When Venom was quiet, and when he wasn’t shooting giant fucking tentacles out of Eddie’s body, Eddie couldn’t much feel his presence. Occasionally there was a flicker of something: of anger, of hunger. Right now there was nothing. So maybe Eddie had pissed him off. Or—and this was a thought that Eddie had not had before—perhaps he had hurt Venom’s feelings. He lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to the couple banging next door. She was making a lot of noise. The blood came up his neck and face a little. And then a little more, now he knew that Venom would be able to feel it too.

it's unlike anything, when you're lovin' me

EDDIE. “Yeah?” STOP TALKING. A buzz of dangerous excitement lights up Eddie’s nervous system like a whole damn Christmas tree, like the hum of a neon sign in the quiet rain, the fear of a lightning strike eclipsed by awe for the subliminal, earthly tremor of thunder’s echo. He smirks, lazy. “Make me.” When Venom purrs, the vibration radiates through his veins, his muscles and bones, his pores, the chambers of his heart, as if a satisfied lion were not merely sitting on his chest but residing in his ribcage.   OR: Venom thinks "me time" is "we time." OR: Does it count as masturbation when your symbiote gets you off? OR: Teaching sex ed to your symbiote.