Peter barely breathes between punches.

He's barely allowed to gather his wits and prepare for the next impact that rattles his bones and paints his skin with bruises. Every hit to his ribs, stomach, chest, and head feels like being pummeled with cinderblocks. Blood fills his mouth where his lip is cut and one eye is so swollen he can barely see out of it, not that it matters. A gash above his eyebrow trickles blood into it, making it impossible to see anyway.

The woman, the bruiser, finally steps away, shaking her bloodied knuckles and accepting a towel from one of her comrades. This would be around the time that Peter apologized for getting blood on her hands and offer a knuckle sandwich in return, but he can't form the words. They'd fastened a rag across his mouth, dirty and tasting of oil. With every hit, he bites down harder, not realizing he's releasing venom until he tastes its acidic bitterness on his tongue, but he's not worried about that. He's designed to withstand its potency.

Free of the onslaught now, he leans back, trying to catch his breath, but his ribs are on fire and his nose sends needles through his skull with each inhale. Combined with the rag, he can't get enough air to his lungs and it leaves him panting like a dog.

But they're nice enough to give him a minute to gather himself, and then the woman nods and someone over Peter's shoulder creeps up behind him. He hisses through the rag, jerking away, but all it does it cripple him. The presence merely unfastens the rag, soggy with blood, spit, and venom, and Peter immediately sucks in a breath, ribs screaming but lungs grateful. Excess blood and venom drip from his lips, soiling his shirt more than it already is. The chains prevent him from falling, so he leans into them, releasing the searing tension in his shoulders.

When the bruiser is sufficiently cleaned up, she saunters back over and Peter hollers as she grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head up.

"You ready to talk yet?"

He can't answer, his scalp is a little busy being drilled by cactus needles, and his swollen tongue bumps against his fangs, both too big to allow words. He wishes he knew what she was saying. Her words mesh together, catching in his eardrums and becoming a messy tangle of vowels and syllables. From the back of his throat, he makes a clicking sound, the only one he can make.

Click-click-click

The bruiser's lips curls and his spider-sense tingles at the base of his skull. Peter stares at her through his good eye, body locking like a vault with the key buried far beneath his feet. He stares and waits because that's all he can do. Staring and waiting, staring and waiting, heart punching his ribcage and body tingling, burning, and stinging, building up like a waterspout until the pressure is too much and he doesn't realize he's snapping until she jumps back.

"Freak," she growls, backhanding him across the face. What she doesn't anticipate are his reflexes. He snaps again, fangs skimming her wrist. They don't puncture flesh, he's too drowsy with pain and nausea for that, and she's quick to yank her hand back before he can do any more damage.

But that only makes it worse. He tastes her anger in the air, rancid and acidic, and he wrinkles his nose. But she's also not keen on getting too close again. She examines the cut on her wrist tersely, and then shakes it like that might get rid of the sting.

"I guess not," she says, "Fine. I can do this all night long, bug boy."

The sounds coming from her mouth grate on him, the vibrations dragging on his skin like rusty razors. She gestures behind him, and the presence from before comes back, and Peter flails, refusing to let the rag back over his mouth. He can't allow it. As of right now, his fangs are the only thing keeping them afraid. Without them, he's defenseless. He juts his head back, cracking the man's nose against his skull and he stumbles back with a yell.

More movement. Someone comes to take his place. Peter struggles against the chains, wrenching his arms and yanking his wrists. He hears a faint creak, but before he can get his hopes up, a meaty hand clamps around his throat, and suddenly he can't breathe.

The bruiser squeezes his windpipe and he wheezes, and any breath he tries to inhale is cut off by the rag sliding across his mouth and forcing his head back, jaw open as the edges dig into the sides of his mouth. Reflexively, he bites down, but his venom is useless against the cloth.

Unable to breathe, fangs blocked, trapped, and everything hurts. His chest heaves, panic coiling the joints and springs of his body, winding them so tightly he threatens to pop.

"Get more of that serum they used on him," the bruiser snaps, eyes blazing. "I liked him a lot more when he wasn't so bitey."

Peter doesn't know why that moment is so special, but all at once, a switch in his brain flips. He stops struggling. Stops fighting. Becomes a brick of solid ice. A filter slides over his brain, clouding his mind and muzzling his thoughts. All of the sudden, the coil in his stomach isn't panic or fear. It's rage. Huge, overwhelming, inundating rage that suffocates his chest and bleeds through his ribs, clouding his vision in red.

Somewhere, deep in the recess of his mind, something looks up. Something big and dark, with too many legs and too many eyes. White venom drips from it as it clicks, the sound sharp and stabbing, as it shakes off dust.

The bruiser's face twists in surprise, and then confusion, as Peter's eyes go completely black. 

⚆ᗝ⚆ ᄽὁȍ ̪ őὀᄿ