It’s Saturday night and Eddie is attempting to eat popcorn from a bowl precariously perched on his stomach when they hear the knock.
He, and his symbiote, stare at the door in silent agreement. We’re not here. Go away.
The knock comes again, sounding somewhat tentative. Not the police, then. Probably some neighbor wanting them to move their bike or something.
Eddie’s phone vibrates.
“Shit,” he curses, the bowl almost overturning as he works to fish his phone from his pocket. The caller ID flashes on the screen, saying simply, “Intern.”
“What?” he whispers into the phone so that the person outside the door won’t hear him.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you at home?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
“Wha—Oh.” Eddie heaves a sigh. “No. Go away.”
“Please,” the kid says, and there’s a strange note of desperation to his voice that makes Eddie pause. He heaves a deep sigh. “Fine,” he says, and heaves himself up off the couch, the symbiote slinking quietly into his skin.
Underneath the apartment’s safety light is said intern, looking sweaty and disheveled. “Hey, Eddie,” he says, sounding clearly relieved, and Eddie’s anxiety siren starts to go off. A teenage superhero showing up at your door in the middle of the night does not bode well already, and if he actually sounds relieved to see you, well, he’s probably not about to sell you a magazine subscription.
“What’s up?” Eddie asks urgently. Then, noting the abundance of bugs flitting around in the light, he adds, “Come on in.”
“You hurt?” He asks as he heads back to the couch. Place a mess, of course. “Something threatening the world? Someone’s been kidnapped?”
“No—”
“Someone’s threatening you? Or—” he registers the kid’s flushed appearance—“are—are you sick or something?"
“No, uh, no one’s in danger. This is, uh, personal,” the kid practically stammers. Eddie’s never seen him like this before.
“You want anything? Beer? How old are you, again?” He asks, stepping into the kitchen. He’s starting to calm down, now. His reporter’s sense is tingling—he’s seen this look many times before. It’s the look of, “I want to tell you something, but I’m too shy/embarrassed/worried the mafia will retaliate to do so.” Whatever it is, he’s going to have to coax it out of him. Build up a rapport.
Which he happens to be very good at.
“How’s school?” He asks casually, settling himself on a barstool. He knows from long experience that laying on the pressure won't get him what he wants.
“F-fine."
“Making good grades? Staying out of trouble?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie sips his beer in silence. Rule #1 in the reporter/lawyer/salesman handbook: Shut Up, Stupid. Most humans can’t bear to sit in silence for too long. Eventually, they start babbling to fill the air.
“Uh,” Peter starts, right on cue.
Eddie waits.
“Um. Uh, what you said about being sick. Um, kind of. Is the answer.”
A red tinge creeps up his cheeks, and he falls silent.
Eddie continues to adhere to Rule #1, casually pulling his sleeves over his tattoos. Another trick of the trade: subliminally minimize the threat.
Heat, Eddie, the symbiote says quietly. He smells…hungry.
Fuck. It’s right. Even tucked away in his body, the symbiote’s keen senses have picked up the pheromones that are practically radiating off the boy. Now that it’s been pointed out to him, Eddie can’t believe he didn’t notice.
“Oh, fuck,” he says. “You’re horny? You’re in heat?”
The kid nods mutely, and this time Eddie’s silence is real—and awkward. Does the kid want sex advice? Is he today’s replacement dad?
“Uh. Okay? Do…you…need help?”
For the love of God, he is not prepared to give Spiderman advice about condoms today.
“I’m—I’m so—it’s so bad,” the kid mutters, staring at his lap. His pink tinge has graduated to a full-on blush. In spite of himself, Eddie softens. The boy’s a kid. He doesn’t want to be here, either. He came because he doesn't know what else to do. Lord knows Eddie hadn't had any parental guidance, either, at that age.
“Okay,” he says calmly. “Don't you have a girlfriend? She mad at you, or something?”
“No…”
Us,Eddie, the symbiote says. He wants us.
Eddie chooses to ignore this completely, and adds, “I can’t help you if I don’t know the problem, kid.”
“She’s not mad,” Peter stammers. “She’s—she—I hurt her. I hurt her really bad. The last time we—you know." He stares at his feet in shame.
“I broke two of her ribs…left bruises all over her arms. She—she’s not mad at me, but…I can’t. I’ve tried to be careful, but…
“I’m too strong. Super-strong. I can lift cars…throw statues…I’m too hard…too heavy…”
Eddie looks at him pityingly, at a loss for what to say.
“I tried it with a guy,” Peter says, “I made a Grindr account…I thought that, maybe, with someone bigger than me…but it happened again. I break everyone...”
Finally, he seems to steel himself and looks straight at Eddie in the eye. “You’re the only one, Eddie,” he says anxiously. “You’re the only one who could—with the symbiote—you could—"
“Have sex with you?” Eddie finishes incredulously.
Peter says nothing.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? Why not? I mean, if you’re not into me, that’s—“
“I shouldn’t be into you. That’s the point. I’m twice your age—more than twice your age! I’m--” Eddie winces at the unanticipated dilemma of math.
“Twenty-three years older,” Peter says quietly.
“Whatever,” Eddie says irritably. Math. “Yeah. Twenty-three years older than you. And you’re my intern!”
“Ex-intern. And I’ll be eighteen next year…”
“The age isn't the point! The age is just a number that the government decided is bad. It’s not about the age, it’s the principle. You just shouldn’t have sex with an older person—they could manipulate you—take advantage of you--”
He stops, not wanting to stir up memories of hookups that went wrong, the guys who'd said he was so mature, so much smarter than the other college kids…and, vain as he was, he’d swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.
“I can’t,” he says helplessly. “I can’t. It's--it's personal. I’m sorry.”
The kid doesn’t answer, just looks at him with the saddest, most defeated eyes Eddie’s ever seen.
Seventeen. God.
He remembers being in heat at seventeen. The lust was insatiable, agonizing. He remembers sneaking away to his room at every opportunity, having full-on breakdowns in public at the sight of a nicely-toned forearm. Wondering if it would ever, ever stop—
Fuck.
His most deeply-held principles are smacking right up against his savior complex, fighting for dominance. He runs his fingers through his hair, then looks around for something that will make this problem go away. Unsuccessfully.
What do you think about this?
Am okay with it, Eddie, the symbiote replies. He smells good…tasty...
We’re not eating him, Eddie answers. Fuck, what am I—we’re not doing anything to him! I could never live with myself if—
But he asked, Eddie, the symbiote says quietly. You said if people ask…then it’s okay…
For the second time in as many minutes, Eddie winces, this time at the sound of his own words, spoken during a very recent conversation about biting, consent, and why humans sometimes enjoy pain.
If you want, the symbiote continues, I could help you…make you calmer...less upset...
Eddie looks back at the kid, who’s watching his internal debate anxiously from a bar stool.
If he works really hard to forget that he’s his intern, for God’s sakes, Peter is—God—he’s actually pretty attractive. Slender, but not fragile. Taut, lean muscles like a gymnast. And those big soulful eyes looking back at him. Something in Eddie’s stomach—not the symbiote—jerks.
“Alright,” he says slowly, “alright…but you can’t tell anyone…anyone…I mean, unless you feel, like, violated, then feel free I guess…but just remember, I could get arres—
And that’s when Peter pounces on them.
As always. Before he, Eddie, can even register what’s happening, black ink bursts over his body, just in time to protect his skin from the ravenous seventeen-year-old superhuman plowing into it.
“Holy—Peter! Jesus--I’m a human, you know--”
“I’m sorry,” the kid moans, pressing himself into them desperately. “I can’t—help--”
“It’s alright,” Eddie answers, and suddenly he’s relaxed, calm. Amorous. The symbiote’s handiwork, no doubt.
Together they lean forward and kiss the trembling teenager, slipping their tongue in his mouth and down his throat. Peter moans gratefully, his mouth muffled by tongue.
They pick him up and carry him to the bedroom. “Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” Eddie murmurs, still in possession of his bare human face, massaging Peter’s thighs with his hands. “Jesus, were you fighting a wave this entire time?”
“Eddie,” Peter whimpers, “Make it stop…”
He is strong, Eddie realizes. He hadn’t been kidding. His smooth, slender body, so much smaller than theirs, feels like it’s made of steel cables. Even with the symbiote’s strength, Eddie can sense the raw power radiating through the boy. Unbidden, a memory emerges from years ago, of a contractor fixing Eddie’s garage door springs. “They’re small, but cut ‘em the wrong way and these things are lethal,” the man had said.
“We’ve got you, kid,” Eddie says, and bends forward.
Seeing Eddie standing there in all his tattooed glory was almost too much to bear. But even that--even if this adventure turned out to be a humiliating waste of time--was better than lying in his bedroom in Queens, fighting wave after wave of agonizing need.
His hands weren’t enough. Nothing was enough. He needed to be fucked and licked and sucked and held, he needed a real, live, human body bearing down on his, he needed heaviness, weight…he wanted someone to master him, manhandle him. How unfortunate, Peter thought wryly, that he was probably more powerful than anyone in the city. Well, in Queens, anyway.
Bracing himself against another wave, his mind had flashed to Eddie, as he had looked earlier during their walk: black sleeves rolled up to the elbows, an eagle’s wing peeking out on one forearm and something—a skull?—partially concealed on the other. When they’d stopped so that Eddie could talk to a homeless woman he knew, Peter had rather guiltily taken the opportunity to study Eddie’s face. He had, Peter thought, unusually pretty eyes; a girl’s eyes, almost out of place on such a rugged-looking body. But the tough-guy look, he was learning more and more, was—mostly—an illusion. In reality, Eddie was the type who would rather carefully capture a spider in a cup and release it, than stomp on it.
All the interns joked about their shared crush on Eddie; it was unanimously agreed that their supervisor was 100% certified hot . His fans on the internet certainly noticed, too, as evidenced by multiple salivating comments on every story they posted to social media. “He can change my climate,” one recent, memorable reply had said.
Peter silently agreed that the man was good-looking…but he’d never thought about him romantically…had never actually wanted to touch him…
Until now.
“If you need help, call me,” Eddie had said. He’d looked sincere.
Peter sat up in bed, hating this decision already. Two minutes later, he was out the window, the cold Queens air whipping his face.
Fast-forward to now, in Eddie’s bedroom. He actually said yes and they’re actually doing this and yesyesyesyesyes
His rejoicing his interrupted by a fat, wet kiss bypassing his lips and filling his mouth completely. Eddie’s face is still Eddie’s, but it’s not, can’t possibly be a human tongue.
Unable to help himself, he whimpers; his body has been begging for his kind of rude touch for days.
They scoop him up like he weighs nothing—an impressive testament to their strength—and carry him in a bedroom. He only has time to register blue sheets and a nice painting of a palm tree before—whumpf—they’ve got him on his back.
Wasting no time, Eddie slides his palms, still coated in viscous black liquid, up Peter’s sides, caressing him and taking his shirt off at the same time. It feels, Peter thinks, like he’s on fire; like the hands have left twin burn-marks behind them, glowing on his skin.
Eddie deftly slips the shirt over Peter’s head and shoulders with the skill of someone who’s clearly done this a thousand times before. Peter’s heart spikes as he realizes that he’s with someone who actually knows what he’s doing.
Eddie does the same with Peter’s pants—doesn’t just strip them off, but uses it as another opportunity to stroke Peter’s thighs, his legs. At last, Peter’s left bare, and embarrassingly erect, on the bed.
“Are you—should I take your clothes off, too?” he asks anxiously.
Eddie grins slyly, and his clothes just—melt right off.
Peter laughs in surprise, and Eddie smiles. Then suddenly his lips, those perfect plush lips are mouthing Peter’s nipples, and those big rough hands are around his waist and Peter is melting, melting, melting.
Eddie leans down and draws his tongue—which still seems much longer than a normal tongue—across Peter's navel and up his chest.
He comes. A lot.
Oh, God. His cheeks burn with humiliation.
Eddie laughs quietly. “You really weren’t kidding, were you?”
Peter doesn’t answer, still burning with shame. True, he’s in heat, but still, he should be able to last longer than three seconds.
“Why didn’t you—” Eddie starts, then changes his tone. “Uh, a good tip is, if you know you’re going to have sex with someone, you can, you know, play with yourself before they come over, and it’ll help you last longer.”
“I did.”
“Ah.”
Five times, though he doesn't say that.
“Seventeen…” Eddie laughs softly to himself as he turns and pulls open the drawer next to him. He pulls out some tissues, and again, uses the opportunity to run them up Peter's thighs, stomach, mopping up the spill. Peter has the sudden, strange thought that Eddie's teaching him, through demonstration, how to be a lover.
“Not a problem,” Eddie murmurs. “It’ll be more fun to work you up again.”
And once again he’s—they’re—licking him, their wet mouth moving across his chest as he groans with burning, agonizing pleasure. He can't stand this, can’t stand this, can’t stand this. More. God.Please, more. He actually feels tears start to sparkle in the corner of his eyes.
"So," Eddie murmurs. "You broke your girlfriend's ribs. We can’t have that, now, can we?”
He smirks darkly down at Peter, whose stomach leaps. "You're a menace. A danger to society…clearly, somebody has to do something…”
And Peter watches in awe as thick, black tendrils rise from Eddie's back, from his sides, and coil around Peter's thighs and biceps and wrists. Instinctively, he tries to pull away, but they’ve got him fast; in a few more seconds, they’ve got him bound to the cold metal bars of the bedframe. A tendril snakes over his mouth and he’s left to stare at them with only his wide, shocked eyes visible.
Again, he tests his bonds and finds that even with his spider-strength, each one feels like a steel beam. He realizes that he may have underestimated him—them—and finds himself hoping furtively that they never actually have to fight…
“Now you’re all wrapped up, little spider,” Eddie says. “You can consider this your punishment, for all the damage you've done..."
God. Peter would like to contribute, to participate in this brand new game of talking and teasing, but all he can do is pant. Maybe one day, he’ll be able to talk dirty during sex; for now, the mere fact that sex is actually happening is enough to overwhelm his young body.
They pull the tendril covering his mouth away, and for a second he worries that they actually expect him to say something, but the worries are quickly dispelled as Eddie--Venom--forces a tendril through his lips and into his mouth once again. This time, though, there’s no questioning the size and length of the tongue: it’s huge, wet, and so, so thick. Mouth full, Peter whimpers, begging for more and less at the same time.
And agreeably, the tongue-tendril pushes its way down his esophagus, filling him, filling him. He gasps around it, and feels it adjust a little bit to give him some air. A tiny reassurance that it’s all just a game; that, really, they are still being careful not to harm him.
“All tied up with nowhere to run,” Eddie says, sighing melodramatically.
Then he pushes his mouth forward onto Peter’s cock.
Oh, God.
God.
Yes.
It’s so wet, so plush and so thick and so wet.
Those lips…those lips…
He’s dying, dying, dying. He’s never felt anything like this...never...
And he’s cresting, crying out, the heat rising in a final, devastating wave. Tears spill down his cheeks and drip onto his stomach, and through the tendril filling his mouth he’s moaning, begging, pleading, yes yes yes yes…Eddie…Eddie…Fuck me, fill me, finish me, God…
And the—stuff—gushes out of him, and Eddie’s eyes are gentle, beautiful as he swallows it. He grips Peter's hips firmly as he trembles and is rocked by another orgasm.
It’s okay, love. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.
How did he hear them? Eddie’s mouth is full—
But he’s coming again, and he can’t see, think, hold anything except, for some inexplicable reason, a bright red light, a bright red splash of paint like the Rothko exhibit at the MOMA and he didn’t understand but now he understands, he understands everything and then—
It’s over.
At last, it's over.
Shaking, Peter falls limply into Eddie's arms. The tentacles withdraw slowly back into Eddie’s body.
Noises are coming out of him, noises that aren’t really moans or cries, just sort of…notes, single long notes of happiness and satisfaction.
“It’s okay, it’s okay," Eddie purrs. "We’ve got you. You good?”
“Eddie…” is Peter can say. He nuzzles into his shoulder, suddenly exhausted.
For the first time in weeks, he sleeps soundly.
###