There was that jab again, in your left hip this time. And you flinched again, writhing on the table, laid on your stomach. You weren't sure where you were, but that jab hurt like hell and you needed to leave.
A heavy breath filled your ear, hot and wet.
"What are we gonna do with you, Princess?"
Disgusted, you yanked away, fighting the bonds clasping your wrists together behind your back. It was no use. The rope, or whatever it was, tightened around your skin as you struggled, heavily restricting your movement. You felt a sharp pop in your shoulder and you gritted your teeth, grinding them together to fight the pain. It was like a fire, spreading down your arm and across your shoulder blade, licking your skin.
In another pointless effort, you tried kicking your legs. They were tied to the table as well, and you decided quickly that the fight was not worth it, that you would rather keep your knee intact, you would rather not enervate yourself any further. These assholes had already shattered your ankle and bruised your throat, and there was no way you were giving them more vantage points.
"Hm, Princess? What are we gonna do?"
You felt a finger trail up your thigh, uncomfortably warm against the goosebumps on your legs. This table was metal, from what you could tell, and it was freezing against the exposed skin.
"Get off me, dipshit," you growled.
Almost instantly regretting the remark, you shook, fear brewing in your stomach. You still had no idea where you were, and it had been multiple hours. Multiple hours of "dipshit" tracing the lines of you, hours of you writhing against the freezing metal table, hours of steady, relentless fear. Fear had its hands tangled in your hair, weaved through your fingers, and dripping down your throat. You couldn't shake fear, just like you couldn't shake the damn bonds holding you down.
Then there were footsteps. Where from? They bounced through the room, followed by a thick, chalky voice.
"Ah, here we are."
You furrowed your brows from under the thick blindfold, not recognizing the vocals. And then there was another finger trailing up your side, up the dip of your waist. You twisted again, trying to avoid the contact, the touch leaving scars on your insides.
Dipshit gave a husky laugh, and you felt that familiar jab in your right hip again, then the wave of spasms that followed. They were painful, meant to calm you down, and they did. They made your body limp, momentarily at least, while you struggled, heaving, against that cold metal table.
"Hello, Miss Y/L/N."
"Get your fucking hands off of me," you grunted to that second voice, your waist feeling as though it were twisting around itself; that last jab had really stung.
"I'm not touching you," the voice spat in your ear, the finger lifting itself from its previous place on the side of your ribcage. You tried desperately to keep from shaking, not wanting to give "dipshit" and his comrade the satisfaction.
"I'm not touching you," heaved the chalky voice, and you felt another jab, in your left hip this time, and you shrieked, unable to hold the guttural sound back. It hurt so bad. And then "dipshit" was chuckling again, laughing, laughing at a half-naked, writhing, girl sprawled on a metal table. You felt the moisture of tears serenade your eyes, coaxing them to be released. But you held your ground, squinting into the blindfold.
"What the hell do you want from me?"
You groaned out the words, grinding your teeth. Your body was limp again, that jab successfully relaxing you. The feeling of a lack of control was infuriating.
"We know you, love."
The words made you shiver, wringing you bones from inside your skin. Peter was the only one who had called you that, and hearing it roll off a tongue as despicable as the one next to you was sickening.
Love.
The word that had been chuckled after Peter enthused over one of your shitty jokes ("love, that's awful"), the word had been spilled through smile-pulled lips when Peter waved at you ("over here, love"), the word had been breathed in the dark of Peter's room. But now it came from that disgusting voice, that disgusting, chalky voice.
You squirmed uncomfortably, whimpering from between your swollen lips.
"We know you."
The voice was dripping, slowly, and then there was that finger on your waist again, trailing against your skin.
"We know you, we know Peter."
And then you stopped your squirming.
Your body went rigid. You had known that they had taken you to get to him, you had known that they wanted him, wanted to see his body blood-soaked on the ground, but hearing his name, his real name, not Spider-Man, Peter, spat by that disgusting voice, was too much.
"Who the hell are you?" you grunted, your toes curling, bonds tightening on your ankles. All you wanted was to get out, all you wanted was to get out and to have this be over and to not have had it happen at all.
Airy laughs fell from the mouths of your captors, mocking you with their entertained state.
"That doesn't concern you, love."
And there was that fucking name again, twisting your stomach, twisting your heart, breaking your breaths in your throat. And in spiked another blade to your side, another jab, another agony-filled writing on that metal table with those bonds holding you down and that finger trailing up your hips, your waist, your rib cage. And out escaped another shriek from your swollen lips.
"We care about your friend Peter."
That name.
Peter.
"We care about how he's going to watch you bleed out from these lovely hips of yours," up ran another finger, "and how you're going to get to watch him bleed from his."
"Romeo and Juliet," laughed "dipshit".
Peter.
You were convinced that was the end.
Peter. Peter. They wanted Peter. They wanted you because they wanted Peter. And Peter wasn't here. Peter. Peter.
"Don't you dare say his name."
Your lips were spitting out words before your mind had the time to process them, shaking, trembling with thoughts.
"Who's name, love?"
That sinister voice.
Love.
You squirmed in your bonds, twisting and convulsing.
"Peter's?"
Peter.
Love.
And now you weren't holding back the tears anymore, you were arching your back as a jolt of pain followed another jab, you were bleeding into the waistband of your underwear through the gash.
"Peter, hm?"
He spoke the words through a sickly-sweet filter, drawn out and dipped in lust.
Love.
You screamed now, fighting the surging limpness encapsulating your limbs.
"Stop!" you shrieked, emotion gurgling in your throat.
And there were those husky laughs again, those rough, unwanted fingers tracing their handwriting on your sides, your breath hitching in another scream (Stop!). Another jab to your side, another gash, more blood spilling, more limpness coursing through you.
And then the laughs were ceased, and you still quivered, murmuring weak, unintelligible words against the metal of the table, your distended lips spilling saliva as your hips spilled blood.
We care about how he's going to watch you bleed out from these lovely hips of yours.
And then it was too quiet, no laughing, no chalky voice, no fingers. It was just you, heaving against the surface, curling your toes.
"Y/N."
Love.
You shook as you breathed, your inhales sucking in down the back of your throat and your exhales shoving at your lungs, as your heart, at your stomach, overwhelmed.
That voice wasn't husky, chalky.
That voice was Peter.
Peter.
Peter.
"Peter, oh my - Peter, is that you?" you were heaving, shaking, sobbing, turning your head wildly, desperate to see, the fabric still too tight around your eyes.
And then there were grunts, contacts, groans echoing around you, bounding around the walls of the room, the room that you had been kept in for so long.
Peter.
The hiss of web shooters added to the jumble of sounds and you cried out, whining against the metal of the table.
"Peter! Peter, help me, Peter -"
"Love, I'm here I'm -"
The honeyed voice led you to shake, quiver, let out a bubble of pleased laughter, as you sobbed.
"Peter, I - Peter!"
And then there were more thuds, the breaking of body against floor. And more hisses of the shooters, more grunts, more heavy breathing. Peter's breathing. And your hips stung and continued spilling, spilling, aching, sending coursing surges of fire up your sides.
Peter.
Then blindfold was ripped off of your eyes, yanking at your wet eyelashes, blinding you with the dim light from underneath them. And you squinted, shuddering, lips chapped and bubbling with confused muttering.
"Love, I'm right here."
Love.
Peter.
I'm right here.
When your eyes came into focus, you cried into the midnight-stained air, into the bare room, into your container.
Peter.
And there he was, squatting down at the head of the table, clad in his suit. Off came his mask, too, his blindfold, his sweat-dampened curls falling on his forehead. His face was smudged with concern and longing and sympathy and ache, and tears were spreading over his freckled cheeks as he observed you, trembling.
"What did they do to you?"
