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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.
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
(The First Two Stages)
This was utter bullshit.
At least Flint Marko had stopped throwing up. Finally. It felt like he’d puked up half his body weight in whatever that black shit was in the time it took to drag Brock from the parking lot to the car waiting for them. The car was a rental this time, and decidedly more discreet than the black vans Wild Pack favored, but it was also a hell of a lot more cramped. Aware that pieces of him were still flaking off and that he could still feel that weird, unpleasant sensation of that black ooze inside him, Flint slammed the passenger’s door shut with his remaining arm. He wanted to just get back to Fisk, dump this mutant Eddie Brock into his lap, and get himself back to normal.
It had been quite some time since he’d been this injured. And he hadn’t ever been missing a goddamn limb before. It hurt, too, and the only thing that made him feel a bit better was the knowledge that unlike most people, this wasn’t a permanent injury for him. Wash out this black gunk and with more sand he could reform another arm for himself. It wasn’t like he’d be a cripple the rest of his life.
That still didn’t excuse this mutant for the stunt he pulled.
Glowering, wiping the last of the black clay from his mouth with the back of his hand, Flint glanced behind him in the mirror. Silver Sable was settling herself and their charge in the back. Flint watched as the female mercenary unceremoniously dumped Brock face first onto the back seat, fishing around under the passenger chair and coming up with what looked like handcuffs on steroids. For some reason they didn’t have a steel link between the cuffs and for a moment Flint wondered what the point of it was. It suddenly made sense as Silver Sable snapped the cuffs onto Brock’s wrists and brought them close – they suddenly jumped together of their own accord when she waved a glowing blue key over them.
Huh. Magnets.
“So he can’t try chewing through them,” Silver Sable explained, not looking up. She pocketed the key and began fitting a bar between the magnetic cuffs. “You holding up?’
Flint grunted. “I’m not throwing up anymore if that’s what you’re asking.”
“We’ll be back soon enough. The first thing we’ll do is get what you need, okay?”
Silver Sable hauled Brock up by the cuff-bar, pushing him into an approximate sitting position as she slid into the backseat next to him. She was careful to keep the baton leveled at his ribs, her other hand holding onto the controls for the collar still around the unconscious man’s neck. Flint couldn’t tell if she was reassuring him just to shut him up or if she really did care that he was crippled as he was. Hard to tell with the bitch, sometimes. Usually she was as callous and cold as he expected, but it was rare comments like that which gave him pause.
The driver next to Flint flicked a glance in the rearview mirror and put the car into drive once Silver Sable nodded.
The car ride was silent except for the occasional bursts of voices from Silver Sable’s radio, the members of her Wild Pack reporting in every now and then. Flint couldn’t help glancing back more than once in the mirror toward the backseat as they made their way deeper into New York and wound their way toward Fisk’s tower. It was hard to believe that this Eddie Brock was that big, ugly fuck of a monster with a mile long sadistic streak. You wouldn’t guess it just looking at him.
Flint’s eyes narrowed in the mirror. No, you definitely wouldn’t guess it looking at him, especially not when Brock was now propped up against the backseat of the car, head bowed, properly handcuffed and collared, and not threatening to start pulling your arms off one by one just for his sick kicks. Brock looked fairly young – early thirties, at best, he supposed – and he had even acted and sounded normal back in the hotel. Was this some Jekyll and Hyde crap, or something else? Flint didn’t know and wasn’t sure he cared too much for the details.
Flint did know that he wouldn’t mind the excuse to rough up Brock when he woke up from his involuntary beauty sleep.
Nothing like a little tit-for-tat…or an arm for an arm.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Spider-man expected to have a hard time tracking the car – it was car-shaped, car-colored and therefore looked like just about every other car on the road. What he didn’t expect, however, was for the people that took Eddie Brock to head right toward Fisk Towers; that brought him up short, especially considering his last run ins with the Jolly White Giant and friends. What did Wilson Fisk – the Kingpin – want with Brock? Whatever it was, it had to be stopped. As far as he was concerned, Brock was bad news. Crazy, homicidal, and with an axe to grind and not too particular if people got in his way…and yet of the two evils, he was honestly the lesser.
Men like Fisk were only human, but they were dangerous for the fact they didn’t care or seem to have any limits to what they would do to get what they wanted. At least Brock seemed content to just limit his terrorizing to Peter Parker.
Spider-man sat on his heels on the top of a water tower overlooking the street, gazing at Fisk Towers, chin thoughtfully cupped in his hand.
This…could take a while.
He could be anywhere in there, Spider-man worried. That’s a lot of floors to cover and that’s not counting trying to sneak in and see what old Fatty-Fat Fisk is up to. He’d managed to sneak in before, but it would make sense for Fisk to have improved his security and made it Spider-proof since last time. He’d already done that to the windows last time he checked. Trying to find a way in and find Brock could take days, days he wasn’t sure he even had. The last thing he wanted was Fisk in possession of what a symbiote offered.
Spider-man’s mind was made up. While he didn’t trust Brock at all, he at least knew that he couldn’t let Fisk have him. Maybe he could reason with Brock, convince him to either lie low or commit to some kind of truce. A bit of a stretch, but Spider-man knew the symbiote – and its host, by extension – had something that would override even their freaky obsession with him, and that was the goal of survival at all costs. They’d put aside their hatred of him for that, wouldn’t they?
They would, right?
Okay, so he wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
But that didn’t mean he was going to turn his back on this. Standing up, Spider-man stretched first one arm and then the other, testing the injured shoulder. Still hurt like a mother, but it looked okay enough to websling on some more. At least it was starting to get dark; he’d have the added cover of darkness….then again, he also had to get back to Queens by a reasonable amount of time before Aunt May got on his case or flipped out thinking he’d been kidnapped or mugged.
Worst timing, honestly. Spider-man took a running leap from the water tower, snapping out a web line. Story of my life.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Eddie Brock flickered between consciousness and oblivion, swimming in a general sea of pain and a heaviness that he couldn’t seem to shake off. Several times he thought he was awake – his eyes seemed to be open – and there were times he thought he caught glimpses of faces looming over him, voices. It was impossible to stay awake. The faces and voices blurred together and he sank again and again into nothing for what seemed like a very long time.
The next thing Eddie was aware of was a pounding headache, his cheek pressed against some kind of cold floor. Every part of his body seemed to ache, with his neck and shoulders right up there at the top of the list. Puzzled, Eddie tried to move his arms and found that he couldn’t budge them – they were locked behind his back, the reason why his shoulders felt so strained. What the - ? What was going on? Wide awake now, Eddie focused on his Other, searching for that familiar presence, feeling that it was still there, that he was still more than human, and tried to break free. It should be easy with their strength.
The resulting shock from the collar made Eddie writhe on the floor, curling up in a ball as he tried to ride out the pain, crying out. His symbiote, if anything, took it worse and Eddie could see several agonized drops of it, black and glistening before his eyes, leap off him and splat on the floor, quivering.
Something clicked into life above them, a clear, male British voice filtering down:
“A fascinating reaction. So you’re particularly suspectible to electricity, it appears. And good afternoon, Mr. Brock.”
Panting, Eddie managed to sit up – harder than it looked without his hands free – and looked around, trying to will the residing muscle tremors away. He was in some kind of small cell, thick black windows all around that looked like the one-way windows he’d occasionally seen before: there was a white, spotless cot, equally spotless bathroom facilities, and no privacy whatsoever.
The anonymous voice on the other end continued. “Mr. Fisk apologizes for the crude accommodations, but they are only temporary. You’ll be given better quarters once we’ve learned a bit more about you. And once you’ve proven you can behave yourself.”
“What’s going on?” Eddie demanded hoarsely, looking around. All this white hurt his eyes, seeming to throb painfully. He couldn’t see where the speaker was located. “Who’re you?”
“I’ve been assigned to study you, Mr. Brock. You can call me Alistair Smythe, but I’m fine with plain Alistair,” Alistair said. There was a rustling of papers and then the tak-tak of a keyboard. “I admit I’ve been rather taken with you and your…condition ever since Flint Marko brought me a sample of your blood. Absolutely fascinating! I’ve never seen anything like it. It proves you aren’t just a mutant, like we previously assumed, but something else. Something more.”
This was the worst case scenario, Eddie realized, feeling his blood run cold. They had always been afraid of being captured, being used as a lab rat, and always, always there was the primal fear that they would be separated. How long had he been unconscious? What had they done to him while he was out? He didn’t know, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie felt terrified. What if they took the symbiote away from him? There was nothing for him without his Other. He was nothing.
Eddie didn’t want to die like he had that fateful night. But there was nothing else left if he went from Eddie Brock, Host, to Eddie Brock, human. The thought that he would be normal again was unbearable. If there was no Venom, no symbiote, then there wouldn’t be any Eddie Brock either.
How long had he been here?
Staring up bleakly around him, he had a feeling that it was at least a day, maybe more, judging from the fact that he was apparently having one hell of erection and straining for the release he hadn’t gotten since Saturday afternoon. Eddie blushed, all too aware that Alistair’s eyes were on him (why was he still naked?), and that there was no hiding the fact that he was still able to get it up even imprisoned like this. Of all the times to be aroused, this was the worst.
Alistair’s cultured, disembodied voice didn’t miss a thing. “Is that normal for you, Mr. Brock?” he asked. “It’s rather unusual for a subject to experience penile erection without any apparent stimulation.”
Eddie didn’t say anything, face red. ‘Subject’ now, was he? What was he, a fucking animal?
“It’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s just a natural bodily function.”
Eddie couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “You some kind of pervert?”
Alistair laughed. “Really now. No, I’m no pervert. But as you are my subject, everything you do and everything that happens to you is of interest to me, even something as seemingly irrelevant as…well, that.” The condescending smile was apparent, and Eddie knew the other man was looking pointedly at his erect cock. Eddie flushed again.
“You can’t go around kidnapping people!”
“You’re no person,” Alistair said, the chuckle still in his voice. “You give up that right once you start bonding with life-forms not native to this planet.”
He paused.
“But I can see that erection is bothering you and I’d really rather you were comfortable. Obviously you can’t do it yourself, so…”
A door hissed open. Eddie turned and stiffened as Flint Marko ducked through – or would have ducked through the door, if he was a normal man. He simply walked through the edge of it, head melting into sand as the top shaved through his forehead. His head reformed as he stepped through. Eddie couldn’t help the angry hiss under his breath as he noticed that Marko had his arm back and was more or less in one piece. Damn. Glaring daggers at the other man, Eddie tried to scoot backward and get his feet under him as Marko crossed the room.
Eddie struggled as Marko reached down and hauled him non-too-gently to his feet; the other man stopped just short of slamming him up against the reinforced glass. Eddie grunted as his head banged against it.
“Disappointed?” Marko leaned close, scowling. “Bet you thought yer bullshit with my arm was permanent.”
He punctuated the remark by reaching down and grabbing Eddie’s throbbing length, his fingers thick and slightly grainy to the touch.
Eddie gasped. “A guy can dream.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you too. We all got unrealistic dreams.”
Marko began jerking Eddie off with quick, rough motions, more to get it over with then to make it pleasant for the blond. Eddie strained against him, panting and hating himself for the fact that he was privately relieved to be getting any action, nevermind who from. It was almost as bad as the emergency room. While he didn’t feel that sense of utter fulfillment with the symbiote, he was still human enough to feel the physical sensations, and it felt almost good despite the unfamiliar fingers against his cock. It still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t his Other. It wasn’t their Spider either. Eddie banged his head into the thick glass again, biting off a curse as he squirmed unwillingly against Marko.
It seemed to take forever.
His naked hips bucked against Marko’s hand as he grit his teeth, eyes clenched shut. This was unbelievably humiliating. Eddie moaned despite himself, arching his back. It was bad enough he was getting a damn hand job from another man, much less a man he really, really wouldn’t mind killing.
Eddie tried to capture that mental image, tried to remember how liberating it felt to throw an actual car at their enemy, and hold it in his mind’s eye for as long as he could. It wasn’t the best replacement, but anything was better than looking up to see Marko’s hated face so close to his and knowing it was a piss poor substitute for what they really needed.
It took far longer than it would have normally before Eddie finally came in Marko’s hand. Panting for breath, Eddie sagged against the other man, a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, trembling slightly. When Marko dragged him away from the windows, he didn’t dig in his feet, stumbling forward.
Looking up, Eddie’s eyes widened as he saw the incoming fist. He braced for it, but it still hurt, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, his jaw throbbing as Marko stood over him.
“Oops. Guess my fist jus’ slipped there.”
Alistair interrupted. “That’s quite enough, Marko. While I understand you have your reasons, I can’t allow you to manhandle our guest. Now if you’ll kindly leave…”
“Yeah, yeah, doc. Just sayin’ my goodbyes.”
Eddie glared up at Marko as he knelt over him.
“I played nice this time, freak,” said Marko, and gave Eddie a mockery of a friendly slap on the cheek. “Doc’s orders.”
“Still sore about that arm?” Eddie sneered, fangs peeking out.
“The doc can’t watch you 24/7.”
Eddie nursed his bruised jaw as Marko left. It occurred to him now, really occurred to him, that they might be trapped here for a while. The symbiote could potentially recover to service him, but what about their other needs? What about their hunger? Struggling to sit up, Eddie paled. These people didn’t know anything about them. There was the very real possibility that he wouldn’t be properly fed – and there was the realization that while he hadn’t wanted to be involved in their other needs, there was no avoiding the fact that they hadn’t fed recently. Oh shit. He still remembered the memories his Other had regarding just what happened when a symbiote didn’t snack on another’s brains. It hadn’t been pretty.
“I apologize for his crude actions, Mr. Brock,” Alistair said. “If you behave today, I’ll have the hand cuffs removed so you won’t have to undergo such an unpleasant experience.”
Eddie growled under his breath. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be stuck here – surely they would find a way out – but it’d be a lot easier if he had his hands free. They didn’t like the idea of bending to this faceless man at all, but it seemed a small price to pay to have their hands free. Already he was needing more release, and not from Marko; he didn’t want to have to suffer that particular humiliation more than he had to. If he was going to get jerked off in front of prying eyes, he’d rather do it himself.
Scowling, Eddie tottered to his feet and sat down on the cot, gazing up at the ceiling. It took a while, but he finally spotted the little hole where the camera was – a little glint, like an insect’s black eye, stared back at him.
Really too bad he didn’t have his hands free. Eddie had the urge to flip Alistair off.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Alistair Smythe was fucking inhuman. Flint Marko didn’t understand how he was still awake, but there he was on Day 2, already parked in front of his array of terminals and screens and peeping on the Eddie Brock cell without looking the least bit tired and showing no signs of sleep. Or eating. Or drinking. In fact, he looked even more refreshed since the last time he saw him. Flint didn’t exactly trust these researcher types, but Smythe was at least polite and not too frosty. He turned in his wheelchair to look over his shoulder as Flint strolled in, yawning and rubbing at his hair, sprinkling sand.
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t shed in my laboratory,” Smythe said mildly. “The equipment here is delicate.”
Flint didn’t apologize, but he did remove his hand. “Mr. Fisk wants t’know how thing’re goin’.”
“Wonderfully. This Eddie Brock is quite the specimen, one of the most interesting individuals I’ve had on my hands in a long time. Last night was…productive.”
Smythe pointed to one of the hovering side screens, which was playing some kind of tape. Flint leaned close, but wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at. Seeing his confusion, Smythe brought the recording to a larger screen, his thin, elegant fingers literally flying over his keyboard as he adding something to a report with one hand, the other orchestrating the cycling of screens.
“I decided to reward his docility by deactivating the cuffs,” the British scientist explained. “But the collar, of course, stays. He can’t do anything unless I wish it.”
Flint stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. “What’s goin’ on there?”
The screen was now big, TV-sized, and Flint would’ve thought he was watching bad porn if it wasn’t for the fact he knew Brock was a floor below them and no actor. The blond was kneeling in a corner of the cell behind the bed, rocking back and forth and moaning – quietly, like he was trying to bite it off, but not doing a good job of it – as something…something black spread from his knees and entered him in a thick, glistening tentacle. It pumped in and out over and over as Brock curled up, one hand propping his body up, head bowed. Flint couldn’t make heads or tales of what was going on. The next thing he knew, the blond was sinking to the floor in an exhausted heap, a chunk of his shoulder covered in blood as he caught his breath.
The screen froze.
Smythe reached out and circled the still-bloodied shoulder, ghostly blue light following his finger like some kind of bizarre, high tech version of finger-paint.
“Self-mutilation. You can tell Mr. Fisk that it’s not permanent.”
“Horny fucker, ain’t he?”
“He does seem to have heightened sexual desire, yes,” Smythe replied earnestly. “I let him try to fulfill that with nothing but his human hands, but it was obviously unsatisfactory to him.”
He rewound the clip and drew another blue circle around the black ooze pulsing up into Brock like some kind of perverted living dildo. Flint frowned, wanting to look away. He didn’t really care for this Peeping Tom act. Smythe leaned forward:
“I was a bit leery at the idea of letting him do it the way he wanted to, seeing as it depends on the ‘other’ life-form. But I made it clear that any attempts to escape while doing so would end badly. He seemed more concerned with getting to…well, to business, at any rate. It’s like a drug, you see. He has to do it.”
“Even though he knows you’re watchin’?”
“Oh, he knows alright. But he can’t seem to resist even so,” Smythe slid the image to the side with one hand, and casually dragged another over. “I’m curious to know why he’s like this, if it’s just a side effect from his bonding or something wrong with his serotonin levels.”
Flint knew he’d heard the word “serotonin” floating around, but he honestly didn’t remember much of the college courses he’d dropped out on. It wasn’t like college taught him anything of use anyway. He folded his arms stubbornly over his chest.
Smythe went on: “The only thing I have to report is that he seems to be increasing this activity. You can inform Mr. Fisk that such studies take time, and that I expect we’ll have more solid results in a few days. Perhaps sooner. You brought him to me at the start of some sort of critical stage.”
Flint watched as Smythe reached up, looking at what he assumed was some kind of sample from Brock, and wrote Abnormally High Levels of Phenylethylamine – Level Sinking Drastically in glowing blue, now oblivious of the man behind him. Shaking his head, feeling faintly disturbed at what he’d seen, Flint stalked out. The only reason he was still hanging around Fisk’s place was for a chance at payback; he already had Spider-man’s real identity, but he hadn’t decided how much it was worth yet. A lot, definitely, but he was going to be already filthy rich after this job. The people he cared for wouldn’t have to worry ever again about making ends meetWilson Fisk paid and paid well.
Flint just hadn’t ever thought he’d get mixed in with aliens, mutants-that-weren’t, or fucked up shit like this.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The first stage of the Hunger is the waking-dream.
How long had it been since he woke up here?
It was getting hard to tell now. It wasn’t like he had a watch to find out.
A few days, maybe. Had to be under a week…but it seemed like forever and a day already.
Eddie lay on his side on the cot, staring sullenly at the black wall across from him. He hadn’t heard his Other’s “voice” in a while; while it wasn’t technically a voice in the human sense – more a collection of impulses, feelings, emotions that he could somehow read – he still missed it. At least it was there at all, in the background, but being deprived of its normal activity in his mind made him cranky. He’d gotten so used to the feel of the symbiote invading every part of his mind that it felt lonely without its active puttering around the house. One was, after all, the loneliest number.
Alistair was watching, but Eddie refused to give the man more to look at and take notes on if he could help it. Marko came by with a plate of food twice, but he ignored the other man, only keeping an eye on him to make sure he wouldn’t attack them. They were more concerned with trying to figure out how to defeat their collar and escape than petty revenge (although they weren’t completely against it if the opportunity presented itself).
Looking down at the food – steak, mashed potatoes and orange juice – Eddie finally got up and began to restlessly prowl the length of the white and black cell, feeling faintly nauseated like he’d eaten something bad just by the sight of the tray. Eventually they would have to go back and fuel their shared body with the inferior human food, the overcooked dead cow and pulped orange extract, but soon that wouldn’t be enough. Eddie paced the cell, making several rounds and trying to focus on a plan to get the fuck out of here.
They’d already tried sawing through the collar, but Alistair caught them. He also nipped their attempt in the bud to short it out by worming a small tendril into the circuits. That hadn’t been fun at all, his Other’s agony his own as it suffered the shocks until they grudgingly submitted.
Eddie bit his lip, frowning, hands nervously working at his sides as he paced. Alistair had to make a mistake sometime. He was only human. Eddie knew more than anyone else that humans and mistakes went hand in hand like marriage and divorce.
“Would you like something to read?” Alistair suddenly asked. “You look bored.”
Eddie presented the camera with his back.
“Your shoulder’s healing nicely, I see. I can’t help but notice you seem to have accelerated healing.”
Closing his eyes, Eddie grit his teeth. It was a struggle to control their temper. Was Alistair trying to goad them or was he being sincere? For all he knew, Alistair didn’t care either way; flying off the wall at their imprisonment would probably provide him all kinds of data and give him another chance to use the shock-collar. And replying only answered his question. Silence was still the best idea, at least, until Alistair decided to use the collar to “encourage” them to speak.
Eddie had done his fair share of pieces on prison and criminals in his life – his past life, he corrected himself – but somehow he’d never thought he’d actually end up on the receiving end of a jail-term. Trapped. That’d been the common sentiment when he interviewed the inmates and it was entirely accurate. Shooting a murderous glare up at the camera, feeling like a rat in a cage and suddenly feeling sorry for rats, Eddie dropped himself back onto the cot and rolled over, wishing they’d at least given him a goddamn blanket. The tray of food was still within reach. Looking at it prompted the same wave of unexplained nausea as it had before.
Closing his eyes, he tried to get some sleep. They’d need their rest…
The next thing Eddie knew, his eyes were open. Only there was nothing to see, only a void of black, endless, endless space, stretching before them into infinity. The symbiote was there, giving a collective shiver that its Host shared. This was it, it said, not so much in words, but in the ancient projection of its self that Eddie knew so well. This was it.
What was it?
The beginning of our withdrawal symptoms. Without Phenylethylamine, we will suffer soon enough.
What was Phenylethylamine?
It is the reason we feed on others. Without access to it regularly we will suffer, the symbiote repeated.
It has begun.
How do you know? asked Eddie. He stood on the edge of the abyss and looked out at it. It felt impossibly alien and he couldn’t even begin to comprehend just what he was seeing, being only human, being too primitive to understand the danger on his own. He looked at it with as much fear as a child probably would look at an oncoming car. Probably a bad analogy, but Eddie plain just couldn’t understand it. But his Other…his Other recognized it and withdrew in instinctual fear. Humans had their mind-pictures called ‘dreams’. Symbiotes did not. Correction: healthy ones did not. For a symbiote to dream, to see what was not there, what they knew was not there, was what Eddie would call a warning flag
“Check him.”
This was one such warning flag.
“I’m getting’ tired of your mind games, Brock.”
Eddie wanted to turn toward the symbiote, feeling as if he should be afraid to ask what was next. Yet he felt nothing. He only knew that that stretch of infinity terrified it; it felt welcome traveling the depths of space, with the cold light of the stars and galaxies as its guide… But this was another beast entirely.
They still had to mate. The beginning of the hunger would complicate -
A hand touched him.
Eddie jolted awake with a violent start, his heart leaping. Flint Marko fell back, swearing:
“Christ!”
“Today’s just full of surprises,” Alistair remarked, unable to contain his surprise. “Marko, you may leave. False alarm.”
Eddie looked around, confused, and more than a little annoyed. They were sorely tempted to try to take on Marko now as he was leaving, but decided against it. There was no way they’d cover it from the cot to the door before the collar activated. Heaving a sigh, Eddie turned his attention to the camera. It was bad enough that they still refused to give him clothes or even a blanket. If he wasn’t going to get any sleep either, he was going to be very pissed very fucking soon and to hell with whether they got shocked!
Flipping off the camera this time, Eddie lay back down on the cot. Within a few minutes he’d drifted off into uneasy sleep again, body relaxing, breathing slowing in response, shallow and even.
His eyes, however, were still open.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The second stage of the Hunger is the involuntary fast.
Eddie Brock now regularly slept with his eyes open.
Alistair Smythe was in love.
Of course it wasn’t the shallow “romantic” attachment one human displayed toward another. He was above that. No, this was a love of discovering something new, a pure appreciation for figuring out how an alien – an honest to God alien - ticked.
Everything about Brock was just so fascinating, so enthralling, that he had to remind himself to catch a bite here and there, a nap in the corner of his lab, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to function and continue his research to the best of his ability. There were plenty of assistants at his disposal – Fisk promised him the best and was true to his word – but Alistair only trusted himself for the personal monitoring of the specimen. It was a hassle when Fisk’s flunkie Marko kept popping in to get progress reports, but he suffered through it all for the sake of science. All for the sake of his one true love.
Today Brock was again pacing the length of his cell, as usual. It reminded Alistair of a caged tiger prowling about its prison; incredibly cliché, yes, but it fit the bill all the same. It was a bit disheartening to realize he probably wouldn’t see this marvelous “black monster” of Marko’s and Silver Sable’s any time soon, but one would simply have to be patient. Once they understood more about this alien parasite, the further they could proceed in isolating its components and controlling it – Fisk had said he had a very specific use for it in mind, but to be frank, Smythe didn’t much care if this was the next evolution in warfare or the next cure for cancer. He just wanted to study this creature and its human host. If he’d known what he was getting into when Marko dropped that remarkable blood sample on his hands, he would’ve even worked for free.
Bringing one of the many daily reports in front of him with a flick of his fingers, Alistair could see that there was a potential problem developing: Brock was eating rapidly less and less of the food they gave him, and Alistair felt fairly sure that it had something to do with why he was now sleeping with his eyes open. He’d been ravenous before, despite his obvious distrust.
Now it looked like the mere sight of food sickened him.
Alistair was torn between concern and interest. I don’t want him to starve on us. But on the other hand, he was also wondering just what Brock did want to eat now. His other activities hadn’t exactly changed: he paced, he slept, and he spent more and more time…well, Alistair wasn’t sure if it was plain old fornication with that creature, but it certainly seemed that way. It wasn’t unusual for Brock to pace and pace, and then suddenly drop whatever he was doing and spread his legs, the very picture of obedience to what looked like nothing more than an animate blob of oil.
Humans devolving. That was what it looked like. As if Brock had suddenly up and tired of being at the top of the food chain and decided to go the other way. Sure, he could still think and talk (and he did talk, even if often it was seemingly to himself), but it was fairly obvious that he wasn’t in charge of his shared body. For once the human was the definite inferior.
There was something almost charmingly primitive about it all.
Flint Marko didn’t seem to think so. The man, always shedding his infernal sand all over the place, in fact seemed to be bothered by it.
Oh well. Alistair cupped the still steaming mug of hot chocolate one of his assistants had brought in, blowing on it delicately as he watched the center screen. He fumbled with it in surprise when Marko suddenly cleared his throat behind him.
“What do you want?” Alistair snapped, relieved he hadn’t tipped the hot chocolate all over his terminal. “It better be good!”
Marko was unfazed. He held up what looked like some security photos and slapped them down. “It’s important. Take a look.”
Glancing at Marko with disdain (the man was a common thief, an idiotic thug), Alistair set down his mug and picked up the photos. They were grainy and not too clear, having been taken at night, but he spotted what looked like a human wearing some kind of blue and red bodysuit. He was in each shot, sometimes almost out of the frame.
“Spider-man’s been takin’ an awful lot of interest snoopin’ around Fisk Tower. That just came in last night. Security says he was tryin’ to find a way in.”
Alistair’s brow knit. “Why?” A terrible thought dawned on him. “Does he know Brock’s here?”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
Alistair started to order Marko to take care of this intruder – nothing like euphemisms to keep your hands clean – when he paused. He remembered reading in the brief that Brock had seemed awfully interested in Spider-man’s welfare, going so far as to come running when Marko had him at his mercy before trashing the New York Public Library. Why? It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now that they had Spider-man potentially knocking on Fisk’s door…
Hmm.
Frowning, Alistair glanced back at the hovering screen before him. Brock was once again going through his ritual of semi-masturbation with even more enthusiasm than before, splayed in the corner of the cell with his legs shamelessly spread and propped up by tendrils of black ooze. His bare hips rolled with the undulating motion of the gleaming tentacles. The nude blond looked in a world all of his own. His eyes drifted closed, mouth panting open, fangs peeping out past parted lips.
Alistair watched the display for a moment with about as much emotion if it was just a wildlife documentary – which, in a way, it was.
From what Alistair knew of Eddie Brock’s background, the man hated Spider-man. It didn’t make sense why he’d do a one-eighty and get so possessive, going so far as to rescue him unless there was a good reason. Sipping at his hot chocolate, Alistair gazed absently at the screen with Brock, mulling it over. The man wasn’t a human anymore, didn’t make choices and act like a human; he was a slave to whatever instincts that alien had and merely reacted as such, judging by how he dropped everything to make it happy. No action. Only reaction.
Instincts …Wait…
Alistair looked back at Marko, turning over the barest glimmers of a hunch in his mind. He wasn’t sure what Brock’s instincts meant exactly, but he had a feeling that putting Spider-man and Brock together would produce some incredible results, so long as the superhero didn’t manage to run off with his specimen. “Leave Spider-man alone for now. I don’t care if he gets inside so long as he doesn’t damage my equipment.”
Marko fidgeted uncomfortably, trying his best not to look at Brock on-screen getting reamed over and over. “What about him?”
“Just make sure he doesn’t leave that room. But if Spider-man happens to find him...” Alistair knew he was gambling here. But that particular room was heavily reinforced to give a Hulk-Lite (Marko’s words, not his) a run for his money. The walls could also be electrified; a little addition once they found out Brock was particularly vulnerable to electricity. Not to mention Marko was still around. “It won’t be a loss. I want to see what happens when they’re together.”
Alistair turned back to his work as Marko left. It was exciting and everything, but there was still the matter of feeding the subject. He hadn’t eaten more than a few bites in over a day, and he hadn’t seen him even touch the tray at all today. Alistair would have to start sending in one of his assistants to see that he ate whether he liked it or not.
This fasting would have to stop.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
This seriously isn’t going to work.
Peter Parker checked himself in the mirror, frowning. He’d combed his hair neatly to the side, out of his face for once, and he was what Aunt May would’ve said was suspiciously respectable – if she’d been here, which, thankfully, she wasn’t. Too many awkward questions that he didn’t want to have to evade.
He’d been right when he guessed Fisk would’ve Spidey-proofed his place. The glass was too strong for him to go through, and the security systems were off the wall; no telling what would happen if he just went tripping about the usual way. The back door approach, his personal favorite, wasn’t going to cut it, which led him to the front door approach…which was looking increasingly stupid and flimsy even though he was running out of ideas. What he needed was to get inside and to try to be a bit less flashy about it than crawling around in his red and blues.
For all intents and purposes, Peter Parker was going to try to get a job at Fisk Towers.
Okay, so he wasn’t even eighteen yet but he did have to admit that he looked a bit older and more mature once he’d dressed up. While he was leery about walking into the proverbial lion’s den asking for a job interview, it was still better than his original idea (something with trying to pop up on Fisk’s doorstep posing as pizza boy – he didn’t know what he’d been thinking). I can’t believe I’m doing this. This’s nuts! Not only was he wandering in out of costume, he was also wearing the nice slacks and dress shirt that he wasn’t supposed to wear until he graduated. Aunt May would kill him not only for skipping the ten o’clock curfew, but also breaking said rules in that suit.
But that was the best, most formal piece of clothing he had and if he was going to try to get into Fisk Towers, he had to look as adult and well-groomed as possible.
Peter adjusted the tie nervously, frowning at the mirror. It was amazing what cleaning up your act could do: the person in the mirror looked like a young man maybe just beginning college, a bit on the short side, but at least not some scrawny, scared sixteen year-old. Aunt May always said he should get all that hair out of his eyes so she could see the face of her boy. Now he had. It seemed to make a world of difference. He’d gained a few pounds in weight – almost all muscle - after becoming Spider-man and while it didn’t make much of a difference in street clothes, it seemed to make him look more adult now that he was suspiciously respectable.
Wondering what else he could try to do to maintain that illusion, Peter practiced not slouching for once. He stood up straight. The mental image of Eddie Brock, half-sitting on the edge of a desk, smartly dressed and giving him a lop-sided smile, suddenly bubbled up in his mind.
Not his preferred choice for inspiration, but…Eddie used to carry himself like he knew what he wanted, how to get it, and who to start sweet-talking to help him get my foot in the door, according to Eddie. Confidence. That was the name of the game. Peter had to look like he wasn’t dealing with a hundred different things at once, things that normal kids didn’t deal with. But he just couldn’t just slip into his Spidey-mindset either; for one, he wasn’t behind the mask and it wasn’t quite the same as giving a good, old school beat-down to the latest modelers of ski-mask fashion.
This problem he faced now couldn’t be solved by fists or one-liners.
Shrugging into the suit’s coat, Peter checked his wallet and the briefcase he’d found in the basement. It was his dad’s, but he was sure he wouldn’t have minded him dusting it off and using it. Inside was a fake resume, miscellaneous fake papers and the fake-ID he totally wasn’t supposed to have either, much like the graduation suit. It was for a good cause. It probably wouldn’t fool them for too long – it would just take one background check before he’d have to bug off – but it might give him enough time to find out where Brock was being held. To get his foot in the door.
Okay. Here goes. Gathering up his stuff and making sure to dart out the door before Gwen caught up to him, Peter left the house, taking the short flight of stairs in a jump.
The bus trip to the city seemed to take forever when he couldn’t just websling his way over. No web shooters, no costume, nothing that could potentially get him linked to Spider-man or Peter Parker. If he got caught, he didn’t want trouble following him home. Peter stared down at the briefcase in his lap, absently reaching up and pushing his old glasses up the bridge of his nose. The thought that this is nuts and this is more than nuts, it’s crazy kept circling in his head. While he’d managed to keep a cool face, he certainly didn’t feel very cool inside; he was so nervous that he almost missed his stop.
Stepping off the bus, Peter craned his head to gaze up at Fisk Towers, knuckles white around the briefcase handle. He hated everything that Kingpin stood for, but he knew now that he couldn’t get at the man and bring him to justice unless he managed to cover each and every loophole: for a big fat guy, Fisk had a way of worming his way out of just about any inconveniences, like going to prison for cold-blooded murder. He was living proof that all you needed was obscene amounts of money and you could suddenly get away with anything. And that was just the Jolly White Giant as a human – Peter didn’t even want to think of what happened if he had full access to the symbiote.
Wilson Fisk couldn’t be allowed to have Brock.
Swallowing, Peter focused his attention groundside. Project Eddie. Just try to channel how you saw him act around people when he was normal and not crazy. Peter strode through the glass doors and was relieved that he didn’t miss as step as he entered what had to be the largest lobby known to man. It was bustling with activity, with people that he was sure looked a lot older than him crossing the elegantly tiled floors, and yet no one was pulling him aside and giving him a boot to the sidewalk. The sheer size of the place made the trip to the receptionist’s desk, a solid wood and black marble affair, seem to take forever.
The man behind the desk looked up. “May I help you?”
Peter knew this whole thing was insane and probably going to end badly, but at least he’d done his research. It wasn’t like he’d gone in on the hopes that someone would just happen to be hiring. “I’m hoping to apply for a job,” Peter said. “I think a researcher called Alistair Smythe was in need of some positions filled?”
The receptionist eyed him, thinking he was awfully young, but after a second turned to his computer and consulted the flat screen.
Peter waited. It took a conscious effort to remain still and not move restlessly, much less look relaxed like he had every right to be here. He couldn’t see how Eddie – not Brock, not this “Venom”, but the Eddie he used to know – had managed it and managed it so effortlessly. It was really, really hard to act like you belonged when you didn’t.
“You made it just in time. He’s seeing candidates now on the sixty-third floor. Your name?”
Peter managed not fumble for his fake name, instead tilting his head to the side. “Stanley Kaine.”
“Mr. Smythe will be paged to let you know you’re on your way. You may use the elevator behind me.”
A bit surprised that was all it took (no interrogation? Nothing?), Peter obediently headed for the elevator, keeping a tight grip on the briefcase and wondering when his luck would give out. So far so good – he’d managed to make it past the receptionist. Now it was a matter of trying to get past this Alistair Smythe and seeing if he could find any clues to help him locate Brock. He was starting to feel slightly more positive about this as he approached the elevators just as the doors opened before him:
And out stepped Silver Lady.
Peter felt his face pale, seeming to grow slightly numb. She was still here! She knew who Peter Parker was, had to have seen his face at some point. Would she recognize him? Keep walking. Don’t stare. Peter kept his eyes forward as the woman came sauntering his way, a long black coat over her white uniform, lugging two large steel cases. He couldn’t help, however, watching her out of the side of his peripheral vision as she went past: she’d seen him and was now glancing at him curiously as if suffering déjà vu. Catching the elevator before the door closed, Peter slid in without any hurry, though his heart was thundering in his chest. She couldn’t have got more than a glimpse and anyway, he hadn’t done anything suspicious like quicken his step or react.
Peter didn’t see Silver Sable stop. He didn’t see her turn, stare at the closed elevator doors thoughtfully, and almost seem to smile before she turned on her heel and left.
Her contract was over. What she just saw was irrelevant in her opinion.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
“I don’t want to eat!” Eddie snarled peevishly. “I just don’t, okay?”
He felt sick. Really sick. His arms and legs hurt, stomach hurt, and most of all, his head hurt like the mother of all migraines coming back with a vengeance. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Eddie was all for huddling in a corner in self-pity, but it seemed that fucker Alistair wouldn’t have any of that. Eddie couldn’t help the way his body wanted to shiver and tremble like he was some kind of messed up junkie. He couldn’t help how it seemed like he was just itching for an excuse – more so than before – to jump the next person that ventured in his cell.
Only it wasn’t for sex. No, he felt a rising urge to kill, to feed.
- that delicious crack that signaled the skull was breached -
Eddie shuddered. The further into this hunger they sank, the more these bizarre flashes of his Other’s past feeding habits kept cropping up…and now he was starting to feel like they weren’t as repulsive as he’d first thought. The third and final step that he knew was coming wasn’t here yet – he could still think intelligently and plan – but he knew when it did come, there would be no turning back. Someone would have to die and die messily. Hopefully Alistair or Marko would make the mistake of entering the cell when they were like this. Preferably Alistair, seeing as Marko had been wisely absent from the cell for the past few days.
Right now Alistair had sent one of his idiot assistants to try to coax Eddie into eating again. They liked to pretend to play nice before their boss would chime in on the speakers: Mr. Brock, if you don’t eat something, I will be forced to encourage you to. Eddie would grudgingly eat only then, but half the time he couldn’t keep it down very well, the bile rising in his throat as he tried to choke down perfectly good food. At times he was sorely tempted to just take the shock collar like a man rather than suffer through the torture of being made to eat what they couldn’t digest.
His world was rapidly narrowing down to only two things.
Peter Parker and this other hunger.
Sometimes they blurred together. Sometimes Eddie fancied that he wanted to taste everything of the Spider, every last inch of his delicious flesh inside and out, and it always took a too-long second to realize he meant it literally. And that he was one hundred percent serious.
Alistair’s assistant, a fresh-faced young woman with a smattering of freckles, frowned at him – she was doing her best not to look down the fact he was still ass-naked and failing miserably – and held out the tray. “Please, you need to eat, Mr. Brock.”
“Leave me alone.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“I don’t care. I can’t eat that.”
“It’s fine, we just made it a few minutes ago. Please eat.”
Eddie got to his feet, towering over the woman by a good foot. “No.” He leaned down, somehow aware of the pulse running in her throat, the same pulse that he could feel right above her eyebrows. He didn’t even need to be whispering breathily into her ear to know that it was his Other’s sense of prey that was kicking in. “Now, look. You’re cute. Nice legs. But if you bug me one more time, I’m going to fucking disembowel you so fast you’ll still by wondering why you feel a draft.”
His lips curled in an empty smile as he pulled back, as if he’d just been flirting with her, his eyes meeting hers. Her face was bloodless.
“Door’s behind you,” Eddie drawled, lounging on the cot.
The smirk dropped once the assistant fled, practically running out. Eddie waited tensed on the cot. He expected to get a nice fuck you from the shock collar, but, surprisingly, nothing happened even after a few minutes passed. Was Alistair asleep on the job? Eyebrows drawing together, Eddie frowned, glancing around and up at the camera hole, puzzled and letting his confusion war with his hunger. It felt good to be distracted and he debated trying to smash through the glass while they had this freedom – if it even was that, and not another one of Alistair’s tricks.
It didn’t feel very good, this all too human wavering, this disgusting uncertainty. They hated it and yet they were forced to come to terms with it. There was the chance that Alistair didn’t do anything on purpose, wanted to tempt them into revealing more of their abilities just so he could have more data, have more of them. Eddie didn’t even bother fighting off the spike of jealousy. He and the symbiote belonged together, dammit. No one else!
And certainly not some faceless hack. He refused to give Alistair more insight into their special bond.
Where was he, anyway?
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
“You’re lacking in actual job experience, but I suppose that can be attributed to the fact that you’re in college,” Alistair Smythe said. “Quite a mind you have there, Mr. Kaine. I think I have a position for you.”
Peter couldn’t believe this. He thought he’d get far, but not this far! Barely remembering to play it cool (he was supposed to be an adult, after all), Peter only nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Smythe smiled, but it was a smile without any warmth – purely professional. Polite though. The man nodded toward the door, his wheelchair quietly humming as he led the way down the hall, Peter following behind. He couldn’t help staring at the wheelchair; for one, it was like anything he’d seen, a sleek, streamlined affair that seemed to actually hover several inches above the carpet and almost completely silent except for the faintest of hums. The science geek in him was dying to know how it worked, but it probably wasn’t the most appropriate thing to just start asking about. Reaching up and adjusting his glasses, Peter stepped up the pace. He suppressed a wince. Dress shoes? Not that comfortable.
As they waited for the elevator that Smythe accessed with a keycard, Peter frowned, suddenly thinking of something. “Don’t you want to do a background check on me first? Before you hire me?”
“That would be the standard procedure, yes. But I expect this to be extremely short term.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Smythe turned in his chair. “How ethical do you consider yourself, Mr. Kaine?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s a simple question. The work we do here is very delicate, but vital. Some of it might disturb those with frailer moral sensibilities. I might as well get it out in the open right now: my employer and I don’t tolerate the squeamish.”
That didn’t sound good. “Try me.”
“How do you feel about mutants?”
Peter paused. He thought they were a bit…well, weird, but in their defense, this was all coming from a guy with equally weird spider-powers. But judging from what Smythe said earlier, it sounded like defending the mutants wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “I, uh, don’t really support them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do you think they should have the same rights that normal humans do?”
Now this was awkward territory.
“No.”
“But shouldn’t they deserve to be treated for their...problem? To regain those rights?”
“Yes.”
Apparently that was the right answer. Smythe smiled again. “Good.” The elevator slid open silently and he steered the hoverchair inside, pressing a button that wasn’t numbered; it was just a pale shade of purple that glowed as he touched it. “Now I’m sure you’re wondering what the squeamish part is. To be short, we’re working with a particularly violent mutant patient. I have reason to believe that we can cure him…but he didn’t exactly volunteer himself for the cause, and that’s where it gets a bit loose ethically.”
Peter decided he didn’t much care for this Smythe, narrowing his eyes at the back of the scientist’s head as the elevator ascended. The man hadn’t outright said it, but it sounded like they’d basically kidnapped someone off the street and was holding him against his will indefinitely until he was “treated”. It could be Brock. How many people could they have picked up? A lot, his mind replied, for all you know they could’ve transferred him and this’s someone else.
“So what’s my job?”
Smythe shrugged. “It’s not much of a challenge, but you’ll need to monitor his feedings. He’s been rather stubborn lately. Could be trying to starve himself to make a point, we don’t know yet. We fear he might get violent around my other assistants, so I need someone who can handle him. It’ll only be short term until we can get him eating again.”
This was insane. Peter didn’t need to be reminded yet again, but that didn’t stop him from thinking it anyway.
He tried counting the floors, but without any level numbers, he realized that he’d have no idea of how high they were now without looking out a window. Eventually the elevator dinged softly, letting them out into a hall that was wide and yet still had a feeling of being cramped. When Peter glanced around, he realized that they were heavily reinforced, the deep blue walls even criss-crossed with some kind of mesh (unfortunately not adamantium, Smythe said with regret). Puzzled, Peter jogged to catch up to Smythe as they navigated the maze of alternating glass and walls, wondering just what kind of “mutant” they were up against.
And suddenly there was a large empty space, so wide that Peter almost stumbled in surprise. Before him was a wide open black floor, dominated by some kind of miniature room – a cell? – lit from inside by white light. It shone like a star in the otherwise dimly lit room, flanked by four windows that looked inches thick. But it wasn’t the window that got his attention: it was who was inside.
Peter’s lips parted in shock as he recognized the figure inside about to punch a black fist through the window.
“This is your charge, Mr. Kaine.”
Smythe only looked amused, leaning down to press a button for some kind of voice projection unit in his hover-chair:
“And Mr. Brock? I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
It was now or never, Eddie decided. They were going to have to try to escape before that assistant tattled to Alistair about their little threat.
The blond paced around the cell, making one agitated round before coming to one of the black one-way windows, unable to help the little twitches of hunger making him fidget where he stood. Peering at the window, more of a black mirror than anything else, he could only see a shadow of his reflection staring back, as well as the white parts of his cell. “His” cell. Fucking ridiculous. As if it was something he could own. Like a weak little human, he was already trying to narrow his worldview to resign himself to captivity, like it could be any worse. Like he should even be thankful he was given this much.
Pathetic. He knew, deep down, from his Other – his pained, desperately hungry Other – that they were destined for great things. Being the newest zoo resident wasn’t one of them.
Looking down, Eddie envisioned his fist turning black, turning oily, turning theirs. Before he’d even finished the thought, vines of liquid black had overtaken his arm and covered it completely, fingers now ending in claws. Focusing on the opaque glass before him, he targeted his reflection’s head, pulling his claws back –
“And Mr. Brock. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Eddie froze. So Alistair was there! He was about to ignore the man, make a break for the window even if they got shocked, when the window suddenly turned transparent. The black faded away. It wasn’t perfectly clear, not with the light from behind him, but it was a startling contrast from the walls of nothing he’d been used to. For the first time in days, he could see beyond the confines of the cell as the windows became two-way, revealing a large of expanse of tile surrounding the area and two figures. Eddie zeroed in on the two male humans. One was looked to be in his early forties, a head of black hair swept back neatly, almost obsessively from a high forehead. He had broad shoulders despite the fact he was seated in what looked like the bastard child of a wheelchair and a Corvette.
Judging from the way he was pulling back from the armrest’s button, this was the face behind that clipped, British voice. Alistair Smythe.
Eddie’s eyes flicked to the shorter man standing slightly behind him and for a second he thought their senses were wrong: everything about him screamed Spider Parker ours here! and yet he looked like a young businessman, not the short, geeky little brat he had the bad luck of entertaining a perpetual hard-on for. It took another long second before he really looked past the professional hair and the glasses, the nice suit, and realized he wasn’t wrong, and that the businessman was no businessman at all.
Peter…Parker?
Despite himself, Eddie gaped. It was enough of a distraction that he almost forgot that he was starving, that he was quite sure pretty soon he’d go for whatever made the mistake of stepping into his cell. A million questions, thoughts, seemed to flap about his head like so many moths and yet the one that stood out the most was that when Parker shaped up and tucked in his damn shirt for once, he didn’t half-ass it. True, he didn’t look like he was much over drinking age, but he certainly looked legal. And of course out popped the next thought, which ran something along the lines of that is really fucking hot.
He almost found it morbidly funny. Like a big sign that he was apparently off-the-walls crazy and loving it. But he was still Eddie, in part, anyway, and he knew that now wasn’t the time to be checking out Parker. Or how he’d probably look in a few years if this living snapshot was anything to go by. And while Eddie would like nothing more than to get the personal satisfaction of outing the little fake to Alistair (who said petty revenge wasn’t fulfilling?), he also knew that Parker’s disguise might be the break they needed to escape. Swallowing down a fresh surge of hate – and all too aware of his throbbing erection – Eddie took a step toward the window.
“So who’s this?” Eddie let the claws ooze away. Be careful, be slow. Find out what Spider wanted before making any moves. “And how come you didn’t tell me the Wizard of Oz was a cripple?”
Alistair didn’t rise to the bait. “This is Stanley Kaine. He’ll be encouraging you to eat.”
Eddie glared at Parker. He didn’t have to fake his dislike.
“You’re strapped for help these days if you’re trolling colleges now.”
“Hardly. But the same rules apply: you are not to injure any of my employees. If you do, there will be consequences that I’m sure you’re quite familiar with, Mr. Brock.”
Eddie couldn’t help but unconsciously touch the cool metal of the shock collar. Oh yes, he was more familiar with the damn thing than he liked. And he had big plans for it when – not if – they got free. See how Alistair liked it around his neck. The fact he was apparently handicapped just made that thought even more entertaining. But Parker was now here, that little bit of added temptation they didn’t need, and Eddie could only hope he’d be able to control himself long enough to get the fuck out of here. That was assuming he’d still be rational at that point.
It was hard to keep his eyes off Parker, disguise or not. Right now Eddie was torn between wanting to drag his sorry ass into the cell and strip him right there or punch that innocently clueless look off his smug little face.
“Is it safe to go closer?” Parker played it dumb for now for Alistair’s sake.
Alistair nodded. “Make it fast.”
The Spider closed the distance between them to the point where there was only the inches thick glass between him and them. Eddie felt blood rushing through his veins, felt the heat from before intensifying to the point where he swore he could feel the thundering beat of his heart in his ears. It wasn’t helping that at this distance they could sense that same beat of life in Parker, in his skull and his body, and it killed them to think he was still unmarked. Still up for grabs. And with Flint Marko still in the building…
Eddie was almost willing to get jerked off by Marko again if it meant the man was kept busy – and stayed away from Parker.
They locked eyes with the Spider, blood-shot gray meeting hazel. It was easy to lose yourself in Parker’s eyes, especially this close; Eddie could make out the flecks of faint green and gold shot in them, making what he knew to be an average brown very attractive. Unique. Eddie looked down, for once feeling ashamed that he was butt-naked in front of the kid, and wishing he could cover up. It seemed a far cry from his memories of being normal, of having a gawky sixteen year-old shadowing him and thinking that his biggest problem was paying off a mortgage and trying not to cuss in front of the newbie.
Eddie looked back up, aware that Parker was still gazing at him, as if waiting for him to say something. He found himself suddenly tired of the boy’s pity, his damned compassion, recoiling from it like it was poison. He thought he knew everything about Peter Parker from his symbiote’s genetic memories of him…yet he still couldn’t grasp why he got up every day to save the city from itself. Why he really did what he did and kept on doing it. While Eddie wasn’t at all sorry that he became Host to his Other, he did have to admit that things had become decidedly complicated after he woke up with a voice in his head and stolen powers.
The blond turned away from Parker without saying anything, feeling his eyes on him as he crossed the cell and flopped back down on the cot, crossing his arms over his chest.
No, it wasn’t the symbiote’s fault that things were complicated. That was unfair of him. Eddie scowled at the wall. It was Peter Parker’s fault. And while he was here (and they did need the help, unfortunately), he had to come at the worst possible time with his typically terrible sense of timing. Now? Now was a really bad time to be mounting a half-assed rescue. Eddie closed his eyes, all too aware now of the feeling of a growing nothing within him, like the void he’d begun seeing ever since the symbiote’s first dream. It felt…numb at the core, no thought at all. Just reaction to stimulation. Frankly, it scared him. Eddie was starting to realize just what had got his Other so spooked in the first place.
And it wasn’t just that the mere sight of Parker was enough to get him hard that was bothering him.
Eddie was more concerned with the fact that he wasn’t sure if he could keep from killing him on accident. Parker had the dubious honor of both being what they lusted for and yet also being human. Being prey; he was a potential food source just like everything else here that walked on two legs.
- Parker under him, writhing, sweat-slicked, bodies pressed up against one another -
- warm strings of meat caught between their fangs, blood running down their chin -
He didn’t believe in God. Not after the shit he’d gone through recently.
But Eddie Brock still prayed to Him anyway.
Just give me more time. I know I’ve sinned and I’m past redemption, but please…hear me out.
Funny thing how people always turned to make-believe when they were shit out of luck.
Whatever You do, don’t let me kill Peter Parker.
To be continued...
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
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Black Sustenance