DOWN CAME THE GOBLIN

“You’ve spun your last web, Spider-Man. Had you not been so selfish, your little girlfriend’s death would have been quick and painless. But now that you’ve really pissed me off, I’m gonna finish her nice and slow. MJ and I, we’re gonna have a hell of a time.”

The words weren’t just a threat. They were a promise, laced with a sickening, intimate malice that went beyond murder. Peter’s blood ran cold, a new kind of terror cutting through the physical pain. He saw it in the Goblin’s wild eyes—this wasn’t just about killing. It was about defilement.

He lunged, not to attack, but to stop the strike. His hands shot out, grabbing the haft of the Goblin’s trident just as it came driving toward his chest. The metal was cold and slick with rain and blood, the three wicked prongs inches from his heart. His arms trembled as he forced the weapon to a halt.

Spider-strength against relentless momentum.

Muscles corded, veins bulging in his neck and arms as he pushed back, the prongs quivering in the air between them.

“You’re… not… touching… her…” Peter gasped, his mask ripped and tattered from the fight. One lens was completely shattered, the fabric torn away from his jaw and cheek, revealing the grimace of utter strain beneath. The young face under the mask twisted with pain and determination.

The Goblin only watched.

A cruel smile spread beneath his demonic mask.

“Such spirit. Such love.” His voice was soft, delighted. “It makes what comes next so much sweeter.”

With a sudden wrench of brutal strength, the Goblin twisted the trident in Peter’s grip and drove forward.

Peter’s arms buckled.

He was injured, exhausted, heartsick. His strength faltered for just a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

THUNK.

The sound was wet, final, and horrifically quiet compared to the battle’s chaos. The central prong of the trident punched through the center of the spider emblem on his chest, the other two tearing past his ribs as the weapon drove straight through him.

The tips erupted from his back in a spray of crimson.

For a moment, Peter Parker just hung there, impaled on the Goblin’s weapon, the rain beginning to wash the blood down the metal shaft.

Peter’s body jerked. A choked, guttural sound escaped his lips. His eyes, visible through the torn mask, went wide—not with pain at first, but with shock. A profound, disbelieving shock. His gaze locked onto the Goblin’s, the fire in them fading into a glassy confusion.

The Goblin leaned in close, his breath hot against Peter’s exposed cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her. I’ll make sure she remembers you… every time I visit her.”

Peter tried to speak, but only a bubble of blood welled over his lip. His strength vanished. The Goblin shoved the glider forward, twisting the blade viciously before yanking it back with a sickening scrape of metal on bone.

Peter Parker collapsed onto the cold rubble. He didn’t move. The red and blue suit was dark and wet around the horrific wound. The tattered mask framed his face—part hero, part broken boy—his eyes staring blankly at the smoggy New York sky.

Silence.

The Goblin stood over him, breathing heavily. The thrill of the kill was there, electric and hot. But it was already morphing into something else. A deeper, darker hunger. He looked from the corpse to the direction of the bridge, where Mary Jane Watson waited, unknowing, for a hero who would never come.

A low chuckle rumbled in the Goblin’s chest. It wasn’t a laugh of victory alone. It was a laugh of anticipation.

“Now for the real fun,” he whispered to the dead boy at his feet, his voice a grotesque parody of a lover’s promise.

He stepped over Peter’s body, his boot scraping through a growing pool of blood. The glider obediently slid beneath his feet. He had a date to keep. And now, there was no one left to interrupt.

The Goblin rose from the buildings remains, the glider humming beneath him. He glanced down once more at Spider-Man’s corpse—a heap of ruined colors on the gravel—and felt a surge of power so intense it exhilarating. He had won. The hero was dead. And now, the city belonged to him.

He angled the glider towards the Queensboro Bridge. The memory of those ordinary people, those *insects*, throwing things at him, daring to defy him, burned in his mind. They had sided with the spider. Now they would learn the cost.

He approached the bridge from above, the orange glow of streetlights and car headlights painting the scene below. Traffic was slow, congested. People were still out of their cars, gathered in clusters, buzzing about the earlier battle, some even cheering, thinking their hero had prevailed.

The Goblin hovered, a silent demon in the night sky. Then, with a grin that split his wicked face, a compartment on his glider hissed open. A pumpkin bomb ejected, shooting up into his waiting hand. It glowed a deep, malevolent green in his grip.

**First Bomb.**

He dropped it not onto the road, but directly into a packed crowd of people standing near the edge of the bridge, waving and talking excitedly. The bomb landed among them with a soft *thump*. For a second, they stared at it, confused.

Then it detonated.

The explosion wasn’t just fire; it was a concussive blast of shrapnel and phosphorous chemical fire. Bodies were not just burned; they were *disassembled*. Limbs were torn from torsos. One man was lifted into the air, his midsection vaporized, his legs and head raining down separately onto the asphalt. A woman holding a child was engulfed; the small body was charred into a blackened curl in an instant, while the mother’s screaming mouth was frozen in a silent scream as her face melted. The heat was so intense it fused the metal of a nearby car door to the flesh of people pressed against it.

**Chaos erupted.** Screams, not of fear, but of primal agony, filled the air. People ran, but there was nowhere to go. They were trapped on the bridge.

The Goblin laughed, a raw, howling sound. He swooped low, skimming just above the panicked crowd.

**Second and Third Bombs.**

He tossed one into a stalled bus, its windows packed with faces. The bomb went through an open window. The interior flashed white-hot. Every passenger inside was incinerated instantly, their bodies cooked within the steel frame. The bus windows blew out, spraying glass shards that sliced through the crowd outside, cutting throats, piercing eyes.

The third bomb landed under a cluster of cars trying to reverse. The explosion lifted three sedans into the air, flipping them. They crashed down onto other vehicles, crushing people trapped inside. One car landed on a group of families running together; the impact mashed them into a pulp of blood and bone under the wreckage.

**He was methodical now.** This wasn’t just revenge; it was a lesson. A performance.

**Fourth Bomb**—aimed at the bridge’s support walkway where dozens had fled. The explosion sheared through the metal grating. A whole section of the walkway, with thirty people on it, collapsed into the dark river below. They weren’t just falling; they were ripped apart by the blast first, so what hit the water were mangled pieces, not whole bodies.

**Fifth and Sixth Bombs**—he rolled them like grenades down the length of the traffic lanes. They bounced between cars, detonating sequentially. Each explosion set off a chain reaction of fuel tanks igniting. Cars became fireballs, cooking their occupants alive. The air filled with the smell of burning gasoline, melted plastic, and seared human flesh. The screams began to die down, replaced by the roar of fire and the moans of those too injured to scream—people with legs blown off, torsos opened, faces scorched away.

The Goblin hovered at the center of the bridge, now a vision of hell. Fires raged. Bodies lay everywhere—not just dead, but *destroyed*. Some were recognizable as human forms; others were just red-black smears on the ground. Parts of children lay separated from their parents. A hand clutching a cell phone rested on a hood of a car. A head, hair still burning, rested against a curb.

Dozens upon dozens were dead. Over a hundred, maybe. The initial crowds, the motorists, the families—all reduced to meat and ash.

He breathed in the smoke, the scent of death. It was glorious. It was absolute. He had erased the defiance. He had painted the bridge with their punishment.

With a final, contemptuous look at the carnage—the weeping, the dying, the absolute ruin—he turned his glider away. The wind carried the sounds of distant sirens, but they were too late. The bridge was a slaughterhouse.

His mind was already elsewhere.

The fun was only just beginning.

******

MJ stood on the deck of the barge, her hands gripping the cold railing. Her eyes were fixed on the distant bridge. The first explosion had been a bright, terrible flash. Then another. And another. They weren’t just lights; they were blooms of fire and death, silent from this distance but screaming in her imagination. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Where is everyone? What’s happening?

Then, a sound—a high, mechanical whine cutting through the night air, growing louder, coming from behind her.

She turned.

A sailor, a young man who had been helping her with blankets, looked up. “What the hell—”

The Green Goblin came in low and fast, skimming the water. He didn’t descend; he swept sideways in a banking turn. As he passed the barge, the side of his armored glider, a slab of reinforced metal and wicked blades, caught the sailor across the torso.

The impact was sickening. There was a wet crunch of shattered ribs and pulverized organs. The force didn’t knock the sailor off his feet; it folded him. He was bent backwards over the glider’s edge for a split second before being hurled sideways. He crashed into the barge’s metal superstructure with a final, bone-breaking thud and slid to the deck, a limp, twisted heap, his chest caved in.

MJ’s scream was a silent gasp, stolen by pure shock. She stumbled back, her eyes wide with a horror that was now immediate, personal, and drenched in the copper scent of blood.

The Goblin completed his turn and hovered before her, the glider stabilizing. The green armor glistened under the barge’s lights. He looked at her, his eyes gleaming behind the static mask. No speech. No grand pronouncement. This was a transaction. He was here to collect.

He reached out. His gloved hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vise. The grip was brutal, crushing, meant to hurt and to dominate.

“NO!” she screamed, finding her voice, a raw sound of pure terror.

He didn’t pull her onto the glider. He simply yanked her forward as the glider’s thrusters roared. He was taking off, and he was taking her with him—by force.

MJ’s feet left the deck. For a second, she was suspended in the air, then the brutal acceleration took her. She was dragged behind the glider like a caught fish, her body whipped violently by the sudden, explosive ascent. The air ripped at her clothes, tore at her hair. Her shoulder screamed in agony, feeling like it was being torn from its socket. She screamed again, the sound instantly shredded and lost in the wind and engine roar.

The Goblin banked hard over the river, the cold black water a dizzying blur beneath her swinging feet, then pointed the nose of the glider up, ascending towards the jagged skyline of Manhattan. MJ swung wildly behind him, a human pendulum against the vast night sky, the city lights a nauseating kaleidoscope below. The terror was absolute, wiping her mind clean of everything but the crushing grip on her wrist, the roar in her ears, and the horrifying emptiness of the air beneath her.

He didn’t look back. He held her with an unbreakable grip, a hunter with his prize. The barge, the dead sailor, the burning bridge—all of it fell away below them, shrinking into insignificance as he carried her up into the consuming darkness.

The Goblin flew straight for the skeletal remains of the Roosevelt Island ruins, the place where he had finally broken the spider. The glider shot through a gaping hole where a wall had been, entering the cavernous, moonlit space of the derelict warehouse.

He didn’t slow for a gentle landing. With a contemptuous flick of his arm, he simply released his grip on MJ’s wrist.

She was still airborne from the violent flight, her body a ragdoll of terror and momentum. He let go, and she flew forward, tumbling through the cold air for a few feet before crashing down onto the unforgiving ground.

She hit a slope of broken concrete slabs and shattered brick. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a painful whoosh. She skidded, sharp edges tearing at her clothes and scraping skin from her arms and legs. She came to a rest in a cloud of ancient dust, coughing, gasping, her entire body a symphony of new aches layered over the deep, throbbing agony in her wrist and shoulder.

Above her, the Goblin dismounted his glider with a heavy, metallic thud. The machine hissed and settled, its green glow casting long, monstrous shadows across the rubble. He stood there, a silhouette against the moonlight streaming through the shattered roof. The jagged steel beams above looked like the ribs of a colossal, dead beast.

The atmosphere was thick with silence and dust. The only sounds were MJ’s ragged breathing and the faint, settling trickle of debris. The air was cold, smelling of damp brick, rust, and something else—something coppery and sharp that hadn’t been there before. The entire space felt like a tomb. A cathedral of violence, now silent, waiting for its final sacrament.

He took a step towards her, his boots crunching on the rubble. The green of his armor was lurid and alien in the monochrome blue moonlight. He looked down at her, crumpled and bleeding on the ground, and the silence stretched, more terrifying than any taunt.

MJ pushed herself up on trembling arms, the world spinning. Her palm, seeking purchase on the rough ground, landed not on broken concrete, but on something softer. Fabric. Thick, textured fabric.

She blinked, trying to clear the dust and tears from her eyes. The moonlight fell in a sharp, silver beam, illuminating the patch of ground directly in front of her.

Her hand was splayed across a familiar symbol. A stylized black spider, its legs sprawling across a field of deep, bloody red.

A spider emblem.

Her breath hitched, a small, confused sound escaping her lips. Spider-Man? Had he… had he gotten here first? Was he hiding, waiting to strike?

A wild, desperate hope flared in her chest, so bright it was painful. He was here. He had to be. He’d save her. He always did.

She followed the line of the emblem with her eyes. The red fabric was dark, too dark, and it was matted, sticky. It led to a torso, slumped against a pile of rubble. The suit was torn to shreds. Great, ragged gashes revealed the skin beneath, but the skin was… wrong. Pale and waxy in the moonlight.

Her gaze traveled upward, past the shattered chest plate, over the torn blue sections.

To the mask.

It was half destroyed. One lens was completely gone, revealing a vacant, staring eye. The other lens was cracked. The fabric was ripped away from the jaw and cheek, exposing the lower half of a face she knew better than her own. A strong jaw, now slack. A mouth, slightly parted, with a dark trail of dried blood tracing from the corner down the chin.

Peter.

The name didn’t form in her mind. It was a silent, internal detonation that vaporised all thought, all sound, all hope.

The world didn’t just stop; it inverted. The cold became a physical weight. The dusty air became thick, suffocating syrup. The moonlight turned cruel, clinical, highlighting every terrible detail.

Her hand was still on his chest. On the spider. On the hole where the spider was torn apart. She could feel the unnatural stillness beneath her palm. No heartbeat. No rise and fall of breath. Just a profound, absolute cold seeping through the fabric.

A high, thin whine started in her ears, drowning out everything else. She couldn’t look away from his face. Peter’s face. Her Peter. Under the mask. Broken. Empty.

The hope didn’t just die. It was revealed as the cruelest joke ever played. The hero she was waiting for… was the boy she loved. And he was already here. He had been here the whole time. And he was dead.

Her mouth opened, but no scream came out. Only a silent, shuddering exhalation that fogged briefly in the cold air before vanishing. Her fingers curled slowly, not into a fist, but as if trying to clutch the fabric of his suit, to hold onto something that was already gone.

The long, cylindrical shadow fell across her face, blotting out the moonlight that had been illuminating Peter’s lifeless features. It was an intrusion into the sacred, silent horror of her discovery.

Still trapped in the numb, dissociative shock—her mind screaming PeterPeterPeter while her body felt like it belonged to someone else—MJ turned her head slowly, dully, to see what was casting the shadow.

There was no time to process. No time to see the Goblin standing over her, having silently closed the distance. No time to see the deliberate, cruel adjustment of his armor.

There was only a sudden, brutal pressure against her lips, forcing them apart, and then the thick, unyielding intrusion filling her mouth, pushing past her teeth, hitting the back of her throat.

Her eyes, wide and glazed with tears and shock, snapped up. They met the Goblin’s. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but his eyes were alive with a vile, triumphant fire. He held her gaze, a silent command.

Only then, with the taste of leather and something metallic flooding her senses, with the physical reality of the violation anchoring her spiraling mind to a new and more profound horror, did her brain finally connect the sensation to the source.

It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a piece of rubble.

It was him.

The shock didn’t break. It mutated. It fused with a revulsion so deep it was paralysing. She was on her knees beside the corpse of the man she loved, and the monster who killed him was forcing himself into her mouth. The two worst truths of her life were now physically connected in an act of ultimate defilement.

A choked, gagging sound vibrated in her throat, muffled by the flesh filling it. Her body tried to recoil, but he placed a heavy, armored hand on the back of her head, holding her in place. Tears, hot and endless, streamed from her wide, unblinking eyes, cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks as she stared up at her tormentor. The moonlight glinted off his green armor and off the wetness around her violated mouth.

The ruins were silent again, save for the ragged, nasal sound of her trying to breathe and the low, satisfied hum that seemed to emanate from the Goblin himself.

The paralysis of shock shattered under a wave of pure, feral instinct.

The taste of leather and salt and him was choking her, drowning her in violation. The image of Peter’s empty eyes burned behind her own. A red-hot wire of rage snapped taut inside her, cutting through the numbness.

Her jaw, which had been slack with horror, clenched.

She bit down. Not a warning nip, but with every ounce of strength left in her battered body. Her teeth sank into the soft, vulnerable flesh that had invaded her mouth with a savage, grinding pressure.

A guttural, pained roar erupted from the Goblin. It wasn’t a sound of anger, but of pure, startled agony. He jerked back violently, pulling himself free from her teeth with a slick, terrible sound.

For a single, fleeting second, MJ felt a dark, vicious thrill. She had hurt him. She had made the monster feel pain.

The second ended.

The Goblin looked down at her, his eyes wide not with fury, but with a kind of stunned, bestial outrage. The brief vulnerability vanished, replaced by a rage ten times hotter.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t taunt.

His armored hand, the one not holding his injured crotch, moved in a blur. It wasn’t a punch. It was an open-palmed, full-armed swing, putting the entire weight and power of his enhanced body behind it.

The slap connected with the side of MJ’s face with a sound like a wet towel hitting concrete.

The world exploded into white light and ringing silence. The force of the blow didn’t just sting; it displaced her. It snapped her head around with brutal force, whipping her neck. Her body lifted off the ground, twisting in the air. She landed hard on the rubble several feet away, her shoulder and hip taking the impact on sharp-edged concrete.

She lay there, stunned. The side of her face was a nova of pure, blinding pain. She could feel the skin already swelling, hot and tight. Her ear roared with a high-pitched whine. Her vision swam, the ruins tilting and blurring. She tasted blood in her mouth—her own this time, from where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek.

She was vaguely aware of a warm trickle running from her nose. She couldn’t move. The world had narrowed to the throbbing in her skull and the distant, looming green shape of the Goblin, who was now standing over her again, his earlier amusement replaced by something colder, deadlier, and infinitely more dangerous.

The heavy, metallic clang of the Goblin helmet hitting the broken concrete echoed sharply in the ruined space. It rolled a few inches, the lifeless, sculpted face staring blankly at the night sky.

MJ’s vision was still a swimming, painful blur. The world tilted on its axis. But a new, sharper fear cut through the fog of pain as she felt gloved hands—cold, hard, and unforgiving—fist into her hair. They gripped not gently, but with a possessive, cruel tightness, winding through her long red locks near the scalp.

He yanked.

A fresh cry of pain was torn from her throat as her head was jerked upward, her neck straining. The movement sent new starbursts of agony across her battered face. Her blurry vision was forced to focus.

She was looking up into the face of Norman Osborn.

His features were contorted. Sweat plastered his grey-streaked hair to his forehead. His eyes, usually so calculating and controlled, burned with a raw, unhinged light. The veins stood out on his temples. He leaned in close, so close she could smell the sweat on his skin and the acrid, chemical scent that always clung to him.

His voice, when it came, was a low, guttural rasp, stripped of all theatricality. It was pure, venomous promise.

“Let’s be perfectly clear, you little bitch,” he hissed, his breath hot against her swollen cheek. “You are alive because I allow it. Your defiance is a gnat buzzing in my ear.” He gave her hair another sharp, painful tug to emphasize each word. “You bite me again? You spit? You so much as look at me with anything other than the terror you should feel?”

He leaned even closer, his nose almost touching hers. His eyes bored into hers, allowing her to see the complete absence of humanity in them.

“I will not kill you quickly. I will take my time. And when I am finally bored…” He paused, letting the threat hang in the dusty air between them. “I will separate your pretty head from your shoulders with my bare hands. And I will leave it here for the rats, right next to your failed hero.”

He didn’t release the vicious grip on her hair. If anything, his fingers tightened further, the leather of his gloves creaking, the roots of her hair screaming in protest. He held her head perfectly still, a hunter with his prey pinned.

With his other hand, he guided himself back to her face. Not to her mouth this time, but higher. The thick, rigid tip of his cock, still slick from her saliva and his own arousal, pressed deliberately against her busted, swollen lip.

MJ flinched, a fresh wave of nausea and revulsion washing over her. The split skin stung fiercely at the contact. She tried to turn her head away, but his grip in her hair was an iron vice, rendering any movement impossible. She was trapped, forced to feel the intimate, violating pressure against her injury.

He didn’t push in. Not yet. He just held it there, a grotesque promise, letting her feel the heat and the unyielding hardness of him against her torn flesh.

“Open,” he commanded, his voice a flat, dark monotone. It wasn’t a request. It was the final stripping away of any pretense.

Tears, hot and helpless, welled in her eyes again, spilling over and mixing with the blood from her nose. A choked sob escaped her, muffled by his presence against her lips. The taste of her own blood was now mingled with the taste of him, a coppery, sickening cocktail.

Slowly, trembling violently, she parted her lips a fraction. It was a surrender carved from pure, animal terror. The memory of his threat—the visceral image of her head being torn from her body and left beside Peter’s—was more powerful than any gag reflex, any pride.

He pushed forward, past her busted lip. The sting was immediate and sharp, a bright flare of pain as the raw, split skin was stretched further. He didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, past her teeth, filling her mouth once more with his invasion.

This time, there was no shock to buffer the violation. Only the cold, horrifying clarity of what was happening. She was on her knees in the rubble, her dead love lying cold beside her, and Norman Osborn was using her broken mouth. He held her head firmly in place, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm, his eyes locked on hers, drinking in her utter defeat. The only sounds were the wet, obscene noise of the act and MJ’s ragged, gagging attempts to breathe through her nose.

His grip shifted. The hand fisted in her hair moved, gathering the thick strands at the crown of her head into a single, tight bundle. He held it like a handle, like the reins of a horse, pulling it taut so that her neck was stretched back at an uncomfortable angle.

With this new, controlling hold, he began to move her.

It was no longer just about penetration. It was about use. Complete, mechanical use.

He pulled her head forward, forcing her mouth down onto him, then yanked back, dragging her off. The motion was rhythmic and impersonal. Bobbing her head back and forth on his length, using the grip in her hair as the only point of control. Her body was just an appendage now, a tool for his satisfaction.

Each forward thrust jammed him deeper into her throat, triggering violent, convulsive gags that she had no power to suppress. Tears streamed freely down her bruised cheeks, mixing with saliva and blood. Her nose ran, the air hitching in ragged, desperate snorts through her nostrils whenever he pulled her back far enough to allow a partial breath.

The sound was brutally obscene. The wet slap of flesh, the choked, gagging noises she couldn’t contain, his own low, grunting breaths. Her jaw ached fiercely, stretched to its limit. The raw, busted skin of her lip burned with every pass.

He looked down at her with a detached, clinical expression. Watching her face contort in misery, watching the mess he was making of her. There was no passion in it, no heat. Just cold, dominant ownership. He was proving a point: she was nothing. A thing. A receptacle.

The rhythm picked up pace, becoming harder, more punishing. The pulls on her hair were sharp tugs that sent fresh jolts of pain across her scalp. Her world narrowed to the brutal, in-and-out motion, the struggle for air, the overwhelming, suffocating presence of him violating the most intimate part of her, and the silent, broken body of Peter Parker lying just feet away in the dust.

The sudden release of tension in her scalp was its own kind of shock. The brutal, guiding pull vanished. For a second, there was just the heavy, violating presence in her mouth and the aching throb where his grip had been.

Then came the sound: the distinct, heavy clang of metal hitting broken concrete. One glove, then the other. He was stripping away the armor, the pretense of the Goblin. This was just Norman now.

MJ’s mind, fogged with pain and horror, processed this shift with a cold, sharp clarity. The absence of the guiding hand wasn’t freedom. It was a test. A more terrifying one.

If she stopped… if she pulled away, spat him out, tried to scream… what then? The glider was nearby. His strength was inhuman. Peter was dead. There was no one coming. No last-minute save. There was only Norman Osborn and his whims, and he had just promised decapitation.

So, through the tears and the gagging and the taste of blood and him, she made a choice. A choice of pure survival.

She didn’t stop.

Her head, now unsupported, felt impossibly heavy. But she forced it to move. She took over the rhythm he had established, bobbing forward to take him deeper, then pulling back before sliding forward again. It was clumsy at first, uncoordinated, her neck muscles screaming in protest. But she kept going.

Her own hands, which had been limp at her sides or braced weakly against the rubble, came up. Not to push him away. They hovered for a second, trembling violently, then settled on his hips. Her touch was feather-light at first, then firmer, as if to steady herself. To participate.

She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and streaming, pleading over the obscene bulge in her cheeks. It was a look of utter submission, of chosen surrender. See? I’m doing it. You don’t have to force me. Please don’t kill me.

A low, gratified hum vibrated from his chest down into her mouth. He looked down at her, his expression shifting from cold detachment to something darker, more possessive. He brought his now-bare hands up. One tangled gently—almost tenderly—back into the long red hair he’d just released, not to guide, but to pet, to caress. The other hand came under her chin, his thumb stroking over her bruised cheek, smearing tears and blood.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice a rasp of genuine pleasure. “You learn fast when the lesson is clear.”

The praise felt like a brand, searing her soul more deeply than any slap. She increased her pace slightly, a desperate offering, trying to please the monster to avoid a worse fate. The sounds were different now—less of a struggle, more of a sickening, wet service. The only gags were the ones her body couldn’t suppress, and she fought to mute even those.

Her body was a map of ruin. The pink cardigan, once soft and comforting, was shredded in places, hanging off her shoulders by threads. The red tank top beneath was torn in several spots, one long gash running diagonally across her ribs.

Norman’s gaze, predatory and appreciative, roamed over the damage. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, drifted down. His fingers found the small, fraying tear at the shoulder strap of her tank top.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t tease.

His fingers hooked into the fabric. With a single, sharp, brutal yank, he ripped it outward.

The sound of tearing cotton was shockingly loud in the space. The fabric gave way easily, tearing a wide hole down the front of the tank top. It peeled back, exposing the smooth, pale curve of her right breast, the rosy peak hardening instantly in the cold air and under the heat of his gaze.

MJ flinched violently, a muffled cry escaping around him in her mouth. Her hands on his hips spasmed, her nails digging in for a second before she forced them to relax. She couldn’t cover herself. She couldn’t stop. She could only keep moving, keep the rhythm, while her body was laid bare.

He looked down at the exposed flesh, his breath catching. The detached cruelty was gone, replaced by a hungry, covetous intensity.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his voice thick.

His free hand—the one not tangled in her hair—came up. He didn’t grab roughly. He cupped her exposed breast almost reverently, his thumb sweeping over the sensitive peak in a slow, deliberate circle. The calloused pad of his thumb was a shocking contrast to the soft skin.

A fresh wave of shame and violation, hotter and more intimate than anything before, crashed over MJ. Tears fell anew, dripping onto his hand at her breast and the thigh of his suit below. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it was impossible. The feeling of his hand on her, possessive and intimate, was branded into her senses just as deeply as the violation in her mouth.

He began to move his hips in time with her forced rhythm, a low groan escaping him. He was no longer a passive observer. He was an active participant again, using her mouth while he fondled the breast he had just exposed, claiming every part of her he could reach. The dual sensations—the rough caress and the deep, throat-filling intrusion—merged into a single, overwhelming tide of degradation.

She was naked in spirit, and now being stripped in body. The rhythm of her head became a frantic, desperate prayer for it to just be over, even as she knew, with a sinking certainty, that it was only just beginning.

n, hotter and more intimate than anything before, crashed over MJ. Tears fell anew, dripping onto his hand at her breast and the thigh of his suit below. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it was impossible. The feeling of his hand on her, possessive and intimate, was branded into her senses just as deeply as the violation in her mouth.

He began to move his hips in time with her forced rhythm, a low groan escaping him. He was no longer a passive observer. He was an active participant again, using her mouth while he fondled the breast he had just exposed, claiming every part of her he could reach. The dual sensations—the rough caress and the deep, throat-filling intrusion—merged into a single, overwhelming tide of degradation.

She was naked in spirit, and now being stripped in body. The rhythm of her head became a frantic, desperate prayer for it to just be over, even as she knew, with a sinking certainty, that it was only just beginning.

He pulled out of her mouth with a slick, wet pop. The sudden absence was its own shock, leaving her gasping, her throat raw and aching, ropes of saliva and her own blood connecting her bruised lips to him for a second before breaking.

She sucked in a ragged, desperate lungful of air, the first full breath she’d managed in what felt like an eternity. Her body sagged, her forehead nearly touching the rough concrete between his boots.

But he wasn’t done.

Before she could even process the relief of breathing, she felt the hot, heavy weight of him against her cheek. Then a sharp, stinging smack.

He slapped his cock against the side of her face.

The impact wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but it was degrading in a way a punch could never be. It was a deliberate, contemptuous marking. The damp, heated flesh struck her high cheekbone, then slid down, leaving a wet, glistening trail across her skin, over the bridge of her swollen nose, and finally coming to rest against her other cheek, pressing there.

The strength left her all at once. Her legs gave out completely and she collapsed backward onto the cold concrete floor with a heavy thud, landing hard on her rear. She sat there amidst the dust and debris, legs splayed out in front of her like a broken doll.

Her chest heaved with ragged sobs that were more like dry heaves now. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand—a useless gesture that only smeared the mess further. Her exposed breast felt cold and violated in the open air.

He looked down at her crumpled form with a chilling mix of satisfaction and disdain.

“See?” he said, his voice unnervingly calm now. “Red? Was that so hard? You just had to cooperate.”

A spark of pure defiance, born from utter humiliation and grief for Peter lying so nearby, flickered in MJ’s chest. She looked up at him through her tangled hair and tears.

“You’re a creep,” she spat, her voice hoarse and shredded from abuse. “A fucking pig.”

Norman didn’t get angry. He just smiled—a thin, cruel twist of his lips that didn’t reach his cold eyes.

“A pig,” he mused, taking a slow step closer until he loomed over her. “And what does that make you? The little sow who got on her knees so eagerly? You think I don’t know your type?” He crouched down suddenly, bringing his face level with hers. His breath smelled of expensive cologne and something metallic. “You’re just a floozy who jumps from dick to dick. Parker’s dead weight off your back now.”

He reached out and grabbed a fistful of her torn tank top at the collar, not quite touching her skin but holding her in place.

“There’s a reason you were so good with your mouth,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “All that practice.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, worse than any punch from the Goblin’s fist.

That was the poison-tipped dart, the one that slipped past her defenses and sank straight into the deepest, most private well of her shame.

As he crouched there, gripping her torn shirt and spitting those words at her—floozy, jumps from dick to dick—a cold, sickening truth echoed in the hollowed-out space of her mind.

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

The memories flashed behind her eyes, ugly and unbidden.

Flash Thompson. The high school golden boy. All bravado and insecurity wrapped in a letterman jacket. She’d dated him because it was expected, because he was popular, because he looked at her like she was a trophy. It was shallow and it ended messily.

Then, almost before the ink was dry in her diary about the breakup… Harry Osborn. Sweet, troubled, rich Harry who looked at her like she hung the moon. A rebound? Maybe. Something more stable? Definitely. But it was also a move, a step up the social ladder she told herself she didn’t care about, even as she enjoyed the perks.

And then, during one of their fights—one of those tense, silent battles where Harry would retreat into his own darkness—she’d found herself alone with Peter Parker. Her best friend’s best friend. Her own friend. And he’d been there, quiet and kind and so there. And she’d kissed him. Not a peck. A real, hungry, guilty make-out session while she was still technically Harry’s girlfriend.

She’d justified it to herself later. It was confusing. Harry was distant. Peter understood me. But the core of it was simple: she had moved from one boy to another with barely a pause, and when things got rocky, she’d sought comfort in the mouth of another.

Now, on this filthy floor with her lip busted open by the father of one of those boys, with the corpse of another lying a few feet away, that history felt less like teenage drama and more like a damning character witness statement.

There’s a reason you were so good with your mouth.

The worst part wasn’t the physical violation anymore. It was this: he had seen right through her. The great tragedy of Mary Jane Watson wasn’t just that she was a victim in this warehouse. It was that, in some sick way, Norman Osborn had identified a flaw—a pattern of using intimacy, however messy and young it was—and was now using it to prove she was exactly what he said she was: something to be used.

She didn’t have a retort. The fight drained out of her completely. Her eyes dropped from his triumphant gaze to the floor between them. The tears that fell now weren’t just from pain or fear. They were tears of profound, soul-crushing shame. He hadn’t just broken her body; he’d weaponized her own past and used it to break whatever was left of her spirit.

She sat there in silence on the cold concrete, half-naked and covered in filth and his leavings, and she believed him

He didn’t just pull her up. His hand shot out, fingers like steel bands, and closed around her upper arm. There was no gentleness, no hesitation—just raw, contemptuous force.

With a grunt of effort, he wrenched her up from the floor and, in one brutal, sweeping motion, tossed her.

She was a ragdoll in his grip. Her body left the ground, airborne for a sickening second before gravity reclaimed her. She hit the cement back-first, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. The rough surface scraped against her exposed skin, tearing more of the tattered tank top and scraping her back raw.

But he hadn’t just thrown her down. He’d thrown her away.

Her body skipped and slid across the filthy floor, limbs flailing uselessly. The world was a blur of gray concrete and pain. Then her shoulder slammed into something solid, yet yielding. Something that gave with a soft, sickening finality.

She came to a stop, sprawled and gasping, her vision swimming. It took her a moment to understand what had broken her slide.

It was Peter.

Her head was pillowed against his thigh. Her arm was flung across his still chest. She could feel the cold, unyielding texture of his Spider-Man suit through the thin remains of her clothes. The final cushion that had stopped her violent trajectory was the corpse of the boy she’d kissed in secret, the hero she’d loved in silence, now her unwitting, tragic buffer.

A choked, broken sound escaped her—not a scream, not a sob, but something guttural and animal. She tried to push herself up, away from him, but her arms trembled and failed. She was draped over him, a final, grotesque intimacy forced upon them both by the monster who had killed him.

From a few feet away, Norman straightened up, looking down at the scene he’d orchestrated: the broken girl using the dead hero as a mattress.

“Cozy?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock-solicitousness. “You two always were… close.”

Her body was still reeling from the impact, her back a raw, throbbing sheet of pain where it had scraped across the concrete. Her head swam, her thoughts a dizzy, nauseating whirl of grief and shock. The cold, unyielding presence of Peter’s body beneath her was a horrifying anchor to reality—a reality she desperately wanted to escape.

She didn’t even see him move. One moment he was standing over them, a dark silhouette against the ruined warehouse ceiling. The next, his weight was on her, one knee driving down between her splayed legs to pin her in place against Peter’s corpse.

A scream, raw and ragged, tore from her throat. It wasn’t just fear of what was coming—it was the utter, profound wrongness of it. She was being violated on top of him. She bucked and twisted, her hands scrambling against the smooth material of Peter’s suit, trying to find purchase to push away, to escape this ultimate desecration.

“Get off! GET OFF OF ME!” she shrieked, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space.

Norman ignored her. His free hand—the one not pinning her down—grabbed the worn cotton of her pajama pants at the inner thigh. There was no finesse, no attempt to remove them. With a sharp, violent rip, the sound horribly loud in the silence, he tore the fabric.

The hole wasn’t neat. It was a ragged gash, exposing her pale skin.

The realization hit her a second before the cold air did.

The torn cotton gaped open, a ragged window to bare skin. There was no thin barrier of lace or cotton left. Nothing. Just the vulnerable, exposed flesh of her inner thigh and the dark thatch of hair between her legs, now laid open to the cold warehouse air and his predatory gaze.

A fresh wave of terror, colder and more paralyzing than any before, washed over her. It stripped away the last shreds of her defiance, leaving only raw, animal panic. Her struggles, which had been frantic moments before, became weak, shuddering tremors. Her hands, which had been pushing against Norman’s chest, now fluttered uselessly in the air before falling back to clutch at Peter’s suit, as if he could somehow protect her.

“No… no, please…” she whimpered, the word a broken whisper. It was no longer a command or a curse. It was a plea from a place of utter helplessness. Her eyes were wide with a horror that went beyond the physical threat. This was exposure. This was being stripped not just of clothing, but of the last vestige of privacy, of dignity. He had torn her pants, and now he could see everything. There was nowhere to hide.

Norman’s gaze dropped to the exposed flesh. A low, guttural sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, more a rumble of dark satisfaction. His knee, still planted between her thighs, pressed down harder, forcing her legs wider apart around it, making the torn opening gape even more.

The name fell from her lips like a prayer to a god who had already forsaken her. “Norman... please...” It was a desperate, final appeal to the ghost of the man—Harry’s father, the respected businessman—hoping some shred of him remained beneath the monster.

He paused, his face hovering inches above hers. Then that horrible grin spread wider, splitting his face into a mask of pure malevolence. His eyes glittered with insane amusement.

“Norman,” he said, mimicking her pleading tone with a cruel, singsong mockery. Then his voice dropped into a low, conversational whisper, as if sharing a secret. “Norman’s on sabbatical, honey.”

The words were a door slamming shut on any last hope. There was no Norman Osborn here. Only the Goblin. And the Goblin was hungry.

Before she could even process the finality of it, before she could draw another ragged breath to scream, he moved.

He didn’t fumble or hesitate. In one smooth, terrifying motion, he lowered his head between her forcibly parted legs. His hands came up to grip the tops of her thighs, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force, holding her open and immobile against Peter’s unfeeling body.

Then she felt it.

The hot, wet shock of his mouth and tongue on her most intimate skin.

He buried his face between her legs with a grunt of effort, his nose pressing against her as his tongue licked a broad, rough stripe through her folds. It wasn’t an act of passion or even twisted desire. It was an act of domination, of consumption. He was marking her, tasting her terror and violation, adding this new layer of degradation to the tapestry of horror he was weaving.

A sound ripped from MJ’s throat that was beyond screaming—a choked, guttural cry of utter violation that echoed off the warehouse walls. Her back arched off of Peter’s chest involuntarily, not in pleasure but in a frantic, futile attempt to escape the intimate invasion. Her hands scrabbled blindly against the concrete floor, fingernails breaking as she tried to find anything to push against.

But he held her fast, his grip iron-tight. The only sounds were his wet, obscene mouthwork, her own ragged, sobbing breaths, and the occasional muffled cry that escaped her clenched teeth. He was claiming her in the most fundamental way possible, on top of the corpse of the boy who loved her, ensuring that nothing—not even the memory of this night—would ever be clean or whole again.