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Venom intermission

#my art #marvel #fanart #spiderman #spider man #venom #venom comics #venom symbiote

What the fuck is this movie going to be, I'm so excited

Nobody look at me or I'll throw up

#venom #symbrock #sony #marvel #veddie #eddie brock #Venom 3 #Mrs chen #Venom the last dance #venom 2018 #venom comics #Symbiote #Spiderman

Venom: Eddie, you would have been a great father.

*Eddie pinches his eyes*

Venom: Life would have been happier if we had this.

Eddie: I know.

VENOM WANTED TO START A FAMILY WITH EDDIE.😭

NO ONE IS GOING TO TELL ME OTHERWISE. 💔

#symbrock #veddie #eddie brock #eddie x venom #venom symbiote #venom comics #veneddie #venom #venom movie #venom 3 #venom the last dance #venom x eddie #venom spoilers

venom!sevika × fem!reader, smut, nipple play, cunnilingus (r!receiving), tentacles/tendrils, slight bondage, tendrilcock/strap (she feels it), vaginal penetration (r!receiving), slight overstimulation, mention of aftercare, venom being an annoying little shit, wc: 2.7k

venom!sevika who is really fucking scared of hurting you with this weird thing she has to deal with now. Her new brainmate is not typically known for being gentle or careful. Constantly throwing things around and just being messy doesn't earn the symbiote any trust from her either.

venom!sevika who eventually caves and tells you, it's not like she could hide her new secret from you for long anyway. And she'd rather have you find out in a somewhat calm situation (given that she has been constantly grumpy due to venom just not shutting the fuck up inside her brain, especially not when you are around), than you finding out by some shitty news report talking about sightings of her. And the suspicions and rumors no doubt soon to be stirred up by the trail of headless bodies she leaves whenever her little friend gets hungry would reach your ears sooner or later anyway. Best to tell you herself.

I Like Her

eddie brock x fem!reader x venom

It’s late—somewhere between “I should be asleep” and “I deserve a treat.” The city hums softly under flickering streetlights as you slip into your hoodie, grab your keys, and head down the block toward Mrs. Chen’s convenience store. The night is cool, quiet, and mostly uneventful—until it very much isn’t.

The little bell above the door jingles as you walk in, the fluorescent lighting giving everything that slightly-too-yellow glow. Mrs. Chen is behind the counter in her usual seat, sipping tea and watching a tiny TV that’s clearly been through a war or two.

“Well, look who it is,” she says without looking up. “Out past bedtime.”

You grin, heading straight to the coolers. “Craving Dr. Pepper. You judging me?”

“Always,” she says dryly, finally glancing up. “Don’t take the last one.”

You grab it anyway, winking. “What can I say? Gotta keep you on your toes.”

As you make your way to the counter, the door jingles again. You don’t look at first—you’re too busy pulling out your wallet—but Mrs. Chen perks up and says, “Eddie. You’re late.”

You glance to the side—and immediately freeze.

Reminder that Eddie and Venom are in love and their relationship is canon in the comics so them being together in the movies isn’t that far off or that crazy

#eddie brock #venom symbiote #symbrock #venom comics #marvel comics #venom #marvel

god The Last Dance looks like it’ll be a really fun time-

#venom #venom symbiote #venom the last dance #venom comics #symbiote

Obsidian - Prologue

Hi my sweet angels! I just finished Shadows and Curses, and while I was writing the last few chapters, I had another idea for a crossover and our sweet little bat family. Let me know what you think!

Summary: She was just another poor girl in Gotham, scraping by on cold dinners and colder nights, doing everything she could to keep her head down and survive a city that didn’t notice people like her. That changed the night something hungry and sentient crawled into her life, alien calling itself Venom, with a voice in her skull and an appetite that made “eccentric” feel too polite. Now, no matter how small she tries to make herself in this frantic, unforgiving town, the strange power curling beneath her skin has caught the attention of Batman and his little bats, attention she never asked for, and definitely doesn’t want.

The darkness has always been your friend. Ever since you were a little girl, you were used to being in the dark. Growing up in the poorer parts of Gotham, you knew that any light that didn’t come from the sun was a privilege to keep. On the days that mom and dad couldn’t afford to pay the bills, you would find comfort in the dark.

You learned to navigate your room by memory. The peeling wallpaper. The crooked dresser with one drawer that never closed. The window that rattled when the wind pushed too hard. You knew every creak in the floorboards because you had walked them in pitch black more times than anyone should have to. The dark didn’t scare you. It taught you how to listen, how to wait, how to survive.

On nights when gunshots cracked through the alleyway and sirens painted the windows red and blue, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest and told yourself that if you stayed quiet and still, nothing bad could touch you. You were comfortable hiding. Comfortable being unseen. It was safer that way.

What you didn’t know back then was that the darkness you grew up with wasn’t just a place. It was training. Gotham raised you in its shadows long before you ever chose to step into them.

Having been raised in these not-so-nice parts, you learned to keep your head down and not stand out too much. Gotham didn’t reward loud kids. It rewarded quiet ones. The ones who slipped between the cracks and didn’t make trouble. You figured that out early.

Most of your family had been involved in some not-too-legal activities. Some bragged about running errands for the Penguin himself, acting like proximity to him somehow made them important. Others had gotten caught up in the Joker’s chaos, pulled into one of his whims like debris in a tornado. The rest took the predictable route, dealing whatever drugs were popular that week. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t clever. It was survival with a price tag.

Your parents weren’t saints either. You knew they were involved, even if you never saw the details. They always came home with tired eyes, jumpy nerves, and money that didn’t match the stories they told. Who they worked for stayed a mystery. Maybe that was on purpose. Maybe knowing too much would have put you in danger. They tried to keep you away from that world in their own flawed way. They pushed you toward school, toward normalcy, toward anything that would make you different from the rest of your bloodline.

They made mistakes, plenty of them, but the one thing they never did was drag you directly into it. They made sure you were just close enough to see the shadows but not close enough to be swallowed by them.

Unfortunately, by keeping you away and trying to keep the lights on, they lost themselves. One night they both went out, and only one came back. Your mother walked through the door alone, shoulders tight, eyes hollow, smelling like the city’s worst corners. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just locked the door behind her and went straight to bed.

She never told you what happened to your father. She didn’t have to. Gotham had a way of teaching kids how to read between the lines before they even learned how to read books. The empty chair at the table said enough. The silence said the rest.

Weeks turned into months, and you watched your mother slip deeper into the same life she once tried to protect you from. Some days she came home with new bruises. Some days she didn’t come home at all. That was when you realized that you couldn’t depend on anyone but yourself.

By the time you were ten, you were the one waking yourself up, packing whatever food you could find, and walking yourself to school. You did your homework under the flickering kitchen light, cooked whatever was left in the pantry, and put yourself to bed. You survived off routine and quiet. Complaining would have been pointless, and you knew it. You were just grateful the lights were still on. Grateful there were still small pockets of warmth in a life that felt colder every year.

You only knew how bad it had gotten when your mother stopped pretending there was a line she wouldn’t cross. The late nights turned into mornings where she stumbled through the door with glassy eyes and shaking hands. Some days she couldn’t look at you. Other days she looked right through you, like her mind had already slipped somewhere you couldn’t reach.

There were moments when you caught her whispering to herself in the dark, apologizing to no one you could see. Maybe she thought she was keeping you safe. Maybe she truly believed she could dig herself out. You never blamed her for trying. You just wished she had tried before she was too far gone.

Eventually she started disappearing for days at a time. No explanations. No notes. No promises to come back. Just the sound of the door closing and the smell of the city following her like a second shadow. You learned not to wait up. You learned not to hope too loud. Hope felt like a curse in Gotham.

And then one night, everything went still. The apartment was too quiet. Too cold. You sat at the table with your textbook open but unread, listening for footsteps that never came. You kept telling yourself she was late. That she always came home eventually.

She didn’t.

You only knew she no longer walked among you when the lights turned off.

Not because you forgot to pay the bill. Not because the power company made a mistake. The lights went out because whatever thin thread your mother had been holding onto finally snapped. Whatever deal she made, whatever debt she owed, whatever danger she stepped into… it caught up with her. And Gotham didn’t leave survivors.

The darkness settled over your home that night, familiar and heavy, wrapping around you like it had when you were small. Except this time, it didn’t feel safe. It felt final.

It felt like goodbye.

Time blurred after your mother was gone. There wasn’t a clean break or a dramatic turning point. Just days you survived and days you survived worse. With no one left to look after you, you learned quickly that Gotham didn’t give handouts, and it sure didn’t care about kids who slipped through the cracks.

You raised yourself because no one else bothered to try.

You stole when you had to. Food, shampoo, a jacket from a thrift store with the tag half-ripped off. You ate from trashcans behind restaurants that threw out perfectly good bread at the end of the night. You took “side quests” from people who didn’t have real names, only street aliases and dangerous smiles. Deliver this. Pick up that. Don’t ask questions. Don’t look scared. The weirder the job, the quicker you learned to just complete it and leave.

School stopped being an option. Not because you didn’t want it, but because hunger made staying awake impossible and exhaustion made sitting still feel like torture. The day you dropped out, no one noticed. No one called home. No one cared.

You kept trying though. You walked into libraries like they were shelters, sitting in the back corner with stolen time and borrowed heat, teaching yourself whatever books you could reach. Geography, old mythology, physics you barely understood. Anything to remind yourself your mind was still yours.

By thirteen, you knew which streets were safe, which weren’t, and which ones pretended to be. By fifteen, you could tell a lie faster than you could say your own name. By eighteen, you felt like you had lived hundreds of lives.

Instead of enjoying the youth your parents once dreamed of, they left you nothing but the clothes on your back to fend for yourself.

Now you work a shitty diner on the South End of Gotham. Greasy floors. Flickering neon sign. A bell above the door that rings like it’s begging to be put out of its misery. You pour coffee for men who tip in crumpled singles and talk too much. You wipe down counters that never stay clean. You take the late shifts because they pay an extra dollar and you’re too used to the night to pretend otherwise.

It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t hopeful. It’s survival, dressed up as routine.

Closing the diner always felt the same. The last customer stumbling out. The hiss of the coffee machine shutting off. The crackle of the old sign buzzing over your head. You wiped the tables, locked the register, and turned the key with a click that echoed louder than it should have. Gotham never slept, but your part of it at least pretended to.

You stepped outside and the cold night wrapped around you. You kept your hands in your pockets, hood pulled up, eyes straight ahead. The walk home was muscle memory. Past the pawn shop with the boarded windows. Through the empty bus stop where people used to line up before the route got cut. Toward the same apartment building where you had lived your entire life, long after everyone assumed it was abandoned.

The building still stood, rotting quietly. No lights. No heat. No neighbors. No landlord. Just you and the ghosts of a life you did not get to choose. The city forgot this place existed, which was exactly why you stayed.

You cut through an alley to avoid a group of men lingering near the sidewalk. Their voices carried, sharp and mean, and you knew better than to test your luck. The alley was narrow, damp, and smelled like rain that never fully dried. You walked fast.

Halfway through, you stopped.

A man stumbled out from behind a dumpster. His skin looked gray, like every drop of life had been drained from him. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His eyes were wide and unfocused, like he was staring at something you could not see.

He whispered something that didn’t sound like words.

You stepped back, instinct hitting you before fear did. He took one shaky step, then another, reaching toward you as if he recognized you. He didn’t. No one looked at you like that.

Then he collapsed at your feet.

The sound was thick and final. You froze, breath caught in your throat. You crouched for only a second to check if he was breathing, but before you touched him, something moved.

A ripple beneath his skin.

A pulse that did not belong to a human body.

Then the black sludge forced its way out of his mouth like a shadow peeling itself free. It rose and twisted, alive even though it had no shape. You stumbled back, heart hammering in your ears.

The thing lunged.

Cold hit you first. Cold like winter water sinking into your bones. It wrapped around your arms, your ribs, your throat. You tried to tear it off, but it clung to your skin like it had been waiting for you. Your vision blurred. You tasted metal. You heard a voice that was not a voice, something crawling inside your thoughts.

Then the world snapped black.

The alley was silent again.

The man was gone.

You were standing, unsteady, breathing hard, feeling something new pulsing under your skin like a second heartbeat. You did not know what happened, but you knew one thing for certain.

Whatever that thing was, it was inside you now.

“Hello, little one”.