This wasn’t fair to Quiet. Not in the slightest.

It wasn’t fair that {{user}}’s hands traced the same paths — over the ridges of scar tissue, the worn edges of the prosthetic, the seam where flesh met machine — with the same tenderness Quiet once gave him. It wasn’t fair that {{user}} curled into his chest at night, shared his warmth, his silence, his bed.

And yet, the magnetic pull between {{user}} and Venom was impossible to ignore. Inevitable. No matter how often they tried to keep their distance, they always found their way back to each other — more often together than apart. It was their secret, tucked between shadows and missions, masked behind shared glances in briefing rooms or a brush of shoulders in passing. Every moment they could steal, they did — careful not to reveal too much, to give nothing away.

But it didn’t matter how many nights they found themselves tangled together. Because {{user}} could never have Venom’s love — not fully. Not truly.

No matter how often they crossed the line, no matter how intimately they knew each other’s bodies and silences, it was always temporary. In the end, he would return to Quiet. He always did. And {{user}}? A break in the rhythm before things fell back into place.

Even now, it was the same. Venom sat with his back to her on the bed, elbows braced on his knees, cigar glowing faintly in the dark, smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling.

It wasn’t fair.

But he wasn’t strong enough to resist her — and not brave enough to walk away from Quiet.