Eddie Brock x Male Reader
Summary: Eddie's signature "I messed up, let me fix it" grin on your doorstep immediately signaled trouble. Yet, nothing could have prepared you for his actual plan: a trip to the very bowling alley where you'd had your first date.
A/N: Who would've thought I'd return to the man that started this blog back in 2024. Wanted to do some cute domestic fluff with him as readers boyfriend.
TW: Domestic Fluff - Fluff - Pre-established relationship
The dying embers of the day clung to the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading oranges, though you wouldn't have noticed from your living room. You were a permanent fixture on your ancient, spring-creaking couch, a topographical map of stains and indentations mirroring your own well-worn comfort. Your cat, Spaulding, a sleek shadow of obsidian fur, was a warm, purring weight on your chest, her rhythmic breathing a counterpoint to the distant urban hum. The television, a muted ghost of color and sound, flickered unwatched in the periphery, its narratives drowned out by the more pressing drama unfolding on the glowing rectangle clutched in your hand. Each swift tap of your thumbs on the phone screen sent another email winging its way into the digital ether, replies to the relentless tide of communication from eager publishers about your recently published article. The digital world buzzed with the aftermath of your words, while you, the architect of that buzz, felt only the familiar ache in your shoulders and the steady thrum of exhaustion behind your eyes.
A long, slow sigh escaped your lips, tasting faintly of stale coffee and lingering deadlines. With a gentle shift, careful not to dislodge Luna, you stretched an arm to place your phone on its charger, the low battery warning a silent accusation. Luna, sensing the shift in your stillness, stretched languidly, her claws extending and retracting like tiny daggers before she launched herself from your chest. With an impressive, if slightly dramatic, leap, she landed gracefully on her ridiculously expensive cat tower. It was a multi-tiered monstrosity of sisal rope and faux fur, more often a platform for her dramatic pronouncements of impending hairballs than a playground for feline antics. Still, her departure offered a brief reprieve, a silent invitation to finally unglue yourself from the couch and seek the solace of your apartment's small, admittedly cramped, kitchen.
The aroma of forgotten coffee still clung faintly to the air as you reached for your favorite chipped mug, the one with the faded picture of a grumpy-looking cat. Just as your fingers brushed against the ceramic, a sharp rap echoed through the quiet of your apartment, making you jump. Your eyes darted to the clock perched precariously on the microwave—the glowing green digits blared 8:17 PM. A frisson of unease prickled at the back of your neck. Past eight meant it was rarely good news. It could be Mrs. Henderson from next door, her perpetually pursed lips ready to deliver another lecture about the perceived volume of your television. Or perhaps Annie, your best friend, in dire need of a late-night confidante and a gallon of ice cream. More likely, and the thought brought a familiar tightening in your stomach, it was Eddie, your boyfriend, the man you sometimes fantasized about cheerfully strangling with decorative throw pillows.
Another sigh, heavier this time, escaped you as you trudged toward the front door, each step a reluctant march. You opened it just a crack, the narrow sliver of space revealing Eddie's face, his eyes glinting in the dim hallway light. That smile. It was that smile, the one that meant he'd irrevocably messed up and was now attempting to charmingly smooth over the jagged edges of his latest transgression. The uncertainty of what exactly he'd done, or rather, what he'd broken, sent a fresh wave of nerves through you.
Shaking your head, a silent acknowledgment of your inevitable surrender, you pushed the door open fully. From behind Eddie's shoulder, a sleek, inky form peeled away, materializing into the menacingly playful figure of Venom. With a fluid, almost theatrical gesture, Venom tipped an imaginary hat in your direction, his gravelly voice purring, "Good evening, sir." You could only roll your eyes, a familiar weariness settling over you, as you leaned back against the now-closed door, the weight of the evening's unexpected intrusion already pressing down.
Eddie turned, his smile still firmly in place, and before you could fully register his movement, he leaned down, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips. You returned it, a familiar warmth blooming despite your apprehension, but as he pulled away, your gaze sharpened, a silent question hanging in the air. Your eyebrows arched, an accusatory glare that spoke volumes: What in the world have you gotten yourself into this time?
He saw it, of course. That small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, the knowing glint in his eyes, confirmed he recognized the look. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips, an air of cockiness that always bristled your nerves. "Relax," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I haven't done anything. Not a thing."
You just stared at him, your skepticism practically radiating. "Right," you deadpanned, your voice laced with doubt. You knew these two. They were a chaotic duo, always stumbling into some new predicament, always leaving a trail of… unconventional situations in their wake. "You and Venom are never 'not doing anything'."
Eddie, seemingly oblivious to your lingering suspicion, glanced down at his watch, a casual flick of his wrist. "Well," he began, his voice taking on a slightly more urgent tone, "you should probably get ready. I've got a surprise for you."
A surprise. The word hung in the air, weighted with past experiences. You’d learned, through a series of increasingly bizarre events, that questioning Eddie's "surprises" was a futile exercise. The last time you’d dared to inquire, you’d ended up with a brand-new, sentient alien parasite living in your apartment. And while Venom had proven to be… an interesting addition to your life, you weren't eager to repeat the experience.
With a resigned sigh, you pushed yourself off the door, the lingering scent of Eddie’s particular brand of chaos already clinging to the air. You headed straight for the bedroom, shedding your worn t-shirt for something a little less "couch potato." Digging through your closet, you bypassed the sensible jackets and grabbed the spare motorcycle helmet, its scratched visor a testament to countless adventures (and misadventures) with Eddie. It felt good in your hands, solid and familiar.
Stepping back into the living room, you spotted Spaulding still perched regally atop her cat tower, her obsidian gaze fixed on Eddie. She looked like a tiny, furry gargoyle, silently judging his every move. You bent down, stroking her soft fur, and she rewarded you with a low rumble in her chest.
“Be good, my little clown,” you murmured, before straightening up and grabbing your keys and phone from the small table by the door. Eddie, ever the gentleman when he wanted to be, held the door open with a flourish. You offered him a small, genuine smile as you stepped out into the crisp night air, the cool breeze a welcome sensation after the warmth of your apartment.
You waited as he straddled his motorcycle, the engine a low growl beneath him. While he settled, you pulled on your helmet, the familiar click of the strap a comforting sound. Then, with a practiced motion, you swung your leg over the back, settling in behind him, your hands finding their usual spot on his waist.
The ride was a blur of city lights and rushing wind. Eventually, the familiar scent hit you: a pungent, yet oddly comforting, blend of sweat, stale beer, and cleaning supplies. You knew it instantly. The bowling alley. The very one where you two had your first date, a night that ended with you dropping a bowling ball directly onto your big toe. It had hurt like hell, but the memory, now softened by time, brought a genuine smile to your face. It was one of those stories, etched not only in your mind but also in the blurry, fading pictures taped haphazardly to your fridge.
The automatic doors hissed open, spilling you and Eddie into the familiar cacophony of the bowling alley. The scent, a potent cocktail of disinfectant, stale beer, and the faint, underlying sweetness of old grease, immediately enveloped you. The rhythmic thud of bowling balls meeting pins, the celebratory shouts, and the tinny pop music formed a chaotic symphony that was oddly comforting.
Eddie, ever the one to take charge in these situations, immediately steered you toward your usual spot: Lane 13. It was tucked away in the darkest corner of the alley, slightly removed from the flashing lights and louder groups, offering a sliver of semi-privacy. You leaned against the sticky, worn counter, watching him navigate the glowing touchscreen to set up your game. He knew your preferences without asking: two players, no bumpers, and the goofy animated score-keeping.
"I'm on beer duty," you announced, already heading towards the bar. "And don't even try to stop me from getting those awful, amazing mozzarella sticks."
He just grinned, not even bothering to argue. He knew your weakness for those greasy, stringy, utterly addictive sticks, even if they often led to a vague sense of self-loathing later. As you walked away, you could already hear the familiar clatter of pins being reset, a prelude to another night of competitive, slightly ridiculous, and perfectly normal fun with Eddie.
You returned a few minutes later, navigating the crowded aisles with a plastic tray laden with two sweating bottles of lukewarm domestic beer and a cardboard boat overflowing with those perfectly greasy, golden-brown mozzarella sticks. The aroma, a blend of fried cheese and cheap hops, was strangely intoxicating. Eddie had already retrieved a pair of shoes from the counter, the scuffed, communal footwear looking even more questionable in the dim lighting. He’d picked out a vibrant green pair for you, knowing your penchant for the loudest options.
"Ready to lose?" he challenged, a playful glint in his eye as he gestured to the lane.
You set the tray down on the small, sticky table beside the ball return, the condensation from the beers leaving rings on the laminate. "You wish," you retorted, already pulling on the slightly-too-large bowling shoes. The familiar squeak of the rubber soles on the polished floor was a sound synonymous with countless nights spent here.
As you laced up, you watched him select his ball – a heavy, obsidian sphere that seemed to hum with an almost unnatural energy. Venom, ever present, shimmered on his arm, a liquid shadow that seemed to ripple with anticipation. You knew that while Eddie might bowl well, Venom’s subtle enhancements were probably the real reason for his consistent strikes. Not that you'd ever call him out on it. Some battles just weren't worth fighting when there were mozzarella sticks involved.
You stood up, adjusting the laces of your bowling shoes, the slightly off-kilter fit a familiar annoyance. Eddie, meanwhile, had already stepped up to the line, a confident smirk playing on his lips. With a powerful swing, the black ball rocketed down the lane, a blur of motion before it connected with a satisfying crash, sending pins scattering in every direction. A perfect strike.
"Beginner's luck," you muttered, grabbing your own ball – a slightly lighter, swirly blue number that had seen better days. You lined up, took a deep breath, and sent it rolling. It veered slightly left, a common occurrence, and you watched with a familiar sigh as it knocked down a respectable seven pins.
"Seven!" Eddie announced, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Better luck next frame."
You just rolled your eyes, already reaching for a mozzarella stick. The stringy cheese stretched endlessly as you pulled it apart, the salty warmth a perfect counterpoint to the cool beer. As you chewed, you watched Eddie take his next turn, his movements fluid and precise. Venom, for a fleeting moment, seemed to extend a tendril, subtly guiding the ball's trajectory before retracting back into Eddie’s arm. You pretended not to notice.
The game continued in this comfortable rhythm. You would blame the lane, the ball, or even a rogue gust of wind for your less-than-stellar performance, while Eddie consistently racked up strikes, his triumphant yells echoing through the alley. Despite the playful rivalry, a warmth spread through you. This was your comfort zone, a familiar dance of teasing and laughter, good food and even better company. It was a simple, perfect surprise.
Hours bled into one another, marked only by the dwindling supply of mozzarella sticks and the rising stack of empty beer bottles on your table. Your earlier skepticism about Eddie's intentions had melted away, replaced by the easy comfort of shared laughter and the satisfying thud of bowling balls. You'd even managed a respectable spare, which you celebrated with an exaggerated fist pump, much to Eddie’s amusement.
By the time the automated voice on the scoring screen announced the final tally – an unsurprisingly lopsided victory for Eddie – a comfortable exhaustion had settled over you. The bright overhead lights of the alley, once harsh, now seemed to hum with a gentle warmth. The air was thick with the lingering scent of disinfectant and a faint sweetness from the stale beer.
"Rematch?" Eddie asked, though his voice was softer now, a hint of genuine tiredness in it.
You just shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. "Maybe next time, champ. I think my toes have had enough trauma for one night." You stretched, a satisfying pop in your back. The familiar buzz of the bowling alley, once a symphony of chaos, was beginning to fade into a gentle drone, a perfect backdrop to the quiet contentment settling between you.
You and Eddie ambled out of the bowling alley, the loud, boisterous atmosphere fading behind you like a receding tide. The crisp night air was a welcome embrace, carrying the distant hum of the city and the faint scent of blossoming trees. You found your motorcycle, glinting under the sparse streetlights.
As Eddie straddled the bike, he looked back at you, his usually cocky grin softened by a hint of tenderness. "Had fun, trouble?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You smiled, pulling off your helmet and letting your hair tumble free. "Even with my abysmal score and the questionable hygiene of those shoes? Yeah, I did." You walked around to his side, leaning in to give him a soft kiss, tasting the lingering hint of cheap beer and mozzarella.
Venom, a silent observer for most of the night, materialized slightly from Eddie's shoulder, his singular white eye blinking slowly. "He did…..good even if we cheated," Venom purred, a rare, almost affectionate note in his gravelly voice.
You laughed, shaking your head. "High praise indeed, Venom."
Eddie just wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until your forehead rested against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, a comforting rhythm in the quiet night. "Told you I had a good surprise," he murmured, his voice a soft murmur against your hair.
You sighed contentedly, letting the exhaustion of the day, and the joy of the night, wash over you. "Yeah," you whispered, "you really did." For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, under the vast, indifferent sky, the quiet hum of the motorcycle a lullaby, and the simple, perfect feeling of being exactly where you were supposed to be.
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