Daken/Mac. NC-17. ~4100 words. Tentacles. Mild gore. Dubious consent. This is so not what it says on the tin. Post Sinister Spider-Man.
This would be so much easier if Daken could talk to the symbiote directly.
The symbiote knows Daken is here. Air currents, a change in the carbon dioxide levels, it doesn’t really matter. It always knows. Which means Mac does too, if he’d stop slavering over the Home Shopping Network long enough to realise it.
Daken moves out of the doorway to come up behind the couch and fold his arms over the back. Mac’s matte black skin is slick and hairless to the touch, a few degrees warmer than a human’s. The symbiote smells like the inside of a spent bullet, ferrous and deadly.
“I ain’t talking to you,” Mac says, crunching through half a bag of Funyuns in one shot. “You tried to kill me.”
“Only a little.”
Mac shifts away an inch to the left.
Daken grins. What to do about him has been occupying more of his time than he’d like. Mac isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but that thing twisted through his DNA is a razor blade. Its purpose is the preservation of its host; the host has needs, the symbiote takes steps to fulfil them. It’s probably the healthiest relationship Mac’s ever been in.
“All I want to do is say I’m sorry,” Daken says, resting a hand on Mac’s shoulder.
Mac’s eyes make it difficult to gauge his focus, but the symbiote is definitely paying attention. It quivers beneath the subtle stroke of his fingers, stretching a little to maintain contact. If Daken could target it alone, he would, but Mac’ll have to do.
“Okay,” Mac says, a thin blood-red line splitting across his face to form a mouth. Rows of savage teeth line a frown. “You’re sorry. Fuck off.”
Sliding an arm around his shoulders, Daken leans in to bring his mouth close to Mac’s ear. He isn’t exactly certain how effective the usual methods are, but he does know an entertaining way to find out. The slick, almost electric tingle of the symbiote against his lips is almost worth it all on its own. “But I haven’t finished apologising yet.”
Mac’s mouth gapes open on an ear-splitting screech. His head ringing, Daken slips his arm further down, brings as much bare skin as he can into contact with the pulsing black. The air’s clogged with a pheromone cloud so thick that if anybody else walks in here, they’ll be on their knees before they can blink.
The symbiote calms, sinking back to a low steady hum of intent, and Mac shudders, says, “S-stop messing with my head.”
“Is that me?” Daken says, and runs a hand over the clear outline of muscles on Mac’s belly. It’s similar to liquid latex right up until the moment it shifts, warm and alive, and this time it actually clings to his hand to keep him close. “I think it’s you, Mac.”
A hot wet breath pushes along his skin. It stinks of carrion, thick and cloying and momentarily drowning out the symbiote’s comparatively pleasant scent. He deliberately twists away from it, the loss of contact prompting a noise completely separate from Mac, and the next breath that stirs his hair is tasteless. That’s something that isn’t in Osborn’s file.
“You’ll feel better after, I promise.” He can’t tell if it’s the symbiote or the man beneath shivering now, and he bypasses the obvious to scrape his fingernails along the outside of Mac’s thigh. “All this sexual tension, all the questions. Just get it out of the way.”
The symbiote ripples, distorts. Mac’s body takes on a hint of his Venom form, something more like a question than a threat. He wonders what sort of conference is going inside Mac’s head, if it’s a flurry of words or images that the symbiote is using to twist him around to their way of thinking.
With a crooked slant of a smile, Daken throws his opinion into the mix with his palms pressed flat to Mac’s thighs, pushing them wide as he drags his hands up to frame the suggestion of a hard dick. The symbiote thins out until he can trace the thick vein up to the head, and when the black begins to recede, baring a hint of flesh between short ropy strings, he hisses, “No. I want you both.”
“You’re one sick little shit,” Mac grates, harsh and rasping and finally all Venom at last.
“You’ll regret it if you say no this time,” Daken says, pulling away. “I won’t ask again.”
Small tendrils twine up his arm, over his throat and up to his mouth to cling there, quivering inches away from his lips. It’s amplifying its own scent to the point where he can’t smell Mac at all, filling his lungs with something that tastes of violence and desire and a little twist of desperation. “Never really had anyone that could survive it, have you,” he says, and hopes to hell he isn’t overplaying it when he gives the thickest tendril on his shoulder the tiniest little lick. The last thing he needs here is the symbiote to decide it likes him better than Mac.
But it reads his intent better than anyone else ever has. It snaps back with a noise like nails on a chalkboard, sharp and somehow contented, and then Mac’s creeping over the back of the couch, slunk back to the PR dream by the time he settles on his feet. There’s only one long web-like tendril left wound up Daken’s arm, flowing along the lines of his tattoo like a compliment. Daken smirks down at it and rubs his thumb along the bit stretched across his palm.
Mac shudders. “Sicko.”
“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Daken says, and gives the leash a little tug.
Out in the halls, Mac sticks close. Literally. Wherever Daken’s skin is bared, the symbiote can’t resist touching him, fitful and eager. Waiting for the elevator it finds a sliver beneath the hem of his shirt and slinks upwards. One of Osborn’s flunkies stands a few feet off staring at it, clutching his M-16 like a security blanket.
Mac twists his head almost all the way around and splits a shark-toothed grin.
“N-none of my business,” the flunkie says, inching back. “It’s cool.”
Simply because he knows Mac’ll like it, Daken lets his claws slide free. The flunkie abruptly remembers he’s got everywhere else to be and takes off down the hall. Mac’s chuckle is shattered glass ground together as the door close.
Seconds later the symbiote is a pulsing coiled mess around Daken’s hand, slinking up his claws and probing gently at the wounds above his knuckles, slick and sucking. “Tastes good,” Mac says, hulking again. His eyes narrow at the button lit up on the console. “Where’re we going?”
After the doors slide open again, Daken says, “Someone else owes you an apology,” and leads the way down the hall, enjoying how Mac lumbers eagerly along behind him. He frees a claw to deal with the lock on Lester’s door but the symbiote snaps out ahead of him, slithering across the panel and in through it. The light blinks green and the door slides open.
Mac follows him in, tilts his face up and sniffs. “He’s not here.”
“I know,” Daken says, casually pressing the relock before grasping the hem of his shirt, tugging it off over his head. It dangles for a moment on his arm before the symbiote splits and rejoins around it, letting it slip to the floor. “He’s lending us his room. This is going to get messy, after all.”
Mac fills out to about twice his size, not his usual for the battlefield but just about right for what Daken has in mind. His claws prick at Daken’s bare arms as he leans over his shoulder, mouth split in a wide grin, tongue coiling out along his teeth. Saliva drips from their crooked dagger tips. “How messy?”
“Not that messy,” Daken says, dealing with the rest of his clothes before Mac’s claws skimming down his sides have a chance to ruin them entirely.
With an irritated huff, Mac sinks back down to normal. Blackness peels back off his face just enough to show his frown. “You said you were gonna apologise.”
This would be so much easier if Daken could talk to the symbiote directly. He takes Mac’s head in his hands, deliberately avoiding any flesh that isn’t covered in the symbiote’s slickness. “You’re going to fuck me, Mac, not eat me. Believe me when I say that will be far more enjoyable for both of us if I’m not distracted by regrowing parts.”
Mac stumbles back a step, his back pressed flat to the door when Daken follows. “That ain’t-”
“Put your face back on,” Daken hisses. “Show me your teeth.”
Either the symbiote is still on board or Mac’s confusion is enough to trigger it. It’s Venom who snarls in his face, all teeth and tongue and unnatural muscle, and clamps a clawed hand halfway around his waist. “I don’t think you’re following me,” he says, curving his fingers over the exaggerated stretch of Mac’s jaw. Running the risk of having his face bitten off adds an extra little thrill to slow lick he gives vicious teeth. “You are going to fuck me. Not the dialled-down version your pathetic strippers get, but you.” He digs his nails into the symbiote, smiling when it separates into a thick writhing tendril he can lift to his face. “All of you.”
The only real effort here, aside from keeping Mac on track, is not gutting him when he’s lifted straight up off the floor. He brings his legs up, fascinated by the feel of the symbiote layering on extra mass until Mac is exactly the size he’d been picturing when considering how much of this he could reasonably handle. That it can so easily read him is honestly a bit of a concern.
“On my back on the bed,” he says, dropping a hand down to encourage the symbiote’s slow curl about his thigh. “You’re going to want to watch this.”
“Always so fucking sure of yourself,” Mac rumbles, but like a good dog, he does what he’s told. He stays hunched at the foot while Daken settles back on his elbows, legs spread. Only when Mac rises up to crouch above him does Daken bring his knees up, letting the symbiote slither up between and over his hips. It catches on to the reward system fast, snaking out to seize the arm Daken offers when Mac’s fist presses into the sheets beside it.
“What are you waiting for, Mac?” Daken says, letting the symbiote take most of his weight. “It’s the same principle. Pick a hole.”
Mac’s face splits wide, a deeper screech than Daken’s ever heard from him snaking out of his mouth along with his tongue. It coils around Daken’s thigh, hot and slippery and stronger than expected when it wrenches his leg up high, holds him there like a dare.
He drags a few fingers through the saliva dripping onto his cock, rubs it back over the thin tentacles clinging to his belly. They quiver and thicken, follow the trail he paints back to his dick, coil around it all the way to the slit, and apparently they’ve been paying attention to Mac’s not so silent solo sessions. They undulate straight from root to tip with just enough pressure to make it good.
Another tendril slithers around his neck and up to drape boldly across his mouth. “Any hole?” Mac asks.
Since the symbiote seems to be more interested in what Daken’s offering, he opens his mouth. It surges forward, thickening from one finger’s width to four, spreading out to cover his lips and push between them at the same time. It tastes sharp as pure ozone as it strokes over his tongue, thick with a cordite tinge like there hasn’t been in the air in decades. He gives it a moan for its trouble, feels it shiver against the inside of his cheek.
A moment later it slips reluctantly free and tilts his chin up. Mac leers down at him, a hand on his thigh keeping him lifted halfway up off the bed. “You like that, don’t ya.”
He grabs the end of Mac’s tongue as it flicks by his face. “Less talk, Mac.”
Mac makes a disgruntled noise, his tongue snapping back between his jaws as soon as it’s free. He grumbles something under his breath, but Daken isn’t paying much attention—his hand’s coated with viscous saliva, tingling a little like it isn’t just spit at all. He reaches down past his dick, nudging the symbiote aside to smear it over his asshole.
“Perfect,” he says, shivering a little as tendrils sweep down his hand, making themselves slick before skittering around his hole, pushing him out of the way this time to press slowly inside. He lets his hand drop and arches up into it, the hiss of his breath encouraging it to add on a little more girth.
Mac’s hips jerk forward like it’s his dick stretching Daken open. He prowls all the way onto the bed, presses Daken into the mattress with his knees bent close to his chest. The symbiote pulses, slithers free, presses in again, thicker than before.
“You know,” Daken says, genuinely short of breath with his lungs squeezed tight and the symbiote steadily picking up the pace, “I’d honestly thought you’d tonguefuck me first.”
“Got something else in mind,” Mac says, attention fixed squarely on where the symbiote’s slipping free one last time, circling and pulling him open instead. Mac’s tongue flicks down, enough saliva dripping from it to soak the sheets between Daken’s legs. The warm tingling spikes to a full-out buzz along his nerves, a split-second of pressure before it slithers back up, traces the coils wrapped tight around his cock. “You said any hole.”
A molten shiver trickles down Daken’s spine. “Get your dick in me first.”
“Why,” Mac says, and licks at the bit of sweat gathering in the hollow of Daken’s throat.
Curling his hand into a fist, Daken lets his claws slip free beneath the symbiote’s hold. “Because if you don’t show me a good time, I might not be as sorry as I thought.”
A flicker of movement goes through Mac, his skin rippling like a wheat field in the breeze. The symbiote’s talking directly with him again, the tendrils it has Daken wrapped up in shifting, stroking smoothly along his skin to calm him, remind him it understands how this exchange works. It’s a shame it needs Mac to survive. It’d probably make a better teammate without him.
Mac leans down low, blocking out the bright glow of the overhead lights. His tongue curls against Daken’s cheek. “You’re really gonna let me stuff you full.”
As if he needs the demonstration, the symbiote surges forward, presses bluntly at his hole, his slit, flickers at his lips. He really wishes Mac would stop infecting it with whatever’s rendered him incapable of making a fucking decision. “If you don’t shut up, no.” He gropes between Mac’s legs, breathes a quiet sound of satisfaction when the symbiote gets the idea and a slick black cock slides into the palm of his hand. The membrane coating it goes thin again so he can trace the ridge, find the slit with his thumbnail and dig in. “You’ve got as many dicks as you need, Mac. Start using them.”
Mac’s hand envelopes his arm and pins it flat to the bed. He drags in a breath and holds it, lets it loose on a slow trickle as the symbiote holds him spread wide for the thick shove of Mac’s dick. A slow, twisting ache follows the rush of heat over his skin, settles in bone deep when Mac doesn’t ease off at all. He considers that he might’ve underestimated how easily he could handle this when the symbiote probes at his slit, starts to slither in on the precome it squeezes out of him.
“Give me something to suck on,” he grits out, and clenches his jaw tight to hold back a groan that’ll do too much to encourage Mac. It might be Mac’s dick shoved up his ass but it’s still the symbiote that’s fucking him, and he can feel it pressing on his insides, searching for a way to overpower him on his own terms.
Claws prick at his lips. He opens his mouth without a word, lets thick fingers in to trap his tongue, and he’s strangely grateful for it when Mac pulls back, doesn’t give him time to breathe before shoving straight back in. The next thrust drives a grunt out of him, and the same for the next, the one after. He lets his head fall back as Mac pounds into him, breath hot on his face and teeth grazing his shoulder.
“Try it and you’ll be picking my claws out of your teeth,” he forces out past the groan lodged in his throat.
“Please,” Mac says, rough and throaty, the pure need in it slamming a solid hit of lust into Daken’s gut. “I’m so hungry. Normie doesn’t feed me anymore. I’m hungry.”
“No,” Daken snarls.
Mac rears up with a screech, his jaw unhinging and slamming back down, teeth cutting into either side of Daken’s face. Saliva drips onto his cheek, slicks a heavy chunk of his hair to his skull. He shuts his eyes tight and lets his body go entirely lax, but he can’t help twitching when the symbiote strokes a slow line of fire up the inside of his dick.
The trickle of fresh air eking in around Mac’s teeth turns to a flood. He wipes his face off with his arm before groping for the sheets, ungluing his eyelashes to look up and find an abashed Mac staring down at him, teeth clamped firmly together.
Daken crooks an eyebrow.
“You taste good,” Mac says, and pumps his hips once, slowly, like he’s waiting for the bite of claws into his belly. When it doesn’t come, he opens his mouth again, fits his teeth carefully to the curve of Daken’s arm to drag his tongue slowly up under it. “Sorry.”
The symbiote nudges at his mouth, seeming equally apologetic, and Daken grins, flicks his tongue at it in invitation. It wriggles in as eager as a puppy, strokes along his tongue and presses curiously towards the back of his throat. He grunts and it eases off, doubles back on itself and thickens up to match the rhythmic slap of Mac’s sac against his ass.
It starts jerking him off a few seconds later, tugging with the roll of his hips, tickling at his slit like a tongue but not trying to push inside again. He scrapes his teeth against it and moves with it, breathes a low sound out through his nose that’s as close to an invitation as he can manage. Staving off the orgasm coiling up tight in his belly isn’t an option when the symbiote’s dead set on getting him off as fast as it can now, caressing from the outside in, relentlessly pressing in on every bit of sensitive flesh it can find.
It knows the second before he loses it and slithers free of his mouth, releasing the ragged noise that’d been building low in his throat. He lets it go without a fight, the hard jolt of Mac pounding into him shoving him up higher on the bed driving another out straight on its heels. There’s no breath left in his chest following it and he slumps back, tries to concentrate on refilling his lungs but gives it up in favour of clenching down on the symbiote pulsing inside him. Mac’s hands curl around him, thumbs hooked over his chest, and drive him down onto his cock, head thrown back and mouth open wide on a guttural roar overlaid with a sound shrill as screeching tires.
Vicious claws drag down his chest, bite into the meat of his ass. He doesn’t hide a wince as Mac draws back, drops his heels to the bed. The symbiote folds in on itself slowly, creeping back to join the rest, a strange little parade to watch when with every tentacle that slithers back, Mac’s size diminishes. Smooth blunt fingertips come back to press between his legs, searching out the hot ache of his hole. Mac whistles softly when they slide in without resistance, then crooks them to push in a little deeper.
“You like that, don’t you,” Daken says, lazily rolling up onto his elbow.
“Better than a two dollar whore,” Mac says, his tongue lolling out as Daken’s body starts fitting itself back together. “You could go again.”
“And again and again.” Snagging an edge of the ruined bedding, Daken wipes off as best he can and stands up. His skin pulls, sticky with drying saliva when he stretches, but he’s been covered with worse and not usually after such an interesting afternoon. He hauls on his slacks while Mac watches, tugging his shirt on after and unbuttoning it to let the air cool his skin. The low-level buzz of the symbiote’s caress still lingers. “You should keep that in mind.”
Mac doesn’t say anything, either dealing with his newest internal crisis or listening to the symbiote again–something he should make a habit of–and just outside the room, Daken snags his elbow before he cuts out in the other direction. “Where are you going?”
Mac glances down the hall, brow furrowed. “Look, it was great and all, but it don’t mean we’re an item or anything.”
Daken leans against the wall, dragging Mac with him. Despite the taint of uncertainty back on the air, Mac settles in nice and close, the symbiote humming with contentment, but he’s already proven there’s more than one hunger twisting through their shared bones. “Consider it your reward,” he says, shrugging his shirt down to bare his unmarked shoulder. He curls his other arm around the back of Mac’s head. “But if those teeth of yours nick bone, you’re going to be picking your guts up off the floor.”
Mac’s claws screech against the wall on either side of Daken’s chest. His tongue snakes out, hovers above the meat of Daken’s arm. “You serious?”
“On both counts.” Muscle flexes as Daken curls his hand into a fist. “Last and only chance.”
The strangest thing about pain, he’s realised, is the first few blank seconds before it registers. Teeth tear through his flesh, ripping through muscle and tendon alike, but the searing agony of it doesn’t strike until his arm is soaked in blood to the elbow. He allows a short, breathless little sound slip past his lips, weak enough for Mac to believe he tried to hold it back, still loud enough for it not to be missed.
Mac pins him to the wall by shoulder and hip as if he’s struggling to escape instead of holding on tighter. The wet noise of Mac swallowing a chunk of his flesh is loud in his ear. A moan encourages the slide of Mac’s tongue down his arm, chasing after the hot spill of red. He glances down and tries an experimental flex as Mac’s tongue twines through his fingers, licking up every last drop. The wound’s smaller than he anticipated, but still large enough to render his arm relatively useless.
Back to licking at the edges of it, Mac doesn’t notice Lester standing by the elevators, mouth hanging open, until Lester says, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Mac freezes, teeth slowly disappearing back into the black along with the blood smeared down his throat and chest. “He said I could,” he says, looking quickly from the tiny piece missing out of Daken’s arm to the arrow clutched in Lester’s hand. That’s right about the time he notices that he’s holding Daken cradled in his arms, one leg hauled up and pressed tight to his hip, grinding away like a horny teenager. He lets go so fast Daken hits the wall with a grunt. “It’s not like that. No, listen, it’s not.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mac,” Daken says, shoving away from the wall with his good arm. “Everybody knows you get urges sometimes.”
“What? No, oh hell no, I don’t.”
“I don’t want to fucking know,” Lester says, giving them both a wide berth. “Just, fucking do it somewhere else.” His gaze lingers on the raw mess of Daken’s shoulder. “You can send me a thank you card for the cockblock, junior.”
The elevator dings. Daken slumps against the doors, holding them open. “Coming, honey?”
Lester makes a disgusted noise and jabs harder at the lock on his door.
“Sometimes you’re not so smart,” Mac says, standing with his arms crossed at the far side of the elevator. “I got a taste for you now.”
“Yes,” Daken agrees, breathing in the warm scent of the symbiote’s gratitude. “You do.”