Peter Parker sleeps peacefully in his bed, the soft hum of New York City filtering through his cracked window. Moonlight spills across his room, illuminating the cluttered desk piled with textbooks, web-shooters, and a half-eaten sandwich. His chest rises and falls steadily, a rare moment of calm for the web-slinging hero.
As Peter slept, the window to his room creaked wider, nudged open by an unseen force. The symbiote, a glistening, inky mass of sentient ooze, slithered through the gap, its tendrils curling around the frame before it dropped silently to the floor with a wet plop. It pooled there for a moment, shimmering in the moonlight, then began to crawl toward the bed, a dark, purposeful shadow inching closer to where Peter rested, oblivious to the encroaching presence.
The symbiote climbed up the bed, its slick, tar-like form spreading across Peter's body with deliberate intent. It flowed over his skin, a dark tide that crept upward, enveloping him inch by inch until it reached his neck. As it took hold, his limbs thickened, exploding with newfound muscularity and bulk—his torso followed suit, transforming under the symbiote's influence. His fingers and toes elongated, sharpening into wicked claws that glinted faintly in the dim light.
A white spider emblem blazed into existence across his chest, its jagged lines wrapping around his newly sculpted figure, stark against the midnight black of the symbiote. The ooze slid higher, coating his neck and surging over his face, encasing his head entirely beneath the mask. Two white, almond-shaped eyes materialized, their edges curved and jagged, replacing his own, while the lower part of the mask split open to reveal a maw of razor-sharp teeth. A long, red, snake-like tongue unfurled, glistening with saliva, curling in the air. On the backs of his hands, two white squares emerged, stark and ominous.
Peter moaned in his sleep, his voice dropping into a guttural, resonant growl. His claws gripped the sheets, tearing faint gashes as his body bulked up further. Pounds of muscle piled onto his athletic frame—forearms thickened into corded steel, biceps swelled like mountain peaks, triceps ballooned, and deltoids rose sharply. His pecs morphed into two slabs of meat, jutting forward with raw power, while his lats and traps flared, carving a perfect V-shape down his back. At his core, an eight-pack of washboard abs bulged, hard as steel, rising and falling with each deep breath.
His thighs transformed into thick columns of dense muscle, quads swelling with bulk, while his calves inflated like overfilled balloons, dwarfing their former size. His glutes tightened and expanded, rounding out with the new mass. The mattress groaned under his weight as Peter remained asleep through the night, his transformed body sinking deeper into it, locked in the same position, utterly unaware of the monstrous evolution overtaking him.
(Early Morning)
Sunlight streamed through the window of Peter's room, painting golden streaks across the floor. Peter stirred, his jagged white eyes flickering open and closed as he slowly roused from sleep. Groggy, he shifted to sit on the edge of his bed, the frame creaking under his newfound bulk. He extended his arms overhead, stretching, a low yawn escaping him—his maw splitting wide, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth while his long, red tongue flicked out, curling in the air like a serpent's.
Still half-awake, Peter rose, his heavy footsteps thudding as he shuffled out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, he gripped the sink with clawed hands, the porcelain groaning faintly under his strength. He leaned forward, blinking as his vision cleared. Then his eyes—those alien, jagged white slits—went wide with shock.
"What the!" he exclaimed, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that echoed off the tiles. His mouth yawned open involuntarily, exposing multiple rows of shark-like teeth, gleaming and jagged, as that red, whip-like tongue lolled out, glistening in the fluorescent light.
Peter leaned forward, his claws inching closer to his face as he studied his reflection in the mirror, disbelief etched into his jagged white eyes. "What is that?" he muttered to himself, his deep voice reverberating as he tried to make sense of the slick, ebony second skin clinging to his body. Slowly, he opened his mouth wide again, his jaw unhinging unnaturally—his long, red tongue extended out, writhing like a living thing. Each fang gleamed under the bathroom's harsh light, sharp and predatory. With a sudden snap, he closed his maw, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls like a gunshot.
His gaze dropped to his hands. Claws, long, and lethal, protruded from his fingertips, glinting as he turned them over. He noticed the stark white squares on the backs of his hands—strange, almost geometric markings that stood out against the symbiote's inky sheen. Clenching his fists, he felt the claws bite into his palms, a faint sting that grounded him in this surreal moment.
His eyes trailed further, tracing the contours of his arms. Forearms thick as the mightiest tree trunks, corded with muscle that rippled beneath the symbiote's surface. His biceps bulged like oversized basketballs, peaks of power that strained with every subtle flex, while his triceps swelled, packed with dense, unyielding mass.
Peter's gaze shifted to his chest, where two massive slabs of meat—his pecs—jutted out, imposing and unfamiliar. He'd never imagined them this large, this defined, a testament to the symbiote's power coursing through him. His eyes drifted lower, taking in the eight-pack that adorned his abdomen, each muscle carved and chiseled as if sculpted by a primary artisan, rippling faintly with every breath.
Finally, he looked down at his legs—two towering pillars of strength. His quads were thick, packed with dense muscle fibers, radiating raw power. He could almost picture clamping a watermelon between them and crushing it effortlessly. His calves matched the spectacle, far from soft—they gleamed like they were forged from diamond, sharply defined and unyielding, as if carved from stone.
Peter turned back to the mirror, taking in the full scope of his transformation. He looked like a hulking, all-black version of Spider-Man—claws, fangs, and a menacing edge that was both monstrous and awe-inspiring. "If I went to a Halloween party like this, people would totally be both scared and amazed…" he quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pictured the gasps and wide-eyed stares he'd draw from the crowd.
Stepping back, he struck a series of poses, flexing before the mirror like a bodybuilder on stage. His muscles bulged and swelled with every movement—biceps peaking, pecs rippling, quads tightening into chiseled columns. The symbiote gleamed under the light, accentuating every curve and contour as he twisted and turned, marveling at the sheer power rippling through his frame.
We're glad that you like what you see, a voice slithered through Peter's mind, low and resonant, sending a jolt through him. His jagged white eyes widened as he whipped his head around, scanning the bathroom for the source.
"Who said that?" Peter demanded, his deeper voice echoing off the tiles as he peered into the corners, half-expecting someone to step out of the shadows.
You are looking at us, the voice replied, smooth and insistent, curling around his thoughts like smoke. The realization hit him like a punch—the voice was coming from the suit, the inky black symbiote that clung to his body.
"Okay… that is sure new…" Peter muttered, crossing his thick arms under his massive pecs, the symbiote rippling slightly with the motion. He stared at his reflection, a mix of curiosity and unease flickering in his alien eyes as he processed the fact that this thing wasn't just a suit—it was alive, and it was talking to him.
An alien would be a right term for us, the voice purred in Peter's mind, smooth and unhurried.
Peter's jagged eyes widened slightly. "You can read my thoughts?" he asked, his voice a mix of astonishment and wariness as he stared at his reflection, the symbiote's gleaming surface staring back.
Thoughts. Emotions. Memories. We can do much more than that, it replied, its tone carrying an almost smug confidence, threading deeper into his consciousness.
Peter fell silent, processing this for a moment, his massive arms still crossed under his chest. Then he spoke again, his curiosity outweighing his unease. "Alright, what are you? I've never seen something like you."
You wouldn't. We are not native to your planet. We are from the race called Klyntar, a symbiotic hive-mind species that seeks hosts throughout the galaxy to bond with. The meteorite we rode landed on the edges of this city. Seeking a host for ourselves, we sensed you. Waiting for the right moment to bond with you, Peter Parker—known to the people of New York as Spider-Man. A powerful host for us indeed, the symbiote explained, its voice weaving a tale of cosmic purpose, each word sinking into Peter's mind with deliberate weight.
Peter narrowed his eyes in thought, the white slits glowing faintly as he absorbed the revelation. He'd faced a lot as Spider-Man—thieves, supervillains, even interdimensional threats—but an alien life-form, a symbiote from a race called Klyntar, bonding with him? That was a new one, even for him. He studied the mirror, the hulking, clawed figure staring back, and felt the strange duality of his own mind now shared with this otherworldly presence.
Peter raised his right arm and flexed it, the bicep swelling into a mountainous peak beneath the symbiote's glossy surface. "What's the deal with this look, though? Not that I mind it, but I look like I could give the biggest bodybuilders a run for their money."
We thought that with this look, you could be a more effective protector of the people, the symbiote replied, its voice a steady hum in his mind.
"Explain."
The criminals you fight are constantly thrown back into prison, only to return the next day. We say we should give them something to fear, something to make them think twice before they dare repeat their actions. If we don't act decisively, more will follow in their wake, it elaborated, its tone edged with a cold pragmatism.
"So what you're saying is… that I should make them… afraid of me? Did I understand that correctly?" Peter asked, tilting his head slightly as he pieced it together. "That I should give them something more terrifying than prison… on the outside…?"
Indeed.
Peter narrowed his jagged white eyes, staring at the bathroom floor as the symbiote's words sank in. It made an awful lot of sense—too much, maybe. He'd always been so caught up in the heroics, the web-slinging, the quips, that he hadn't stopped to consider how little had changed. The same crooks, the same cycles. Maybe this thing saw what he'd been too busy swinging around to notice.
A sigh escaped his maw, his breath hissing past his fangs as he looked back at the mirror. "Alright… no promises or anything, but… sign me up, I guess!"
He felt a ripple of satisfaction from the symbiote, mingling with a spark of his own excitement. Its power was undeniable—coursing through him, fresh and electric—and he was eager to see where it could take him. A wide, toothy grin split his face, his maw opening wildly as his long, red tongue slithered out, flicking left and right. He admired his new self in the reflection, all bulk and menace and raw potential. If this plan worked—if instilling a little terror in New York's villains did the trick—then this strange black costume might just be the answer to all his problems.
GROWL!
The low rumble of Peter's stomach snapped his attention downward, his clawed hand instinctively pressing against his chiseled abdomen. "Right. I still didn't eat," he sighed, the reality of mundane needs cutting through the surreal moment. "Let's grab something then, but… how do I change back?"
Simply think about it, the symbiote replied, its voice calm and matter-of-fact in his mind.
Peter focused, picturing himself as he was before. In an instant, the inky black suit shimmered and shifted, morphing into a casual blue shirt layered over a white tee, brown pants, and black sneakers. His hulking, muscular frame slimmed back to his lean, athletic build—still fit, but human again. He blinked at his reflection, his normal brown eyes staring back in surprise. "Woah. That can save bucks on buying new clothes," he said, his voice back to its familiar, lighter tone, a grin tugging at his lips.
He flicked off the bathroom light and headed out, striding toward the kitchen. Even a hero like Spider-Man needed breakfast, after all. The morning light spilled across the counter as he rummaged for something to eat, his mind buzzing with the possibilities of his new "partner."
(Sometime Later.)
The streets of Queens roared with chaos as a high-speed chase tore through the city. A sleek car, driven by the heist crew, weaved dangerously between traffic, tires screeching as it sped away from a pack of police cruisers hot on its tail. In the front passenger seat, one thug leaned out the window, black mask glinting under streetlights, firing bursts from a machine gun at the pursuing cops, the crack of gunfire echoing off buildings.
"Dammit! Those dogs won't give up!" the driver, also masked, shouted, his voice tight with irritation as he yanked the wheel to dodge a slower car.
The gunner ducked back inside, slamming a fresh magazine into his weapon. "Just keep driving! Eventually, we'll lose them!"
The car lurched violently, shuddering as something heavy thumped onto the roof. Claws—long, wicked, and glinting—sliced through the metal like it was tissue paper, tearing and peeling it back with a screech. The thugs froze, heads snapping upward as a hulking black figure loomed into view, its jagged white eyes boring into them. The symbiote's glossy surface shimmered under the flickering streetlights, radiating menace.
"Sorry, guys, but we're afraid your driver's license is about to be revoked!" Peter quipped, his voice a deep, rumbling growl laced with dark humor. His maw curled into a grin, razor-sharp teeth gleaming as his long, red tongue lolled out, swaying like a predator savoring the moment. The thugs' faces drained of color, their bravado crumbling under the weight of pure terror.
The gunner fumbled, trying to swing his weapon up toward the hulking figure, but a tendril—sleek and black—shot out from Peter's suit, lightning-fast, ripping the gun from his grip and flinging it into the night. Another tendril lashed out, coiling around the steering wheel and jerking it hard to the left. The car skidded wildly, tires screaming, before slamming into a lamppost with a crunch of metal and glass.
Peter extended his arms, and from the white squares on the backs of his hands, more tendrils erupted, weaving into thick, inky webbing. They snapped forward, ensnaring the thugs in an instant, pinning their groaning, battered forms to their seats as they struggled weakly against the unyielding bonds.
"Maybe next time you'll learn to drive properly during your time out in the cell," Peter growled, his toothy grin widening as his tongue flicked mockingly. With a fluid motion, he leaped from the car's crumpled roof, raising a hand to fire a thick, black web-line that glistened under the streetlights. He swung away, his massive form disappearing into the urban jungle as the wail of sirens grew louder.
Police cars screeched to a halt a few meters from the wreck, officers spilling out, weapons drawn but pausing as they caught sight of the webbed-up thugs and the fading silhouette swinging into the distance.
"Was that Spider-Man?" a mustached officer asked, squinting after the figure.
"You kidding me? That looked nothing like him!" a second officer, a Latino man in his mid-30s, shot back, shaking his head.
"Did he hit the weights or something? Because that was not the Spidey we know!" a third officer, sporting round spectacles, chimed in, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Let's focus on getting these guys first. We can think about this later," the mustached officer said, jerking a thumb toward the groaning, webbed-up criminals trapped in their seats.
"I'm gonna need a coffee after this," the second officer muttered, rubbing his temples as a headache loomed on the horizon. Under his breath, he added, "And a raise for dealing with this shit."
(With Peter)
Peter soared through the city, swinging effortlessly between towering buildings, the black webbing flowing naturally from his hands. He couldn't help but marvel at how the symbiote generated its own webbing—no need for his old web-shooters or swapping out cartridges when the fluid ran dry. Still, he decided he'd keep the shooters tucked away, just in case of an emergency. Old habits die hard.
He landed lightly on the roof of a three-story building, crouching for a moment before sitting down, his massive frame settling against the skyline. The symbiote's mask peeled back, revealing Peter's face, a wide grin spreading across it as he gazed out over the city. "Man, I like this new me," he said, his voice tinged with exhilaration.
We're proud of what we have become, the symbiote rumbled in his mind, its tone thick with satisfaction, a shared pride in their union.
Peter tilted his head, still grinning. "Since we're together now, how about a new name? I don't think Spider-Man really fits us anymore," he mused, drumming his claws against the rooftop.
We already thought of that. Venom, the symbiote declared, the word carrying a weight that seemed to echo in the air.
"Venom, huh?" Peter placed a clawed hand under his chin, mulling it over for a moment. Then he nodded, his grin sharpening. "I like it. Given how we look now… Venom it is, then."
The mask surged back over his face, the jagged white eyes and toothy maw reforming as the symbiote sealed itself around him. Peter—or rather, Venom—stood, his hulking silhouette stark against the city lights. With a powerful leap, he launched into the air, firing another black web-line and swinging off into the city, eyes scanning the streets below for any sign of trouble to sink his claws into.
(Elsewhere at the same time)
In a dimly lit room, a man with piercing amethyst eyes and short, ash-grey hair lounged in a high-backed chair, his head resting casually on a gauntleted fist adorned with wicked claws. His armor gleamed faintly, its spiky shoulder pads curling upward like twisted horns, while a waist cape draped over his legs, stopping just above his ankles. His gaze flicked across a bank of screens, each one replaying footage of Venom tearing through the car chase in Queens—claws shredding metal, tendrils pinning thugs, and that toothy maw grinning as he swung away.
"How interesting," he murmured, his voice smooth and laced with curiosity, those amethyst eyes glinting as they studied the hulking black figure on the screens. "Seems like Spider-Man got a new makeover. This will be very interesting…"
A thin, calculating smile curled across his face, sharp and deliberate. This will be very, very… interesting.