Pairing: Eddie Brock / Venom / female!reader (Ripper — Indominus Rex/Velociraptor hybrid)
you were made in a lab, rejected by every symbiote they threw at you, left to rot in a life foundation cell until a certain gooey boy showed up and ate everyone who hurt you. now you're living in eddie brock's apartment, eating his omelettes, and making both him and his boyfriend lose their goddamn minds. alien goo romance. dinosaur girl supremacy. we die like men.
Warnings: past torture/experimentation, past non-consensual breeding attempts (discussed, not depicted), body horror, possessive relationship dynamics, explicit content, ripper is canonically the biggest thing in any room and she knows it
word count: ~who's counting. not you. you're too busy thinking about venom's tongue.
The shock sticks crackled against your hide — each jolt a white-hot, sizzling bite that sank through the thick, armoured plating of your outer form and burrowed deep into the muscle and sinew beneath. Your claws scraped uselessly against the reinforced flooring, sickle-shaped tips carving thin, desperate lines into the metal as your body seized and locked under yet another wave of voltage. You couldn't move. Couldn't shift. Couldn't do anything but sit there in your full form — massive, hunched, trembling — while the guards circled you like vultures who'd forgotten they were supposed to be afraid.
This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm just having a casual spa day. Getting electrocuted is basically acupuncture if you're optimistic enough.
One of them jammed the prod harder against your flank, and the sound that tore out of your throat was something between a hiss and a snarl — all feral, guttural fury with absolutely nowhere to go. Your jaw ached from how hard you'd been clenching it. The cold metal of the restraints bit into your wrists, and every nerve ending in your body was screaming, a ragged, buzzing hum that made your vision swim with static.
Not the gradual kind. Not the slow, creeping quiet of men losing their nerve. It was sudden, like someone had reached into the room and simply pulled the plug on everything. The shock sticks died. The humming overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then blared an angry, pulsing red as an alarm tore through the facility — shrill and screaming and absolute.
"BREACH. BREACH. ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL RESPOND. CONTAINMENT FAILURE IN SECTOR SEVEN."
One of the guards — the one who'd been standing just a little too close, a little too smug — turned to his partner. His voice cracked.
Because in the span of a single, stuttering heartbeat, something enveloped him. Not grabbed. Not struck. Swallowed — a tide of living, shifting black that surged up from the floor like oil come to life, wrapping around his torso, his arms, his face, silencing him mid-syllable. His partner had just enough time to draw a breath — one sharp, panicked inhale — before the darkness reached for him too, and then there was nothing but the wet, organic sound of something moving that shouldn't have been able to move, and two uniforms crumpling to the ground like empty husks.
Your sickle claws tapped the ground — once, twice — a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed through the suddenly cavernous silence of the room. Your body was coiled tight, every muscle locked, every instinct screaming. Your tail swung low and heavy behind you, slicing through the air for balance, and your lips peeled back over rows of teeth that were not designed for smiling — long, curved, serrated things that caught the red emergency light and gleamed like a promise.
"Who are you?" you said. Your voice came out low, rough, scraping against the inside of your throat like stone on stone. You bared every last one of those sickle-shaped teeth, a wall of bone and malice aimed squarely at the towering shape that was still pulling itself together from the remains of what had been two grown men.
It didn't drip. It didn't pour. It moved — with intention, with terrifying, fluid grace — rising and folding and shaping itself into something vertical, something massive. Broad shoulders. A chest that could have blocked out the alarm lights. A face that was all teeth and eyes and barely-contained hunger, and a body that looked like living shadow given form and told to be angry about it.
Oh. Oh, that's a symbiote. That's a Venom symbiote. That's— okay. Okay. He's very tall. That's... that's a lot of teeth. That's MORE teeth than I was expecting. Why is he shaped like a nightmare but standing there like he's about to offer me a cup of tea?
His voice was deep — a resonant, vibrating thing that seemed to come from everywhere at once, as though the walls themselves were speaking. It rumbled through the floor and up through your claws, settling somewhere in the base of your chest like a second heartbeat. He was terrifying. He was monstrous. And he was looking at you with those wide, white, alien eyes — and there was something in them that wasn't hunger.
He extended a clawed hand toward you. Massive. Pitch-black. Dripping slightly at the edges, as though even holding still took effort.
"Come on," he said. "We are here to get you out of here."
You didn't move immediately.
Your nostrils flared — wide, deliberate — and you leaned forward, just slightly, just enough to catch his scent. He smelled like something alive. Not rot, not decay. Warmth and darkness and something almost sweet underneath it all, like ozone after a storm, like wet earth after rain. He smelled like a predator, yes — but he also smelled like safety, and that was a combination your body didn't know how to process.
He smells like... home? No. No, that's ridiculous. I've never had a home. I've had cages and labs and people with shock sticks. He smells like— I don't know what he smells like. He smells like the opposite of everything in this place.
You snuffed his hand — a short, sharp exhale against his palm — and then, slowly, carefully, you rose.
The shift from all fours to two hindlegs was not graceful. It was never graceful. Your tail whipped hard behind you, counterbalancing the massive redistribution of weight as you straightened up, up, up — and you were big, you'd always been big, but standing at your full height in this room with the red light washing over you and the symbiote watching, you understood for the first time that you were not the biggest thing in this building anymore.
And then — faint, trembling, human — you heard it. The voice of the host. The man connected to the symbiote. It filtered through the bond like a radio signal caught between stations, half-muffled and full of static, but unmistakably awed.
"Oh god," Eddie Brock swore, and his heartbeat hammered so hard you could feel it through the floor. "She's big."
" So are we, " said the symbiote — calm, certain, and with a warmth in his voice that didn't match the teeth at all.
Did he just— did his symbiote just flex on me through their shared brain? Is that what that was? I'm being rescued by an alien goo man who just size-compared with his own host. This is fine. Everything is fine.
And then Venom turned — a fluid, rolling motion that sent ripples through his form — and began to walk.
Past the bodies. Past the crumpled uniforms and the abandoned shock sticks and the alarms that were still screaming overhead. Past doors that had been torn off their hinges and walls that had been eaten through and security systems that hung in sparking, useless tangles from the ceiling. The symbiote moved through the destruction like it was nothing — like chaos was just another word for pathway — and you padded along behind him, your claws clicking against the metal floor, your tail swaying low, your teeth still bared.
Because Venom had come for you. This towering, terrifying, tooth-filled nightmare of a creature had walked into the worst place you'd ever known and had simply decided that you were coming with him, and there was something about that — about the casual, absolute certainty of it — that made something warm and startled unfurl in the pit of your chest.
He didn't ask permission. He didn't negotiate. He just showed up, killed everyone who hurt me, and held out his hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
...I think I might like him.
Eddie's apartment smelled like coffee and old newspapers and something underneath it all that was warm and lived-in — the kind of scent that wrapped around you and said safe, safe, safe in a language your body understood better than any words ever could. You'd been here for a few hours now, sprawled across his floor like something out of a fever dream, still in your full form because turning back felt like putting on a skin that didn't fit anymore — if it ever had.
**He's cooking for me. This man who I could snap in half without trying is standing in his tiny kitchen making me breakfast. What is wrong with him. What is right with him. I don't — I don't understand gentle creatures. I've never been around them long enough to learn.
He turned from the stove, oven mitt on one hand, and crossed the room toward you with an omelette balanced on a plate like it was the most normal thing in the world — like feeding a six-ton apex predator in his living room was just another Tuesday.
"Hey, here," he said, crouching down and holding the plate out toward you.
You took it. Carefully. Your huge claws closed around the edges of the plate — too-large, too-sharp, built for rending flesh not holding ceramic — and you ate a little awkwardly, hunched forward, each bite precise despite the clumsiness of the motion. The eggs were good. They were really good, actually, and something about that — about the fact that he'd seasoned them, had thought about what might taste good for you — made your chest do something complicated and uncomfortable that you didn't have a name for.
Eddie sat down on the floor across from you. Cross-legged. Like you were having a picnic. Like this was normal.
"So, uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "What do I call you?"
His voice was wary but not unkind — the wariness of a man who'd seen enough to know that fear was useless, so he might as well be polite about it. You liked that. You liked that a lot, actually, more than you wanted to examine.
You used a long, prehensile tongue — pale and dexterous and utterly inhuman — to clean the remnants of egg from between your claws, slow and deliberate, and you saw Eddie's throat bob as he swallowed.
"(Y/N)," you said, and your voice was a low, rumbling thing that filled the room. "Was my human name."
Human name. Past tense. Because that person doesn't exist anymore, does she? She's buried somewhere under teeth and claws and chromosomes that were never supposed to exist. She's gone, and what's left is... this. Whatever this is.
Venom stirred on Eddie's shoulder — a slow, rippling movement, like something waking up beneath the surface of dark water — and Eddie's cock twitched visibly in his jeans. He said nothing about it. Brave little human.
"What's, um—" Eddie cleared his throat. His eyes were on your face now, studying the ridges of your scales, the slitted calm of your gaze. "What's your name now?"
You paused. Tilted your massive head. Let the silence stretch just long enough to watch the uncertainty flicker behind his eyes.
And you gave him a look — not threatening, not cold, but calm, with those blue, slitted eyes that caught the light like chips of frozen sky — and something in that look said I could kill you before your next heartbeat but I'm not going to, and I need you to understand that I am choosing that, every single second.
"You wish to know how I came to this, right, Eddie?"
You told him everything — your voice low and even, a rumbling current that filled the apartment like distant thunder. You told him about the beginning, about the cold, sterile labs and the scientists who'd looked at you like a blueprint instead of a living thing. How you'd been made — constructed, really — from the spliced DNA of the two greatest predators the planet had ever produced: the Indominus rex, with her white scales and her incomprehensible intelligence, and the Velociraptor, with her speed and her pack instincts and the way she could communicate without ever opening her mouth. You were both and neither. You were something new, something that had never existed before and was never supposed to, and the humans who'd made you had looked at their creation and seen only potential.
You told him about the escape — how you'd broken free of your enclosure when you were young, how the jungle air had tasted like freedom and terror and something electric, how you'd run until your claws bled and your lungs burned and you'd thought, just for a moment, that maybe you could belong somewhere out there in the wild, in the dark, in the places where nothing with a clipboard could follow.
You told him about the recapture. The Life Foundation. The warehouse.
That part came out flatter. Harder. Like the words had been pressed thin by the weight of remembering.
They'd experimented on you there. Tried to make you bond with symbiote after symbiote — different ones, all of them desperate and hungry and writhing — and you'd rejected every single one. Not because you couldn't. Not because the bond wasn't possible. Because you'd felt them pressing against the edges of your mind, all that need and that loneliness and that hunger, and you'd known — with the bone-deep certainty of a creature who'd been poked and prodded and measured her entire life — that you would not let another living thing inside you unless you chose it. Unless it earned it.
Then they'd tried to breed you. Different animals — other hybrids, other experiments, things with sad eyes and trembling bodies that they'd dragged into your enclosure and expected you to just—you'd never wanted it. Not once. The instinct wasn't there, or maybe it was buried too deep under the trauma and the rage and the slow, crystallizing understanding that nothing in this place would ever be given freely, so why would you give anything of yourself?
And eventually, they stopped trying.
They left you alone in that cell — the strongest containment they had, reinforced steel and voltage and enough sedatives in the air system to drop an elephant — and they left you there to rot. To wait. To exist in the humming, fluorescent nothing of a life that no one was living.
Rejected by the ones who made me. Rejected by the ones they tried to pair me with. Rejected by every symbiote that reached for me. I am the thing that everything pushes away. I am—
You sighed. The sound came out as a low, trembling exhale that stirred the air between you and Eddie like a warm wind.
"But I'm happy to be free now," you said, and your voice was quieter than it had been. Softer. "And thank you, Eddie."
You meant it. Every syllable of it. You gave him an honest look — no games, no posturing, no calculated dominance — just the raw, unguarded gratitude of a creature who had not been shown kindness in so long she'd forgotten it had a texture, and then you yawned.
Rows of teeth — serrated, curved, gleaming white in the lamplight — stretched wide in a display that should have been terrifying but somehow, in the context of Eddie Brock's living room at seven in the morning, just looked sleepy. Your jaw cracked softly. Your blue eyes watered at the corners.
God, I'm tired. I'm so tired. When was the last time I slept without something shocking me awake?
And then — because apparently you hadn't caused enough chaos for one morning — you tilted your head and fixed Eddie with a look that was equal parts knowing and amused, and you said:
"You know I could smell your feelings for me."
Eddie went very, very still.
Your tail shifted — slow, deliberate — and the tip of it traced a line down his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest against the front of his jeans where the fabric was pulled taut. He jerked — a full-body flinch that was half startle and half something else entirely, something that made the blood rush to his face and his hands fist against the floor.
It was a strange expression on a face like yours — all feral angles and too many teeth — but it was unmistakably a smirk, and it was devastating.
"My species knows when others want to breed," you said, as casually as if you were discussing the weather. Your blue slitted eyes gleamed with something warm and playful and just a little bit wicked. "It's not exactly subtle, Eddie."
Oh, he's dying. Look at him. He's absolutely dying right now and honestly? Fair. He's been sitting across from a six-foot-something dinosaur-hybrid for twenty minutes and trying to pretend he's not at least a little bit feral about it. I respect the restraint. I really do. But also — and I cannot stress this enough — his face is doing things and I want to remember them forever.
You cocked your head toward Venom, whose slitted white eyes were watching you from Eddie's shoulder with an intensity that could have melted steel. The symbiote hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but you could feel his attention like a physical thing — heavy, curious, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with violence.
"I could breed you one day, Eddie," you said. Your voice was a low, velvet purr — a promise wrapped in a threat wrapped in the most unsettlingly tender thing anyone had ever said to him. "One day."
You let that hang in the air for exactly two heartbeats — long enough to watch Eddie's brain short-circuit, long enough to see Venom's form ripple with something that might have been approval — and then you rose.
Your massive form unfolded from the floor with a fluid, rolling grace, tail swaying behind you, claws clicking softly against the hardwood. You brushed past Eddie as you moved toward his bedroom — close enough that your side pressed warm and solid against his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off your scales, close enough that his breath caught audibly in his throat.
And then you were gone, disappearing into the dark of his room, your massive form curling into the corner with a sound like a sigh, your tail wrapping around yourself — protective, possessive, comfortable — and your blue eyes drifting shut.
Behind you, in the living room, you heard Eddie let out a long, shaky breath.
"Not now," Eddie whispered.
"We should keep her," the symbiote said, and there was something in his voice — something soft and certain and unmistakably fond — that made even the walls feel warm.
You smiled with all your teeth in the dark.
Keep me, then. I dare you.
You wake to the sensation of being investigated. Not gently, not hesitantly—thoroughly, with the kind of obsessive, single-minded focus that only one creature in this entire universe possesses.
Something cool and slick curls around your ankle, then your calf, a living ribbon of black that pulses faintly with its own inner heat. It's not quite liquid, not quite solid; it's like being wrapped in oiled silk that breathes, and every inch of it is sniffing you.
Oh, your sleep-muzzy brain supplies, good morning to me, I guess.
A wet, snuffling sound drags up your spine, and a tongue—God, that tongue, impossibly long and thick and textured like velvet made of muscle—glides over the ridged keratinous plates of your shoulder. You feel every individual taste bud rasp against the grooves, cataloguing you, claiming you, and a shiver that has nothing to do with cold runs straight down to the base of your tail. The tip of that same tail, thick and muscular and currently tangled in the sheets, twitches when Venom's questing tendril gives it a proprietary squeeze.
You smile, eyes still closed. "Morning," you say, your voice a low, sleep-roughened rumble that vibrates in your chest.
Turning over is a production—your hindlegs are powerful, built for leverage, and your tail has a mind of its own—but you manage it, rolling until you're face-to-face with Eddie Brock. Oh, Eddie. The man is blushing so hard he could guide ships home in a fog, the red blooming up from his bare chest to the roots of his disheveled hair, a sunrise of pure, mortified want. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, and he's holding himself utterly still, as if moving might break whatever spell has allowed this to happen.
The black tendrils aren't coming from him. They're spilling from his shoulder, from the nape of his neck, a separate consciousness peering at you with opalescent, unblinking eyes that swirl like trapped galaxies. Venom. It's Venom who's been mapping the landscape of your body, Venom's tongue that just traced the hard-won muscle of your hindleg and the sensitive spot where your tail meets your spine, and Venom who is currently letting out a low, subvocal rumble that feels less like a sound and more like an earthquake in your bones.
Eddie whimpers. Actually whimpers. The sound is tiny, wrecked, and it tugs something fierce and tender in your chest.
Oh, sweetheart, you think, you're both so far gone already, and I haven't even touched you yet.
You move slowly—deliberately, the way you always do when you're dealing with beings who could shatter concrete but melt under kindness. Your tapered snout, all smooth scales and sensitive nostrils, dips into the hollow of Eddie's throat. He smells like sleep and salt and the faint, electric ozone of the symbiote, and when the long, forked length of your tongue slides out to trace the jumping tendon beneath his ear, he tastes exactly the same.
You don't hold him down. You don't pin him. You simply rest there, your snout nestled against his racing pulse, your tongue moving in languid, questioning strokes. Giving him every opportunity to pull away, to say no, to do anything other than the desperate little arch of his throat he offers you instead. His hands come up, hovering, uncertain, and finally settle on the broad, scaled expanse of your shoulders like he's been given a gift he doesn't deserve.
There you go, you think, and smile against his skin. Good boy.
Then you turn your head just slightly, just enough to meet the swirling white eyes that are watching you with an intensity that borders on hunger. Venom is vibrating, a low, thrumming frequency that makes the air taste sharp. You nudge your snout against the place where the symbiote's form coalesces out of Eddie's shoulder, a silent greeting, and then you press your mouth to what passes for his.
The kiss is strange and wonderful—cool at first contact, then flooding with borrowed heat, the slick surface of him parting under the gentle pressure of your lips. You taste the dark, the void between stars, something sweet like overripe fruit. Venom grunts, a startled, guttural sound that has no right being that endearing, and in his surprise, he surges.
Eddie's body disappears under a wave of living obsidian. The transformation is instantaneous and liquid, the symbiote flowing over skin and muscle and bone like a tide coming home, expanding, growing, until the massive, toothy maw of Venom is inches from your face and the bed is groaning under his weight. His claws sink into the mattress on either side of you, caging you in, and his chest—broad and slick and ridged with organic armor—heaves with a breath he doesn't technically need.
"What—" His voice is a dual-toned growl, gravel and silk. "What."
You can't help it. You chuckle, a low, fond sound, and reach up to trace the sharp curve of his jaw with one careful claw. "Tell me if you wanna stop, okay?" you say, and your voice is as soft as you can make it, a bedrock of calm under the tremulous, bewildered want radiating off him in waves.
He doesn't answer with words. He answers by pushing into your touch, a massive, terrifying apex predator leaning into your palm like a cat, and your heart squeezes.
Stars above, I'm going to absolutely ruin him with tenderness, and he's going to thank me for it.
You lean in and drag your tongue—long, agile, gloriously textured—up the rippling plane of his stomach. The symbiote's surface is a thousand textures at once: smooth like polished stone over the larger muscle groups, pebbled and rough over the intercostal ridges, and always, always that faint, living hum that tastes like copper and longing. Venom moans, a sound that starts somewhere deep in the massive chest and punches out of him like it's been waiting years to escape.
"Oh," you murmur, still licking, tracing the deep grooves of his abdominal plating. "Is that good?"
"Yes," he hisses, and then, as if the word has unlocked something, the praise starts spilling out of him in a torrent. "Yes, so good, you are so gentle, so—ah—perfect, you are perfect, do not stop—"
You pull back just enough to meet those wild white eyes, and you let your smirk bleed into your voice. "Already babbling and I've barely started. You're that easy for me, sweet thing?"
Venom makes a sound that might be a protest and might be a confession. He's trembling, the great bulk of him shaking like a leaf, and you take pity on him. You press a kiss to the heaving plane of his stomach, right over where Eddie's heart would be, and ask, conversationally, "Has a symbiote ever fucked you before?"
He stills. The massive head cocks, and then he shrugs, a rolling wave of muscle that could mean no or once, in a different galaxy or I don't remember and I don't care, please get back to the licking. You accept it.
"Alright," you say, and you shift lower, your tail sweeping out for balance. The sheets are a lost cause, tangled and damp, and the air is thick with the smell of ozone and arousal. "Then let's see what happens."
You find him already hard, and oh, you were right—Eddie's cock, even under all that symbiote, is ridged in ways that make your mouth water. The symbiote has wrapped around it, accentuated it, slick black flowing over pulsing veins and a flared, weeping head. It strains upward toward you like a living thing seeking sunlight, and when you lower your head and lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip, Venom's whole body convulses.
You use your teeth. Just a graze, the faintest drag of sharp edges along that sensitive ridge, and he shrieks, a sound that dissolves into a moan so deep you feel it in your sternum. His claws tear the mattress, shredding it, and you file that away as a good sign.
"Every day," he babbles, and you can hear Eddie's voice woven into the symbiote's now, a higher, desperate harmony. "We want this every day, every morning, please—"
You chuckle around a mouthful of him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. "You'll have to agree with Eddie first," you say when you pull back, your tongue still idly tracing patterns on his slick length. "Speaking of which—" You tilt your head, a question occurring to you. "Did I make him cum? Earlier? When I had my mouth on his throat?"
Venom's head drops in a frantic nod, the opalescent eyes hazing with remembered pleasure. "Yes. He—yes. He made a mess. It was—" He struggles for the word. "Beautiful."
Oh, that's precious. You file that information away in the part of your heart that's already growing far too fond. "Good," you say, and you mean it, a warm satisfaction settling in your chest. "Then this is just for you."
You take him deep, letting your throat work around the impossible thickness of him, your forked tongue curling and stroking and exploring every ridge and vein. The symbiote tastes like the sea and something electric, and he fills your senses so completely that the world narrows to the heavy weight of him on your tongue, the broken, pleading sounds he's making, the way his hips are rocking in tiny, aborted thrusts as he tries so hard to be still for you.
When you finally crawl up his body, you're mindful of your claws—always mindful, always careful, pressing the flats of them into the ruined mattress instead of into his vulnerable symbiote flesh. Your tail curls around his thigh for balance, anchoring you, and you position yourself over him. You're wet, aching, your own need a slick, throbbing pulse, and when you notch the broad head of him against your entrance, you both moan at the same time.
You slide down. Slowly, so slowly, letting yourself feel every inch, every ridge, the impossible stretch and the burn that bleeds into pleasure so sharp it makes your vision swim. Venom throws his head back, the massive jaws parting on a soundless roar, and his claws find your hips and hold on, not guiding, not forcing, just clinging.
"Look at me," you say, and your voice is strained but steady, still that calm, commanding center in the storm. His head snaps forward, eyes wild and so, so desperate. "Good boy. There you are."
You lean forward, using your powerful hindlegs to set a rhythm, and you clash your long, agile tongue against his massive, toothy one in a kiss that's all slick heat and possession. He's moaning, high and broken, a litany of "please" and "yes" and your name, all tangled together, and you praise him through every second of it.
"That's it," you gasp, your inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. "Taking me so well. So good for me, Venom. My perfect, sweet—oh, oh—"
He breaks. His climax hits him like a tidal wave, his hips jerking up into you, his roar splitting the air, and the feel of him pulsing inside you, the sheer heat of him, sends you hurtling after him. Your own orgasm crashes through you, your body locking down around him, and for a long, blinding moment there's nothing but the wet, rhythmic pulse of your releases mixing together and the sound of two creatures breathing each other's air.
When you come back to yourself, you're draped over his chest, your snout pressed to the side of his massive jaw. You're still trembling. He's still inside you, softening but not retreating, and one of his huge hands is cradling the back of your head like you're something precious.
You pull off him carefully, slowly, and he whines at the loss, a pitiful sound that makes you huff a laugh. Then, because you can, because you want to, you dip your head and lick him clean—long, thorough strokes of your tongue over his spent, sensitive cock, tasting yourself mixed with him, savoring the way he shudders and twitches under your ministrations.
"I love you," he slurs, and it's half Venom, half Eddie, a confession that seems torn out of them without permission.
I know, you think, your heart so full it aches. I know you do.
You pull back, smiling, and a massive, clawed hand wraps around your forearm. "More," he begs, and the word is so raw, so shattered, that you feel it like a physical touch. "Please. More."
You giggle—actually giggle, a sound you didn't know you could make—and your tail, prehensile and clever, slithers around to curl around his already-stirring length. "I'll come back for you," you promise, giving him a teasing squeeze that makes him gasp. "Both of you. But first—"
You stroke him with your tail, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes roll back, watching the desperate, clinging affection pour off him in waves. The air smells like sex and symbiote and the faint, sweet undertone of Eddie's skin underneath it all, and you are wrapped in warmth, in want, in the absolute certainty that you will never be allowed to leave this bed.
Fine by me, you think, and settle in for round two.
