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Black Sustenance	By : FamiraDamaris Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Spiderman Views: 15551 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Spiderman, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Black Sustenance
by Famira Damaris
Disclaimer: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.
Author Notes: Same old story: while I do ship Venom/Spider-man, plot comes first.
Italics for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote
Archive: Sure, just ask.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Black Sustenance
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
(Mating)
Judging by the army of assistants Alistair Smythe already had, the amount of help wasn’t exactly a problem.
Peter Parker was fairly sure that this was more than a little bit suspicious. Does he know? He doesn’t act like he does. Peter had spent the better portion of his first day and a half getting a crash course tour of the floors he was told he needed to know; from what he’d seen, security from the inside wasn’t as tight as the outside of the Tower, at least not beyond Eddie Brock’s cell-thing. Whatever it was. Smythe said it was “temporary sleeping accommodations”, but Peter knew a prison when he saw one.
That was interesting and all, and probably highly relevant, but that still didn’t answer the question of why he was here. Sure, he’d applied, but no background check? Getting hired on the first try? What was it Smythe said the first day?
I expect this to be extremely short term. Key emphasis on short term
Pretty ominous looking back on it. Ominous as in bordering on supervillian-euphemism ominous. Did Smythe mean he already knew Peter was faking? Or maybe he didn’t; maybe it was still shady, but not for the reasons Peter thought? So far he hadn’t any indication that Smythe knew he was Peter Parker, much less Spider-man. The teenager wanted to sigh. He missed the days when he could just web up the bad guys on a lamppost and let the cops sort it out. No point just wishing things were back to how they were used to be, though. Peter glanced down at the clipboard he’d been given by one of the female assistants (he called her “Freckles” in his head) to deliver, and tried to figure out if there was anything sinister on it. Looking around furtively, Peter lifted up the cover sheet and snuck a peek at the papers underneath.
It seemed to be all about Brock, which was bad enough. In fact, from what Peter could tell from the glimpse of Alistair’s lab, everything in his recent life seemed to revolve around the ex-journalist in some form or another. Peter got the creeps just from stepping through the Star Trek door and seeing that bank of screens shimmering in the air, with Smythe sitting before them like some kind of conductor.
The results on clipboard seemed to be about some kind of condition Brock had. It sounded almost like some sort of sickness, especially when the word “withdrawal” and “chemical imbalance” kept cropping up. Peter frowned. As far as he knew, Brock had been a typically healthy human before all this, maybe more so than usual – he didn’t smoke and the only thing he seemed to drink was Red Bulls. But Peter supposed that getting buddy-buddy with a symbiote wasn’t the most healthy lifestyle choice, especially when you didn’t know where the thing had been in the first place. It probably didn’t help the symbiote could choose what it wanted you to know – he’d found that out the hard way and nearly electrocuted himself in the process. So there was a chance Brock contracted some kind of crazy space flu once he came into contact with the symbiote.
Peter didn’t have time to get a closer look, letting the coversheet flutter back into place as Freckles rounded the corner. Out of assistants he’d seen, she was the only one who seemed to take notice of him, much less look up long enough to say something as short as “hi”. All he knew was that she’d been Brock’s “feeder” before…until he’d threatened her to rip her guts out. Now she refused to go into that cell unless someone was with her.
Peter was apparently that someone.
He only hoped Brock would have enough self-control not to try the same with him. Brock might not like it, but Peter was his ticket out of here; his only ticket, actually, because he was pretty sure that one, no one knew where he’d vanished to, and two, no one except Peter would try something as monumentally stupid as to try to rescue him.
“I was hoping I could catch up to you, Kaine,” Freckles said. Her voice sounded hollow in the reinforced corridor and she unconsciously lowered it. “Do you have a minute?”
Peter tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Sure.”
“We’re scheduled to try to feed Brock in an hour. I’m guessing you haven’t dealt with him before?”

Lady, more than is probably healthy. “No. I just heard he was a handful.”
Freckles laughed harshly. “That’s the nice way of putting it.”
“I thought that’s why we both go. So it won’t be too dangerous.”
The older woman tried to laugh it off, but her bottom lip trembled slightly. Obviously she was recalling her up close and personal encounter. Peter almost felt sorry for her, but then he remembered who she was working for and decided he didn’t feel that sorry for her. Besides, he needed to remember his priorities: springing Brock free was at the top of the list, followed by a good knuckle-sandwich Fisk’s way (and maybe Smythe, because he just seemed like he deserved it). She’d made a choice to work for these people.
“You jus’ have t’learn how t’handle him. Smythe’s got him by th’ balls with that collar thing.”
Peter turned and came face to face with Sand Dude. The man was about to say something, but suddenly paused as he frowned down at the teenager’s face, looking puzzled.
“Hey, do I know you?”
“No,” Peter said hurriedly. He held out his hand: “I’m Stanley Kaine. I was hired the other day?”
“Flint Marko an’ I didn’t hear anything about new interns. You sure we didn’t met before?”
Freckles spoke up. “What do you want, Mr. Marko?”
“Smythe wants you t’ head downstairs. They’re runnin’ more tests,” Marko rolled his eyes, “So you lucked out of th’ feedin’”
Freckles breathed a sigh of relief as Peter frowned. “So what should we do now?”
Marko started to walk away. “How would I know? I’m sure Smythe’ll think up somethin’ to keep you two busy.”
Peter watched as he walked away. Freckles turned to him.
“I suppose we’ll have to report to Mr. Smythe, but at least we don’t have to deal with Brock,” she offered a smile. “Let’s go.”
Peter followed Freckles down the hall. From what he understood, these three floors were dedicated to Smythe’s “research”: the top was the observation deck, with his freaky Big Brother setup. The next was the prison level, all devoted to Brock’s lonesome, and the third was the actual laboratories. While the first two bothered him, it was the last level which was the real piece of work. The last floor was just as clean and impersonal as the others, but it was where he could actually see what they were working on. And, following Freckles through more of Smythe’s Star Trek doors (he seemed to love those things), Peter could see that today they were actually working on Brock himself.
The blond was lying on his back on a mix between a table and steel chair, surrounded by researchers. Tubes hooked up into his arms and chest, winding over the straps stretched snug across his naked chest and arms. At least he looked unconscious; Peter couldn’t see Brock putting up with this without a fight, although the fact he was here at all was troubling, even if he was probably hopped up on drugs. How much did they know about Brock and his new best friend? Peter didn’t know too much about the research here, but he did know that Fisk and his cronies managing to duplicate the symbiote – if that was even their plan – would be a bad, bad idea. Adjusting his glasses, Peter trailed after Freckles, the older woman leading them around Brock and to another room, where another of the researchers was standing behind some kind of thick, shielded glass and manipulating a black vial with gloved hands. He paused as the two entered the room.
“Where’s Mr. Smythe?” Freckles asked.
“Went upstairs for a sec, said he’ll be right back.”
“Any more progress on the sample?”
“Well, lately it’s been reacting to…”
Peter ignored them as he watched the vial. He wasn’t exactly sure what the man was doing, but the vial looked like it was holding weakly bubbling oil under the glow of the lamps. Probably from Brock, although he could swear he saw some faint swirls of red mixed in with the black. Red wasn’t exactly Brock’s color, but it could just be as a result from whatever the sample had been subjected to in the tests. Yet another thing he’d have to look into, Peter sighed. Assuming he could smuggle Brock out, he’d have to come back here and make sure to destroy whatever research they had, such as these samples.
“Just the two people I was looking for,” Smythe suddenly said from behind.
Peter turned. Smythe appeared as unperturbed as ever, as if he was out for a stroll. He looked the same as yesterday and the day before, and Peter would’ve sworn he didn’t sleep if it wasn’t for the fact that he had different clothes on. The British scientist steered his hoverchair back toward the main lab, not looking back to see if his two employees were following. “Alison, I need you to run these downstairs. My employer wants to have them on his desk before his flight.”
He handed a pair of neatly compiled folders to her, glancing at Peter as Freckles left. Peter wanted nothing more than to intercept that folder – probably all the information on Brock – before it got to its destination, and it was a struggle to just remain standing as if this wasn’t any of his business.
“As for you. You’ll go with upstairs with Brock once we’re finished here and see that he’s settled back in his cell. Make sure he eats.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smythe paused, and then, rifling through the paperwork he had on him, casually handed Peter a piece of paper. “Take a look at this.”
Peter looked down. His breath caught in his chest as he took in what he was seeing. It was a grainy photo, but he could still make out the red and blues of his Spider-man outfit. “What’s this?” he managed to say, surprised he sounded confused instead of guilty.
“An unwanted guest. I was told he was spotted around the premises.”
Peter handed back the photo, wordlessly, unsure what he was expected to say. Smythe wasn’t looking at him any differently, and, in fact, looked nonplussed over the whole matter, as if he was asking for a professional’s opinion and was taking it into consideration even though Peter hadn’t actually said anything yet. “There’s a great chance we’ll have to transfer the subject to a new location in the immediate future, just to take some precautions. I’ll expect you to spread the word and be ready to assist with the transfer.”
What was that all about? Peter turned the encounter over and over in his head during his shift, but no matter how he looked at it, how he tried to argue or rationalize it, he came to the same conclusion: he couldn’t tell if Smythe was onto him or not. It was possible it was a trap, but if they moved Brock, there was no telling if he’d have another chance to spring the man and get him out of Fisk’s clutches. Peter worried it over as he followed the gurney with the unconscious man still strapped in, glancing around the other employee to check up on him. Brock’s head lolled drunkenly as they went through the reinforced halls back to his cell, and he was only just starting to wake up by the time he was already inside.
Watching Brock starting to come around, Peter almost felt sorry for him. Even though what he knew Brock did, no one deserved getting put under the microscope like this and treated like some kind of expensive lab equipment.
Peter reached into the lab coat, and pulled out a sample needle, nodding to the other assistant that he’d be fine alone with Brock. It was apparently standard procedure to continually draw blood from Brock before and after each of these “check ups”; it’d give Peter now the chance to hopefully get in a word edgewise to Brock. Crossing the white floor, the teenager bent down toward the naked man, willed himself to keep his eyes on his face and not any lower, and knelt close.
Locating a vein in the crook of his elbow, Peter gazed at Brock’s face. I know you’re all sedated and while that does wonders for your personality, I really, really need you awake right now, he thought.
Brock groaned, his eyes flickering open for a moment. They fixed on Peter for a second with only dumb, glassy-eyed incomprehension, and then the blond stiffened once the thought finally found a place to click.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Peter whispered, lips barely moving as he glanced at the needle, keeping his head bent. The camera was top down. “And you’re right, this’s the dumbest thing ever.”
Brock only stared. It made Peter uneasy, the way he looked at him. Not just the hate, which he was only too familiar with, but also this look like he’d like nothing more than to eat him from breakfast. Freckles said that Brock looked at everyone like that, but still. She hadn’t known Brock when he was normal and alien-free, and couldn’t know how freaky it was to have someone you knew and thought you liked look at you like that. But at least he was listening…that or he was too drugged out to put up a fight. Peter decided to be optimistic and hope it was the first one.
Peter withdrew the needle, bending down to the task, his words almost inaudible. Brock had great hearing, even hopped up, so he’d probably still pick up what he said. Peter didn’t want to risk Smythe overhearing.
“Tomorrow night. Be ready.”
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Flint Marko knew what he saw.
He just wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about it now. He went about playing Smythe’s crony absentmindedly, trying to decide where to go from here and for once distracted from that freak show Smythe called the observation deck. Spider-man was here. Flint was sure of it. While he didn’t much care for the little runt after their first couple of encounters, he still couldn’t say he could turn his back on a kid just waltzing in here; Spider-man was over his head, way over, and was probably going to get caught. Smythe would have a field day with not one, but two freaks.
The worst part of knowing all this was the fact that Flint wasn’t so sure he could look the other way this time.
Right now he was very damn disillusioned with his job, and while the money – an ridiculous, disgustingly huge amount that had more zeros than should be possible – was already wired into another account overseas, he was still left with a seriously bad taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the prospect of an early retirement.
Flint saw to it that Smythe’s latest report was in Fisk’s hands before taking a good, long stroll outside to think, hands shoved in his pockets. Quite frankly, after this job, with the money already paid up front, Flint was set for life. So was the family he’d been goddamn careful about concealing from Fisk: his mother was safely off in New Zealand now (what safer place than one at the opposite end of the world?), and his daughter Penny was already on her way to join her. Fisk could reach far, but the only thing he could contend with now was Flint himself, and Flint was willing to bet that if it was mano a mano, he’d be able to take the fat bastard. He was only a normal human.
The idea of crossing Wilson Fisk even so wasn’t too appealing.

Maybe I’m just imagining things, Flint thought, glancing in through a bakery window. Bullshit. I know that was him. Sure, the new intern looked older, but he still recognized the face and the voice. No matter how he tried to spin it, there was no pretending that he didn’t know that Spider-man was here, right under Smythe’s nose, and probably up to no good. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together and arrive at the conclusion that he was probably here because of Brock; the two seemed to be fucking linked. When one was in trouble, the other would no doubt come knocking soon. Flint was of the opinion that brat or not, Spider-man really should pick his company better. Brock was a sicko and not someone you’d want to take home, much less waste time trying to mount a rescue attempt.
Spider-man was young, but probably not stupid if he lasted this long. Obviously there was something about Brock that he thought worth risking it all over. Flint would just have to find out what it was: whatever It was, it could either be valuable to the Kingpin…or perhaps something that would make even Flint think twice about turning it over to one of the richest men in the country.
Swearing under his breath, Flint cursed the fact that he was even having second thoughts about all this shit. That was the problem about having a conscience – it made you soft. Silver Sable simply didn’t give a shit, which explained why he was here and she wasn’t. It also explained why she was a crazy, cold-hearted bitch flying solo and he actually had a pulse.
Flint went past the bakery, despite the fact a croissant looked really good right now. First he’d have to find out what Spider-man was up to before he started getting these retarded thoughts about what he’d “do next”, if anything.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The third and final stage of the Hunger is the loss of temporal awareness.
All that matters is now.
For Eddie Brock, there is no real past, no future. Just a vague sense that there is something before now and that there will be something after now, but these concepts are overall meaningless without names. Unimportant. After all, they belong to a different creature that what he is in the present. They belong to a thinking creature. Eddie does not think aside from what his body tells him is worth thinking about. Right now his needs are fairly simple aside from the fact he still wants for anything, which means he is not complete yet.
All that matters is fulfilling the most basic of needs: anything else is a distraction. Eddie feels many things right now. He is tired, cold, hungry, and above all, he is ready to find his mate and procreate. It’s in his bones, the growing seed of offspring feeding off his body like the fat leech it is and growing larger still. But it won’t spawn until he mates and gives it that extra boost. It’s a parasite, something unwanted, probably dangerous, and yet it’s instinct that necessitates its birth. Eddie doesn’t know how he knows this, only that he does and that he also knows that it is not of the same species he is. It’s something different. But it’s not here now and so it’s still just an impression of offspring, not the real thing. When it comes, it will then truly exist for him.
It’s mindless, this hunger, an instinct aimed only at preservation. The first priority is to feed himself, to consume the necessary flesh before looking after this feeling of leech growing inside. First come first serve.
Eddie sits in his world, which is only a few feet across, and watches the prey he can’t get to without frustration. He can’t see them with the black walls, but he knows they are there. It’s a sixth sense that’s only become stronger and stronger the hungrier he gets. Eddie tracks the various prey moving just beyond his reach like a cat, staring right at them and later getting up to pace, following them until they move away out of range.
It’s no use, but he still does it anyway.
Eddie is still tired, cold, hungry, and horny. I want sleep, his body says, I want warmth, I want food, I want sex. I want I want I want. And his eyes still hurt from the bright lights in the low sky – a “ceiling”, he remembers, but doesn’t remember from where.
There is no particular order to which of these need to be fulfilled first. Whatever is easiest.
The lights go first.
Not long after he loses his sense of time, Eddie crawls up the black walls and up to the ceiling, and hunts down each and every last light until all are reduced to sparkling powder in his claws. Now his eyes feel better. It doesn’t take long to forget they hurt at all because the pain isn’t immediate. They are now a figment of what is before now and so don’t matter anymore.
The collar – somehow he still knows about it, it’s a big part of his life – is angry. It gives him pain when he takes out the lights, but after a point it just slides through him like the voice coming from the ceiling without any real understanding. Either it’s continuous, and so an accepted fact of life, or it is short and soon forgotten completely. The only thing that remains is a dull resentment, an annoyance, for the thing around his neck even when the shocks are gone. It’s the closest thing he has to long-term memory.
Next is sleep. Eddie sleeps a lot. He needs to because if he is going to feed, he needs to conserve strength. Prey is rare wherever he is now and he only has one chance. So he sleeps, using his arms as a pillow, and curls up. The mind-pictures he has, the dreams, are barely distinguishable from when he is awake. He has a lot of mind-pictures about many things: other places, sky of different colors, millions of points of light in a black void.
Eddie is well-rested, but is still cold, hungry, and horny.
He can’t do anything about being cold. But he is so well-rested that he can fake-sleep on the floor now without falling into the dreams. Eddie lies on the floor and keeps his eyes almost closed, waiting. Now there is no sense of life walking around the walls. There is nothing to do but wait. Waiting is easy because he is incapable of feeling bored. Each moment is like the first and last, indistinguishable from the other until something happens or a need overshadows the others. But he knows the prey outside, for now beyond his reach, are not like this, don’t have this advantage. His instincts tell him that time is on his side because he doesn’t know the meaning of impatience. Eventually prey will return, if he can control himself to not react.
Eddie waits.
His instincts are right.
There’s two of them. Two legged. Male and female. Both would be nice to mate with, but he senses that they’re not proper mating material – inferior blood, inferior genes, inferior all around – and are only good for food. Still, he can’t believe his luck. Two, right here, and unprotected by the Spider. And heading right for one part of the walls instead of skirting around it. It’s almost too good to be true.
Eddie’s hungry enough for both, but he thinks he can only take down one. One will have to do for now; he can move fast enough to kill one but not before the angry collar around his neck will stop him from a second kill. Maim him, maybe, but not kill. It’s pitch black in the room, but Eddie can see perfectly, much better without those annoyingly bright lights to get in the way and hurt his eyes. It’s an advantage that’s decidedly not human, but it doesn’t matter – all that matters is that it’ll make the actual kill that much easier and expend less energy.
He targets the female because she’s the smallest of the two.
The actual attack lasts less than a couple of seconds.
The male steps in first to cover Eddie, swinging a flashlight to bear on him, but he’s too slow. Eddie is already across the room, just a blur, knocking the other male down with a powerful stab of his claws to his chest, and on the woman before she can do anything.
It feels good to hunt. Eddie knows that he feels a certain thrill of pleasure when he brings down the female, casually batting away her attempts to push him away, and ejects the claws on his other hand, the liquid black skin gleaming in his night vision. She starts to scream, to cry for help. Too late. Eddie mauls her exposed throat with an instinct born out of desperate, mindless hunger, and the scream turns into a dying gasp, a bubbling wet sound that falls into silence after a few moments. Off in the corner, the wounded male is moaning pitifully, but in no position to stop Eddie.
The collar tries to shock him. Too too, late, and the hunger, the need, is a lot stronger than mere physical pain, a far worse, lasting agony. He’ll do anything to make it stop. Feeling his body twitching as if from a distance, Eddie bends down to feed even though his body is wracked with the fire burning in his muscles, his veins. It gives up after a few minutes. It’s wonderful to eat again – to really, truly eat what he was supposed to – and Eddie’s more than happy to hunch over the kill and help himself to the fresh meet inside the skull even if it’s hard to coordinate his hands from the shocks.
His hands and chin are coated with blood that isn’t his. When he eats, he does so by swallowing without chewing, tossing his head back and skipping the formalities with snaps of his fangs.
After a while, the shocks just…go away. This leaves Eddie to curl up a few feet from his kill and happily lick the blood and other fluids off his hands. Euphoria. It feels so right. He is about as content as he can be and is no longer so hungry.
That leaves one more thing that leaves him incomplete, leaves him needing….
And now there is nothing else to distract him from fulfilling that need. It’s a hunger of a different kind.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Peter needed a plan. One that was more specific than Plan A, which basically consisted of bust in, knock a few heads, knock Brock’s head if he gave him trouble, and bust out, booking it in the opposite direction of Queens in case they were followed.
That was all fine in theory…actually carrying it out without winging it completely was another thing entirely.
Peter was muted over dinner with Gwen and Aunt May, poking at the mashed potatoes on his plate and not having much of an appetite for it. Worrying so much about what he’d be doing in a few hours left butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore, not when he kept running over the scenario of Brock – or Sand Dude and friends – somehow tracking him to Queens and hunting down his friends and family. Pushing himself up from the table, Peter scooped up his plate.
“You okay, Peter?” Aunt May asked.
Peter offered a nervous smile. “I’m not feeling too hot. Think I’m gonna go to bed early.”
He headed upstairs, but was still able to hear some of the conversation from below above the clatter of dishes and running water from the kitchen.
“Is it just me or is Peter acting moody?”
“He’ll be okay, Mrs. Parker,” Gwen was saying. “Probably just midterm jitters.”
Peter paused. His foot froze on the step.
Oh my God.
Midterms! How could he forget? Peter resisted the urge to bang his head into something until he was safely back in his room with the door shut behind him. Stupid, stupid stupid! Not only did he have to mount a rescue mission for a man who didn’t deserve it, he was also probably going to fail the midterms he didn’t even remember coming up because of this mess. Peter paced restlessly around the room. How was he going to explain a bunch of F’s to his aunt? First the graduation suit, now this?
Where was a break when you needed one?
No luck. Seriously, you have no luck. Peter thought angrily as he began to pull on his Spider-man costume. ‘Parker luck’ is an oxymoron, that’s what it is. Smoothing back his hair, the teenager pulled on the mask, and moved toward the window, opening it after making sure his webshooters were secured.
It wasn’t fair, Spider-man grumbled to himself as he took a running leap from the window and out into the night. Had he pissed off anyone in a past life? Must’ve, with the way things were turning out. Swinging across the bridge back to Manhattan, Spider-man tried to forget the midterms he was probably-most definitely going to fail and focus on the here and now. He’d studied up on Fisk Tower ever since his first failed attempt to get in and he’d realized there was a way in without completely implicating his original cover as Kaine. Every night, before midnight, there was a garbage collection down in the underground garage – mucking up garbage chutes was hardly his idea of a good time, but that was the only way he could get in, what with the actual building reinforced.
Finally reaching Fisk Tower, he saw that he was still a few hours too early, and there was only so much time he could spend scoping out the place. Spider-man reached up and pushed away his mask above his nose, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. His heart thudded in his chest. He still had no idea about the security or if Brock would even come nicely. He had no idea where Sand Dude or Smythe was. Or if Silver Lady was gone for real.
He was going in blind. He only knew how to get in…not how to get out with cargo who might be less than willing.
Hitching a ride on the garbage truck was easy. Smelly, but easy. Starting his assent up the chute, Spider-man could only hope that no late owls got the idea to start dumping some last minute trash, and held his breath, trying to keep a good count on how many floors up he’d crawled. Between the stench and the questionable feel of stuff underneath his gloves, it was hard to pay attention. It was also hard not to get sick, but there was no way he was barfing in his mask; he managed to hold it in, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose.
Trying to come up with a plan distracted him for a bit. He figured he could pop out the garbage shoot on the right floor, open the Brock’s cell door, hope he wouldn’t try to kick his ass this time (collared or not), and just leave the way he came. After that, it was a bit of a blank, Spider-man thought, putting one hand above the other and climbing. It’d be easier if Brock could walk on his own and if he put his grudge-fest on the burner until they got away.
Two big if’s there.
Popping eventually out on the right floor, Spider-man found himself in one of the labs, the lights dimmed to a gentle blue glow that would’ve been pretty cool looking if it wasn’t for the fact he was up to his neck in enemy territory. He carefully crawled along the wall, flipping his mental map to compensate, and began moving along, stopping on the ceiling to see if he recognized any of it. He’d been here once, twice? A little pit stop before Brock. Stepping down from the ceiling, he retraced his steps, and found himself facing some kind of small refrigerator, its steel surface sleek to the touch. Inside were samples. White, wispy coils of air curled off them as he looked inside. The samples were ordered neatly in a tray, their glass surfaces frosted over.
Yeah, he couldn’t leave these.
The blood he dumped down the sink along with a good helping of cleaning fluids. The…other samples, the vials of black ooze that bubbled as he came closer, he didn’t risk with the same treatment. He’d learned what happened last time you left this stuff to the trash. Those instead went into the tiny incinerator across the room. Spider-man wanted to sweep the whole room, make sure he’d gotten everything, but he was on borrowed time as it was. Maybe when he came back this way, he could enlist Brock’s help in a more thorough destruction of the place.
Mounting the ceiling again, Spider-man headed toward the exit, trusting his memory to take him back to Brock’s room.

Please, please, make this easy. I already got midterms I gotta fail…
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Eddie’s feeling pretty pleased with himself. And he knows it, too. And what’s even better is he can remember; his meal bought him some increasing awareness that grows slowly like the burn of weak alcohol, in his head instead of his stomach.
He even knows what alcohol is now. Sort of.
All he knows is that in itself is a big accomplishment. It’s okay to feel proud.
He can think now, but it’s a bit hazy, and he’s easily distracted because as far as he is concerned, right now he wants to fuck, and fuck badly, and there’s nothing to fuck with at the moment. Now that he can think, he comes to the realization that he didn’t think this through, as he didn’t left anything to fuck in his hurry to feed. The female was dead and so was the male by the time he’d realized the shocks weren’t going to hurt him anymore: he has the vague impression they are waiting. It just means a free meal for Eddie and who’s he to say no? The only problem is that now he’s out of the danger zone of starvation, his body decides this new meal isn’t for him, but for the leech inside, leaving Eddie to coast on one lousy brain when he could’ve eaten two.
Now that Eddie’s capable of remembering and some higher thought, he’s learned to dislike this little maggot inside. It’s eating up his – their – limited resources. It’s a liability he doesn’t need.
Still, he’s feeling pretty good if he doesn’t think about the tiny thing inside him. Trying to remember specific memories are still a no go, but he can at least recognize that mindless state he was in before, even if occasionally he’ll still lose minutes at a time. He doesn’t remember finishing his first meal, or licking it away from his fangs. He does remember blinking, like waking up (only he wasn’t asleep), and suddenly feeling…different. He could see things, feel things and it would start to click here and there. Like there is a sudden connection that wasn’t there before.
He still wants to mate, though. It’s just as much a hunger as his need to eat, but now it’s at the front.
Eddie isn’t sure how long he sits there, gazing out into the darkness, eyes blinking lazily. Enough for the bodies jammed under the bed to grow cold. Boring. The blood on the floor is still wet. Eddie is scratching at the dried blood on his arms and watching the black flakes come sprinkling off when he senses the third life heading right for him.
There is suddenly an overabundance of prey tonight.
Only this prey doesn’t walk on two legs like the others do.
It’s enough to give Eddie pause. This one comes sneaking in, moving more like he would than the others. This one is crawling along the ceiling just like Eddie can and while the other has that tantalizing, tasty pulse of life that Eddie can sense meters away, he is not food. Or, rather, he is food, but he is also Spider. Eddie isn’t much for planning yet, but he is starving for a taste of flesh in both senses and knows he can’t both mate and eat at the same time. Physically it just doesn’t work out.
Parker is working at opening the door as Eddie tries to decide what to do. For some reason he thinks he doesn’t want to kill Parker, which doesn’t make sense: food is meant to be killed and eaten. It’s only natural. This thought bothers him because it feels like it’s someone else that’s not-him thinking it, unnecessarily complicated and invasive on his territory. But his body wants to mate too; he is already erect in the too-cold air, his muscles quivering as he tracks the Spider’s progress at the door. With his newfound, growing self-awareness, coming back like riding a bike (whatever that is), Eddie decides that no, he isn’t going to try to feed on Parker just because that’s what his first instinct demands.
He’s already eaten, and while he isn’t against more food, he doesn’t absolutely need it.
What he does need is to get Parker under him. Now. Make him his. Eddie feels his heart racing at the thought, faster than he’s ever felt it go before, and knows that he can’t wait any longer. This is it.
The door opens. The Spider carefully crawls in along the ceiling, looking down at him, and falls for the sleeping-act. It’s too dark to for him to see the bloodstain on the floor with the lights out, much less the fact there’s two corpses stashed under the bed.
“Eddie, wake up! I’m getting you outta here, so come on.”
Eddie lies motionless, pretends he’s sleeping a little longer, waiting for Parker to come deeper and deeper into the cell. He doesn’t have to have his eyes all the way open to know what the other male looks like. The Spider is a credit to both their species. Parker is smaller, but he has plenty of hard, lean muscle that Eddie feels he would like nothing more than to posses, to touch, to taste, and claim every inch in any way he can. He is strong, intelligent, young, and resilient, and so is the perfect candidate for fulfilling the now burning drive for sex, for unity. It was a good thing he already ate before their mate showed up.
The Spider comes stupidly closer. “I know you’re got problems with me, but this’s greater than just the two of us.”
Parker is right over him. Eddie bursts into action, his second black skin enveloping him. Us. There is an us now. It’s not just the leech, but something else. An old friend, maybe, starting to come back. Whatever it is, Eddie accepts it without question and lunges at Parker before he can react, wrapping his arms around him and dragging the Spider down.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Spider-man hit the floor with a thud. He reacted without thinking, kicking out at Brock’s shadow; there was an impact that sent rattles right through his leg, but no give, like he’d kicked a stone wall instead of flesh and bone. A normal person would’ve dropped him, but the arms around him only drew him closer. The superhero squirmed in the bear hug around his stomach, grunting. If he didn’t know better, Brock was trying to squeeze the life out of him, although he was oddly silent.
He struggled against Brock’s arms and lashed out with a fist. Something wet and thick curled around his wrist. The vice around his stomach tightened. Spider-man gasped for air, reflexively extended an arm and blindly shot forth a healthy dosing of webbing with his free hand; he was rewarded with a snarl – in Brock’s voice, but with double tones – and then finally dropped to the floor, leaving him coughing for air and trying to back toward the door. His heel slipped on something wet. He stumbled backward. The next thing Spider-man knew, something bigger than he was, huge, body-slammed him up against the glass, like a truck barreling out of nowhere without any headlights. He hit it with a resounding crack that echoed in his skull.
Somehow it held.
He still couldn’t see in the darkness very well, not with the stars bursting before his eyes, and the pain reverberating in his head and his body. Spider-man ducked the next charge – just barely – and pivotted around Brock (Venom?), swinging as hard as he could with his hands linked together. This time he actually hit.
Crunch.
For a second, Spider-man worried that he hit too hard, that he might have killed Brock. He’d never hit anyone that hard before, never really tried to put his entire muscle in a punch.
The hiss from the darkness put that to rest. There was faint light from outside, but it was still almost impossible to see. He could just barely make out Venom’s black shape as he jerked his chest and then his head out from the new hole in the heavily reinforced glass, thick chunks of it tinkling off as he shook himself. To make matters worse, Venom didn’t even seem to notice he’d taken a hit, instead turning toward him, his blank, white eyes focused on Spider-man and glowing faintly in the dark.
“I’m not here to fight you!” Spider-man said, balling his fists up. His chest and ribs were already aching. The bruises he’d get tomorrow were going to be spectacular, no thanks to Venom. “So cut it out already!
Venom gave a weird kind of twitch, sniffing the air, jaws working. Spider-man paused. For the first time since he’d crawled into the cell, he took a good, long whiff and froze. Blood. Lots of it. He’d been so set on getting Brock that he hadn’t noticed. Whose blood? Brock’s? Judging by the way Venom was acting, he was fine – better than fine, even, considering how crappy he’d looked before. Spider-man was starting to get a bad feeling (a bit late). Was this a trap?
He darted off to the side, only to find that the way he’d come in was blocked off with a healthy dose of black, glistening webbing. Spider-man spun around and came face to face with Venom; or would have, if Venom wasn’t ridiculously huge up close and towering over him.
“Mine,” Venom hissed. “Spider…”
The next thing Spider-man knew, he was pinned up against the webbing, head spinning. He caught a glimpse of teeth and tried to do something, anything, before he sunk those fangs into him. Spider-man certainly wasn’t expecting what happened next: he was faintly aware of cold air touching his face – the mask had been pushed up over his nose – and then human lips crushing against his with bruising force, burning hot to the touch. Feverish.
Somehow in all the worst case scenarios he’d run through his head, getting kissed by his own personal stalker wasn’t one of them. For a second, Spider-man was convinced Venom missed somehow or messed up, but as he struggled to turn his head away, and realized that it was Brock pressed up against him and not Venom, he had to admit that this didn’t seem like some colossal screw up.
Spider-man gasped for air as Brock broke the kiss (there was no mistaking it was that now), panting, and thoroughly stunned.
What the hell was going on?
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Eddie’s already drunk from that first kiss. It feels so good that he goes in immediately for seconds, and it doesn’t matter if Parker doesn’t return it, because this is how it’s supposed to be. Or rather, he can’t hold it in any more, wait any longer, before he has to act on instinct and mate with Parker right now, get rid of this irritating leech inside, and then enjoy their precious Spider at a more leisurely pace. It gives him little shivers of pleasure just thinking about it.
Cupping Parker’s chin in his claws, Eddie dives in for thirds. Parker’s resistant, trying to squirm away, but that is to be expected. Eddie exhales, and forces the other male’s lips to part, slipping his tongue inside to taste him. Reaching down with his free hand, Eddie slides his claws down the ribbed, webbed lines of the boy’s uniform, moving down his chest to his waist, and resting for a moment on his hips, quivering at the touch.
Predictably, Parker bites down on his tongue, but Eddie doesn’t even notice; it’s just a tingle, not even this side of irritating, and it is little signs of naïve defiance like that which make him so desirable. Endearing. It’s good Parker will taste his blood at this stage. Only fitting. Besides, the injury from the bite is already healing, leaving the only sign it ever happened the traces of still warm blood on his and Parker’s chins.
Eddie pulls away after a long moment with a satisfied, throaty sigh, licking the blood away.
It’s enough to give Parker time to talk and talk he does:
“What’s wrong with you!” Parker demands, out of breath, and trying to spit the taste of Eddie’s blood from his mouth. “I don’t know what happened to you, but – “
Eddie hisses and claps a hand over Parker’s mouth, leaving whatever the boy has to say muffed and unintelligible. He’s already feeling much better mentally, but that doesn’t mean he needs to hear Parker’s running commentary on what should be a glorious experience for the both of them. Eddie can see perfectly fine in the dark even if their mate-to-be cannot. And what he sees just makes him yearn even more, aching in the pit of his stomach and between his legs. Parker’s motor mouth can ruin the moment later.
The young Spider is trapped against the black webbing. Eddie has already taken the opportunity to bind his hands above his head with more webbing, which has had the unintended effect of arching his body oh so temptingly toward him. It’s almost too much to bear, but a part of Eddie – the human part that’s starting to come back – has the novel, alien idea of relishing it while it lasts. Prolonging the inevitable just to stretch it out, rather than get down to business right now.
The idea of foreplay is downright bizarre, going against millennia of instincts.
But it’s something new and Parker deserves something new.
Drawing close to Parker, Eddie nuzzles against his neck, breathing in his very specific scent. It’s something that’s invisible to prey, to humans, but Eddie can smell it just fine, like the most attractive color in the universe translated to a single, heady scent which one can’t ever get enough of. Nibbling lovingly at Parker’s skin, he brushes fangs across it, teasing his tongue across and nipping at Parker’s exposed jaw. The meal from earlier leaves Eddie with a pleasurable warm glow in his stomach and head – they’re starting to remember how to communicate verbally to prey, but they don’t need to speak to mate. Speaking during mating is a human habit, at any rate.
And yet Eddie can’t help himself. It’s all starting to come back through the need, how to appear more than just a beast.
“Can’t help it, can we? Just nature running its course,” he purrs into Parker’s neck, pressing close to grind his hips against the other male’s. “Got life inside us to purge with your help, Spider.”
Parker tries to twist away from the hand covering his mouth. “You’re sick, Eddie!” he pants. “Let me go. I want to help you!”
“We were sick, we know that now. But now we’re good and fed and all better.” Eddie responds by sliding a hand down Parker’s back – oh, how he flinches at that! – and uses his claws to cut some of the cloth that is in the way, leaving the red and blue outfit in tatters. He lays a hand against his smooth skin, moving down his lower back to cup the curves of his ass. Eddie is of the opinion that Parker talks too damn much with all his morals and ethics. The claws retreat, leaving Eddie’s fingers covered with a silky, liquid black covering.
Parker doesn’t know what’s going on, but he stiffens, starting to get an inkling. He’s not that clueless.
“Eddie, you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ve got to stop!” It all comes out in a rush. There’s no jokes or glib remarks. Just pure, strong (but understandably nervous) Spider, always picking the losing battles because he’s a sucker for that kind of thing. “You can fight this!”
Wrong thing to say.
Eddie just laughs in his two voices.
Up till now he has been gently stroking the bare skin cupped in his claws. Now he pushes one finger in, catching Parker’s pained gasp with another kiss, and feeling both his selves singing without words. There’s thousands of years of instinct behind this, countless symbiotes and their hosts’ memories behind this, and for once Eddie feels entirely at ease with himself and his Other. He finds himself wishing he could make Parker feel the same, feel this glorious unity, and pushes in deeper with his slicked fingers. This is really only to open up Parker for what comes later, but Eddie doesn’t want him to feel more pain then he has to.
No, the Spider is precious. Eddie’s straining to fuck him hard and fast – more human terms that’ve come back – but no, he deserves better than that, and Eddie is determined to go nice and slow…it hurts, but it could be so, so much worse. For starters, Parker could end up maimed for life. Or dead. And that’s just not acceptable.
Parker is trying to twist away from Eddie’s relentless probing, but it only serves to push his body up against Eddie’s. Eddie’s aware of whispering to the boy bumping against him, but it’s a mix of human and symbiote tongues, blending into a humming purr that Parker can’t possibly understand. Eddie doesn’t need to see his face to know what he’s feeling: the emotion of mounting confusion, pain, and pleasure are thick in the air, especially to his senses, and heavy on their tongue. He can’t help sinking his claws into Parker a few times, flexing his free hand against the boy’s back unconsciously, but the wounds could be worse and besides, Parker already made him bleed.
The Spider is so distracted that he doesn’t immediately notice Eddie sinking down onto his knees. Intercourse to a symbiote usually means just throwing down your mate and getting right down to business, but Eddie - as far gone as he is - still remembers a little before his Other and has a vague idea of trying to do a bit better than that. Peeling away the tatters of the Spider’s outfit, Eddie uses his free hand to cradle his mate’s length, leaning down to give it a generous lick.
Parker shudders at the contact, panting and looking down, wide-eyed.
“W-what are you doing?”
Eddie only flashes Parker a devilish grin. It’s pretty obvious, but that’s right: Parker’s still a virgin, according to their genetic memory. The best he’s ever seen is the porno Gwen snuck him…and he still hasn’t gone that extra step because he wants to wait until he’s older.
That’ll be changing today, and Parker can have the distinction of being the second human on this backward planet to ever fuck a symbiote.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The worst part was that he couldn’t really see Brock very well. Being only able to feel touches out of nowhere, and hearing Brock's disembodied voice made what happening even more unreal.
Peter had a pretty good idea where this was going by now. But no matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t get away from Brock, what – what he was doing to him there and there. It felt weird, uncomfortable, like nothing he’d ever felt before. And yet - the part of Peter that wasn’tpreoccupied with escape or trying to punch some sense into Brock (either or at this point) had time to think - it also kind of felt…good. He could feel Brock impossibly inside him with his fingers from behind, settling into a rhythm that somehow changed from really, really uncomfortable to something as weirdly hypnotic as Brock's whispering. It was like he couldn’t help himself: his body was starting to think what was going on wasn’t such a bad idea after all, even as his brain kept trying to put on the brakes only to find they’d been suddenly cut.
He had no idea what was wrong with Brock . Peter knew he was sick, Smythe and his pack of scientists even said so, but this was bad. It was almost like he was in some kind of trance, going on automatic instead of manual, and not even caring they were still in Fisk Tower.
Peter moaned despite himself as Brock licked him again, running what had to be his tongue over his sensitive skin. It was a lot different then when you got bored in the bathroom with Gwen’s porno magazine (she kept “accidentally” leaving it lying around the house for him). Between the attention Brock was giving to front and back, Peter was torn between trying to push backward or squirm forward, and unable to choose.
For the first couple of minutes – it was hard to tell time – Peter had only thought of escape. By the time Brock cut him down from the web, Peter could only pant for breath, cheek pressed against the floor, heart racing a million miles a minute. His cheeks felt flushed against the cold tiles. Whatever thoughts he had seemed to swirl about without connecting…
And there was Brock's voice, so close now, his breath tickling against his ear.
Peter tensed as he was rolled over, and a weight settled carefully on him, straddling him in the darkness. He was too flustered to be embarrassed over the fact he was pretty much naked at this point, trying to catch his breath in the cold, recycled air. It hurt to have his back pressed up against the floor too, what with Brock's perverted “love taps” (more like stabbing-you-in-the-back-with-his-stupid-claws taps) still bleeding. It was hard to concentrate. His mind went completely blank. The only thing that seemed solid was feeling of Brock's mouth brushing up against his neck and the thundering of his pulse in his head.
It was probably only a minute that he lay there, stunned, and panting.
He jerked reflexively as he felt Brock's lips on his. He could feel the actual points of his fangs.
Unable to free his arms, Peter responded with a head-butt.
Crack. Contact and he saw white stars winking in the darkness.
Brock snarled – he didn’t even sound mad – and returned the favor with a good slug of his own, slamming Peter hard back against the floor. Peter tasted blood, one side of his mouth numb. Split lip. And Brock was back, he could feel him in the dark, those fangs tickling his mouth as Brock slid his tongue between his parted lips. Peter tasted blood again, some of it his. Some of it tasted…different, didn’t taste like blood was supposed to. He realized with disgust that it was B rock's, smeared across his chin and mouth and probably getting symbiote-cooties all over him.
Which was probably closer to the truth than was comfortable. It explained, for seemingly no reason, how he could suddenly see Brock instead of pitch black, a kind of grainy view of the world that was more of washed out gray, just this side of being blind.
But he could see Brock now. What he saw made him stiffen.
Brock was only half covered in that oily black “skin” of the symbiote. His eyes were glazed over, filmed over with a milky white that seemed to glow slightly in the dark. As Brock pulled back, licking his lips, Peter could see his fangs glistening with their mixed blood. But the worst of it was the fact that Brock seemed to be surrounded by some kind of twitching, writhing mass of tentacles, strings of the symbiote collapsing in on itself only to form liquid streamers elsewhere. The whole cell was covered in a pulsing, living web of it.
Peter made the mistake of looking down, his eyes traveling from the oily web to Brock's face and down past the half-formed white widow on his chest. The teenager recoiled as he realized that something was actually in Brock, his hips rolling languidly with the motion as one of the black tentacles pumped up between his legs. There was no mistaking what it was doing to the man over him. Nausea welled up in Peter. For a second he seriously considered getting sick right then and there. It wasn’t helping that Brock would give this shiver every now and then, his lips parted as he grunted under hitched breaths, his bare skin slick with sweat.
Something brushed up against his own leg.
Peter jerked back.
. Looking down, he was horrified to find that another tentacle from the symbiote slithering its way up his knee. Considering what the other one was doing to Brock, he really, really didn’t want another one anywhere near him. Trying to awkwardly scoot back didn’t get him very far. Not when he scooted back right into the glass wall behind him and there was nowhere else to go. Brock didn’t even bother trying to hold him still – the blond was leaning up against the glass, both clawed hands flat against it on either side of Peter’s shoulders, his face close to his, eyes still unfocused.
And that was when the tentacle touched him right where it shouldn’t.
Peter stiffened. He couldn’t help crying out when it pushed its way in. It hurt in a way that he couldn’t even imagine. For a second he blanked out, two whole seconds of relief before he was back and it was still inside him, and no matter how much he tried to struggle, he couldn’t get away. Gasping in pain, he felt it starting to do the same thing to him as it was doing to Brock, pushing its way in only to slide a little out. Only it’d come back and it’d start all over again, over and over. His watering eyes opened again as he was pushed into the glass again, and realized that Brock was not only still over him, but he was actually mirroring him now. His hips moved exactly when Peter’s did.
Gritting his teeth, Peter tried to ride this through.
He knew exactly what was happening even if Brock wasn’t physically touching him in that way. And while it was hard to think, he latched onto the one thing he knew he was going to do: if they got out of this alive, before Smythe’s cronies found them like this, he was going to kick Brock's butt across Manhattan.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The Spider’s looking up at them.
It hurts, yes, Eddie knows that, but they really are trying to be gentle. Leaning up with his claws on the walls, Eddie moves in unison with their mate, slowly speeding up. It’s a struggle to keep this calm. Eddie can feel himself shaking from the effort it takes not to just tear into himself and the Spider under them. The first stage of mating is always like this, no matter the species. Usually a lot more violent, but always, always together as one, the only time that they aren’t vying for total control. Of the mate and of the Host.
Parker’s panting under them, his breathing shallow and ragged. Eddie matches him breath for breath.
There is no word for how good this feels. There’s some pain, as usual, but there’s something so much more, so much more fulfilling.
Aware of everything. There’s that too. Eddie can feel parts of him everywhere in the cell, black tendrils spreading out and pulsing with life. It’s all over, it’s forming and reforming over him – occasionally sprouting fangs – and it’s inside him and the Spider.
The little leech inside them is still there. It’s coming closer to being bled out of them, but they aren’t there yet.
But they are, however, on their way. They can sense the Spider giving out for the first time tonight. He gives another grunt, a little strangled, and his back arches up, his chest pressing against Eddie’s. He even gets a few seconds of rest, which is a lot more than their past mates ever got. Yet another memory that’s coming back. Eddie’s still going. He can’t stop. Not until the offspring is gone. There’s another memory coming now, just an impression of pure frustration and rage from another time long ago. The mating had failed because something had been wrong with the leech; they’d gone through countless mates trying to get rid of the thing.
It can’t be like that this time. Not with Parker.
He has to be careful. No, they have to be careful. This not-him, this symbiote, that is also here with him.
Reaching down, feeling a full row of fangs forming on his face as the symbiote covers him once again, Eddie reaches down and hauls Parker to his feet. The Spider sags against him, his legs almost giving out under him as he sways unsteadily.
“W-why are you…you doing this?” he manages to get out. He flinches away as Venom leers at him, a long tongue snaking out between his fangs, the unblinking white eyes fixed on him.
Parker will find out in due time. Once the worst is over, maybe he can experience this as they do. Unlike the raw meat they’d gone through before last mating, they would rather be able to enjoy him at their leisure. Hissing between his fangs, Venom even cuts away the webbing binding Parker’s hands. See, theycan be generous. Not that it’ll do any good for Parker. They’re not particularly surprised when Parker suddenly whips around and tries to take their head off with a sweeping kick. Of course he’d be saving his energy even when past mates had given up by this point. He wouldn’t expect any less. Still, Parker’s fast, even for them. He’s a blur of motion and they don’t even see the kick until it’s close.
They catch it with one claw. The other shoots out and grabs the Spider by the throat. It’s tempting to squeeze the fight out of him, but they don’t, instead keeping him at arm’s length so he can’t get in any other shots.
“We need it out of us,” Venom snarls. “We need your help, Spider. You need to get it out of us, this little maggot eating us up alive. We need it out of us so badly.”
Parker squirms. He might be a danger if he was free, but he can’t get any leverage right now. He doesn’t say anything, just glares at them.
“Nothing else matters.”
They let go of the Spider. Naturally he makes a break for the door, but they cut him off before he can make it. They, too, are fast despite their size. Venom blindsides Parker, slamming him into the reinforced glass wall. That does take the fire out of their mate for the time being – he staggers back against the cracked glass, leaving a smear of blood from his injured back, and starts to slump down. But they’re there and Venom supports Parker before he can collapse. He’s stunned, not too hurt; if he was anyone else, if he’d been normal, he would’ve probably been dead from that. Lucky him.
The need is deafening. They turn the Spider around, using the glass wall to help him stand as they grip his hips with their claws and angle him properly. Their mate makes a dazed moan of protest as they sink the points in slightly, but he’s not going anywhere.
Venom takes a moment to brace himself before he pushes in.
It’s going to be a long night.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Peter didn’t remember much after getting hit.
What he did remember was just a few flashes. Cold glass against his arm. Points of pain on his side. After that, just a blur of grays, pain and sometimes pleasure.
He’d no idea how long he’d been out. It could’ve been a few minutes. Or it could have been hours.
The next thing he remembered was a feeling of heaviness in his arms. Trying to raise them, he found he couldn’t. Trying to swim free of the fog in his head, Peter realized that he was moving – sort’ve. Something was pushing at him….into him. Something was inside him again. It felt like it was filling him and he couldn’t breathe. It took another dazed and confused moment to realize that something was in his mouth, hot, thick and wet. What –? His eyes fluttered open.
Venom pushed into him from both ends, his jaws parted open, the fangs gleaming as his tongue lolled out between the fangs. That thing in Peter’s mouth? It was his tongue.
As he began to regain consciousness, he tried to will his body to actually do what he wanted it to. It seemed content to do just the opposite: his arms remained limp and unresponsive at his sides, and he was moving once again in unison with Venom, feeling a stranger in his own body. He coughed as Venom withdrew the tongue, his claws against him tensing and flexing as he continued to pump into him. Heavy. Everything was still heavy, stretching out into eternity. All those other fights he’d had? He’d never felt as utterly drained as he did now, the exhaustion pressing down on him.
There was a point where he really did lose track of time. Venom never seemed satisfied, pushing into him over and over again, as if trying waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Not yet, anyway. Peter, his flushed cheek resting up against Venom’s chest, somehow had a feeling of something building. Whatever it was, it was actually draining Venom now. The pushes inside were less powerful, but he still wasn’t prepared for when Venom suddenly dropped to his knees, unable to hold their joined weight. The two of them spilled onto the floor, Venom pulling out of him and leaving him lying on his side, gasping for breath and trying to move. He could only watch as the symbiote on Brock suddenly went psycho.
The worst part of it was he couldn’t cover his ears. The symbiote shrieked, a shrill, piercing sound that he could swear was rattling the glass walls. One of them - already damaged - shattered, showering the two of them with glass shards and powder. Brock was on his hands and knees, strands of the symbiote still covering him, face a mask of pure pain. Hunching forward, Brock sobbed into his arms, going so far as to start digging his fangs into them as if trying to vent. Unlike before, the wounds weren’t closing up immediately; Brock didn’t even seem to notice, lost in whatever was happening to him. Around him, the symbiote was boiling, bubbling up with squishy, sickening pops.
It was still a challenge to keep conscious. Peter couldn’t summon up the strength to move.
But even if he had, he would’ve been frozen to the spot, unable to look away.
By now, the symbiote had begun to concentrate on Brock's back, the webs of the cell quivering. It began to boil even more violently than before. When Peter began to see red staining the black, he was convinced that Brock was hurt bad.
It wasn’t blood.
It dawned on him what it was. Another one of them. A chill ran down Peter’s bare back as more and more of the red began to bubble up to the surface, collecting in a larger and larger mass. Brock by now looked like he was barely holding it together; his face was pale, the drying blood on his chin and mouth still glistening, his arms trembling with the effort. By now he looked even more burned out than Peter felt. Half-conscious as Peter was right now, he could still manage to think he deserves it.
Brock collapsed as the new symbiote dripped off him, forming a little, seemingly harmless puddle of red shot through with black.
And Brock was down for the count.
Considering how the cell was tilting and swirling about him, he’d probably be following suit pretty soon. Peter was starting to black out again, his vision beginning to tunnel, when a light flared on from somewhere.
The last thing he saw was someone’s long shadow falling over Brock and him.
To be continued...
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Thanks again for reading.
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Black Sustenance