He spends way too long staring at a disbursement schedule he doesn't understand. The school board clearly pulled some of these budget numbers straight out of its ass, and Eddie majored in journalism, not math. His eyes are burning from several solid hours of blue light; he rubs them for a second, then touches the bit of Venom bulked up under his chin. They've shifted into something like a shawl, draping heavily over Eddie's shoulders and arms.
Certificated salaries. Employee benefits. Books and supplies. Eddie's double-checking some dodgy transportation expenditures when a tentacle thumps him behind the ear. Bed, Eddie.
It isn't that late — a little after midnight. Venom's probably just bored now that the rain is easing up. Eddie doesn't bother arguing about it; his article's dead in the water until he figures those numbers out, and Venom's doing that thing where they try to herd him somewhere without really grabbing a hold of the wheel. It's a weird feeling, like getting caught in a riptide on dry land, an invisible wave swirling around him, nudging him, pulling at his legs. It ebbs over him, slow but relentless, as Eddie closes up shop for the night.
His bed's so cold he digs his spare blanket out of the hall closet. It's a scratchy old thing that smells like Eddie's first freelancing gigs out of college — dirt and sweat, bus stations and cheap motels. He pulls it up to his chin and tries to find a warm place to put his feet. Shivering, he curls in on himself. Venom thrums restlessly under his ribs.
You're cold.
"No shit."
Human bodies are inefficient.
Eddie snorts. "Big talk from the guy using mine as a house."
A sharp, prickly feeling arcs through Eddie's chest, so quick it's gone before he can really read it. Then, slowly, Venom starts welling out of Eddie in slick patches, stretching and pooling until he's wrapped up inside them. It's like being suited up for a fight, but softer, less confining. Warmer.
Better?
Oh. "Yeah. I—yeah."
+
Eddie wakes up feeling heavy, like his arms and legs are weighted to the bed. He blearily opens one eye, just enough to see that it's still dark outside. It's quiet now; the rain stopped at some point during the night. Eddie doesn't need to be up yet, so he rolls onto his side and buries his face in his pillow.
His dick is hard. He reaches for it, even though he's already drifting back to sleep. Instead of his sweats, his hand brushes something soft and warm and slick. He — shit. Venom.
Eddie?
Eddie mumbles, "Yeah, sorry," and sits up. Venom is spread over him like a blanket, tented where his dick is pressing against them. "I—uh. Sorry."
Venom seeps back inside him. Then they swirl down into his groin, like they're investigating the heat pooling there, the building tension. A few beats later, they well up under his navel and spill halfway down his thighs. They're just solid enough that Eddie feels it when they glide over his dick, smooth pressure that makes him grit his teeth and claw at the sheets.
You're... hungry?
"Not—not exactly." Fuck. This isn't the first boner he's had since Venom invaded his life, but it's the first he hasn't cold-showered away before they got too curious. "I'm—it's nothing."
Venom must sense that Eddie's lying; they make a dark, unhappy noise and push into his head. Once in there, they dig pretty deep, rooting in every secret corner, dragging up all the thoughts Eddie's desperately tried to hide the last few weeks. His arms and legs wrapped in tentacles, pinned to the bed; his head thrown back as he thrusts and grinds against a writhing, seething black mass. Venom's enormous hands holding his thighs, their claws pricking his skin. Their tongue working him open, stretching him, fucking him —
You want me to touch you.
"I—" Eddie sucks in a breath as Venom ripples over his dick again. "We shouldn't."
Why not? You want it.
Eddie closes his eyes. "But you—"
If you want it, I want it.
And that's the problem. Eddie's the horny bastard here; Venom's just along for the ride. They only want it because Eddie's body is telling them they want it, and Eddie shouldn't take advantage of that. But tentacles start winding around his arms and legs, pinning him by his wrists and ankles, just like he imagined. Warm tendrils thread between his fingers. Something that's almost a hand cradles his jaw.
Eddie.
"Yeah." The bed creaks as Eddie arches up. "Do it."
A hand yanks at his sweats, dragging them down to his knees. A finger-thin tentacle runs up the length of his dick, then slides back down and circles around the base. It's followed by another and another and another, and they stroke him together, hard and fast, everything swirling and coiling and twisting all at once. Eddie arches again. His toes curl, and he makes an embarrassing noise, but then Venom's tongue is in his mouth, filling him, shutting him up.
The bed creaks again. Eddie shivers as a wave of feeling crashes over him — something pleased and thrumming and bright, something that's also overwhelmingly alien, too big to fit underneath this skin. Tentacles slither down his legs and curve up over his thighs and hips. He tries to thrust up, to rut against the flurry of slick warmth moving over his dick, but another tentacle loops around his waist, holding him still, pinning him down.
Eddie. Venom drags their tongue up the line of his jaw. You feel good. Taste good.
More tentacles — touching his hair, his face, the hollow of his throat. The grip on his dick tightens, pulsing and rippling around him. A thin tendril lifts up to tease across the head; the tip of it catches Eddie's slit and — fuck. Fuck. Eddie comes and comes and comes, the feeling echoing back through Venom again and again until he's drowning in it, drowning in Venom. Until he's shaking, clutching at the hands Venom made for him to hold.
+
Eddie moans and rests his forehead on the wet tiles. The mass of Venom molded against his back presses closer, slowly spilling over his shoulders and down into the dip of spine. The thread-thin tendrils teasing his nipples tug and twist, and Eddie shudders with it, bracing his arm on the shower wall. His foot skids a little, but Venom is there, holding him up. Always holding him up.
They press even closer, humming with something liquid and warm. Amusement, maybe — Eddie's too strung-out to tell. Venom's been toying with him so long that his knees are weak and the water is starting to run cold. Whatever it is, the feeling fills him up, curling into his gut and spreading up through his chest. He can hardly breathe.
Eddie.
The hand touching his dick is theirs — Eddie's, but sheathed in black to the wrist. It's just holding him, thumb skimming the head, loose enough that Eddie can't really get any friction. He tries anyway, his thighs trembling as he rocks into it, jerking his hips. Teeth graze the back of his neck, and a jolt of lust courses through him like lightning. Venom finally — finally — strokes him a couple of times. He closes his eyes and bites back a noise.
No. Want to hear you.
Venom tugs his nipples again and gives his dick a couple more strokes. Then they turn him with a tentacle coiled around his waist. The water is freezing now, but Eddie is burning up, heat sparking and shifting underneath his skin. Tentacles lift from his thighs and shape themself into Venom's head. They watch Eddie for a moment, white eyes narrowed. Then they lean in and curl that impossible tongue around his dick.
"Oh, God." It's too wet, too slick, too much. "Fuck."
His knees buckle, but Venom catches him, presses him back against the tiles. They wrap more tentacles around his thighs as their tongue slides over his dick. Eddie makes another noise — loud enough that the asshole next door pounds on the wall — and Venom thrums with something that seems to swirl around his heart. He reaches for the mass of black webbing acting as Venom's neck, slipping the glossy strands between his fingers as he begs Venom to let him come.
+
Mine.
Venom growls it inside Eddie's head, but it feels loud, like it should be bouncing off the chipped sinks, echoing between the dirty walls. Eddie doesn't argue. He can't — not with the tentacle shoved in his mouth, pushing against his tongue, inching down his throat.
He'd be lying anyway.
His jeans get yanked down to his knees. Claws scrape up his sides, and then a hand pushes at him, hard between the shoulder-blades. Grunting, Eddie hunches over and braces his hands on the toilet tank. Venom grabs him by the hips, digging their thumbs in right at the top of his ass. Eddie sucks in a breath that tastes like stale water and pine-scented air freshener. His heart is beating louder than the music thumping outside the bathroom door.
Venom says, Mine, again — out loud, this time. Then they prise Eddie open and slick their tongue over his hole. A whining noise rattles in his throat, caught by the tentacle stuffed into his mouth. Venom tugs him closer to their tongue, working it over him, hot and rough and wet. Eddie white-knuckles the toilet tank. He sucks in air through his nose and tries to keep his knees from giving out.
Venom is relentless; they lick Eddie until he finally loosens up, then fuck their tongue into him with short, quick thrusts. There's a spike of emotion behind it — something thorny and sharp, a seething prickle of jealousy that Eddie doesn't really understand. Right before Venom dragged him in here, he'd been talking to a woman at the bar. But he hadn't meant anything by it, had just been making conversation while he waited for the bartender to pour his drink. Venom has to know that by now. They have to know that Eddie —
You wanted her.
Eddie shakes his head. Spit is running down his chin.
Liar.
Snarling, Venom grips Eddie's hips hard enough to bruise. Their teeth pinprick his skin, and then their tongue is shoving into him, stretching him, plunging deep, deep. It teases his prostate — again and again and again — and he shudders all over, another noise catching in his throat. He's close to coming, so fucking close. He reaches for his dick, but the tentacle in his mouth snaps down and slaps his hand away.
"V, please."
Another snarl. Then: She wouldn't touch you like this. Wouldn't make you feel like this.
Eddie knows. He fucking knows. Venom ruined him weeks ago; he can't imagine wanting anyone else.
Mine.
"Yes," Eddie says honestly. "Yes."
+
Venom manifests in front of Eddie, forming a nearly-full body that's tethered to his knees. It isn't as big as their fighting form, but it's big enough to crush Eddie back against the wall.
Eddie.
"It's fine," Eddie says, his voice shaking. He's riding the tail-end of an adrenaline high that has him jumping out of his skin. "I'm fine. I'm not even bleeding anymore."
Venom makes a rough, furious noise and grabs Eddie's arm. They poke their thumb into the hole in his sleeve, right where the bullet went in.
"See? It's okay." But it almost wasn't; Eddie can barely hear himself over the panicked thud of his heart. The mugger they took down had a friend hiding around the corner with a gun, and he squeezed off a shot just as Venom was sinking back into Eddie's body. "You fixed it."
Shouldn't have let you get hurt.
Eddie starts to say, "It's okay," again, but then Venom's tongue is in his mouth. They hold Eddie's face in one huge hand and touch the now-healed bullet wound with the other. Eddie leans into it, his body still shaking, his heart still beating too hard and too fast. He clutches at Venom's shoulders and arms, digging his fingers into sleek, black muscle.
Venom rumbles with anxious fury, a razor-sharp feeling that bristles through Eddie's chest and throat. They press closer, crowding in until the wall bites at Eddie's shoulder-blades, until the grit of the bricks snags his shirt. They drag their tongue down his jaw and throat, let their teeth graze the side of his neck. The hand on Eddie's arm drops down to his hip. Something with the weight and heft of a thigh shoves between his legs.
They shouldn't do this here — in the alley behind the block of topless joints on Broadway, with their dinner's blood splattered around Eddie's feet. Any minute now, another mugger could come by, or a drunk could stumble outside to take a piss behind the dumpster. The cops could roll up, looking for this neighborhood's usual brand of trouble. But Eddie just scrapes his nails down Venom's back and tips his head up to open his throat for their tongue. They won't stop kissing him, won't stop grinding against him, won't stop murmuring inside his head.
Eddie. Eddie. Safe now. Safe. Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie.
+
Venom sprawls Eddie's naked body on the couch before manifesting a little, just a head and a tangle of tentacles that aren't quite arms.
Touch yourself.
"What—?"
Touch yourself. Want to see.
Eddie flushes, heat crawling over his cheeks and crowding up underneath his jaw. It wouldn't be the first time he's given someone a show, but he — it's been a while. Venom is a greedy sonofabitch, sometimes acts like Eddie's dick is their personal property. If they don't slap his hand away when he reaches for himself, they "help" him by curling slick-black tendrils around his shaft, threading them between his fingers.
Eddie. Want to watch.
Heat coils into Eddie's gut. He scoots down until his head is resting on the arm of the couch and wraps his hand around his dick. His palm is rougher than whatever Venom is made of, drier, a little bit warmer. But it feels good, and he's been hard for what seems like forever because Venom likes to play with their food. It only takes a few strokes for him to fall into a rhythm — pumping his fist, twisting his wrist, rocking his hips. He teases his thumb over his nipple. He plants one foot on the floor and arches off the couch. Venom likes it when he's noisy, so he stops trying to swallow the sounds spilling out of his mouth.
He's close to coming when a tentacle loops around his wrist and yanks his hand away. The sudden stop makes him ache; he grunts, "You fucker," and throws his sweatshirt at Venom's head. Venom ducks it easily. Then they bring his hand to their mouth and start winding their tongue around his fingers, slow and wet. They lick at him until his hand is soaked, spit running down his palm and wrist.
Open yourself.
Eddie huffs out a laugh. "You feeling lazy tonight?"
Eddie.
A tentacle slides up the inside of Eddie's thigh. He sucks in a breath, then hitches his leg over the back of the couch and slips a finger into his ass. This is another thing Venom usually hoards for themself, so it's kind of hot that they're asking him to do it, that they want to watch. He finds a rhythm again, his hips rolling as his fingers press and twist, as his body loosens and warms. Two fingers, then three. His thighs shake, and sweat starts beading on his chest. The heat in his gut coils tighter and tighter; he could come like this, if Venom would just touch his dick.
Venom hums Eddie's name. A feeling rises in them, something that brims through Eddie's chest, bright and sweet and deep and endless. It's also possessive, consuming, dangerous as it spreads through every part of his body. It — oh. Oh. Of course Eddie would figure it out now — while he's fucking himself on his own hand, while Venom is hovering over him like a horny, toothy, alien stormcloud.
A horny, toothy, alien stormcloud that loves him.
"You—" Eddie's mouth won't work. Neither will his brain. "You —?"
You really didn't know?
"Shut up," Eddie says, grabbing at them. Because they're an asshole, they slip through Eddie's fingers like water. "Just—come here."
Venom lets out a rumble that feels like a laugh. Their tongue laves the hollow Eddie's throat. A tentacle pushes into his ass, then another, and another — stretching him, filling him, too much, too much. It's rhythmnless, desperate. Writhing. Eddie heaves out a moan and arches up to meet it. Another tentacle wraps around his dick, and that it — he's fucking done. He comes, and then Venom comes, pleasure looping between them until Venom is sparking like a live wire, until Eddie is shaking and panting and clawing at the couch.
Once Eddie can breathe again, Venom puddles on his chest. Eddie strokes a hand over them, easy and slow.
Mine.
Love. Eddie kisses the tendril curling around his fingers. "Yeah. Yours."