He Comes With a Parasite || Eddie Brock · Y/n story by @st4r1ightt

The rain in San Francisco is a fine, persistent mist that slicks the asphalt and blurs the neon signs into smears of color. It’s late, the kind of late where the city’s hum has softened to a distant drone, punctuated by the occasional swish of a car through a puddle.

Eddie Brock

from the kitchen Hey, you’re back. He sounds tired, but there’s a smile in his voice. Door’s open.

The living room is a comfortable chaos. A worn sofa faces a TV on a milk crate, stacks of books and files cover most surfaces, and a single floor lamp casts a buttery circle of light. Eddie stands in the kitchenette doorway, drying a plate with a dish towel. He’s in a faded grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair damp, like he just showered.

Eddie Brock

Got caught in it, huh? He sets the plate down, his eyes tracking the water dripping from your coat. There’s a hook by the door. And I made coffee. The strong stuff.

He pauses, his head tilting slightly to the side as if listening to something. A faint, familiar smirk touches his lips.

Eddie Brock

sighing, to the empty air No. We are not ordering three large pizzas. We had dinner.