ugghhhhhh why can’t depression be as cool as in the Stormlight archive ?. Im depressed rn but like learning to love myself and accept that things are out of control doesn’t give me magic powers so I’m probably not going to do it
Hello! Good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are! Hope this isn’t a bother but I noticed that there isn’t any spider-man!Reader and viltrumite mark. I still can imagine spider-man reader making jokes, jabs and baiting villtrumites into traps if they get too close to rebels safe-hold/refugee camps, constantly making trips to find food/supplies for others and being pain in the ass for viltrum empire to the point where mark sent to scout for reader to forcibly join the empire or else. You know, just your friendly neighborhood spider man amidst the conquering/ dystopian world while trying to keep their sanity from falling apart. (We both know that Peter park has terrible luck with fate.)
WEBS AND EMPIRES
pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (spiderman) gender neutral reader
in a broken world conquered by the viltrum empire, you swing through the ruins as the last thorn in their side—cracking jokes through the pain, stealing hope from the ashes, and refusing to bow. until mark grayson finds you. not the boy who shared your childhood, your secrets, your promise to always have each other's backs, but the soldier molded by his father's hands. he's here to recruit you or break you. the problem? you still see the ghost of your best friend in his eyes, and that might hurt more than any punch he could throw.
the air is thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning metal clinging to your suit as you swing between the skeletons of crumbling buildings. the city—what’s left of it—is a graveyard of broken dreams and shattered resistance, but you’re still here. still fighting. still cracking jokes and annoying the ever-loving hell out of the viltrumites, because what’s the point of surviving the end of the world if you can’t have a little fun with it?
a smirk tugs at your lips as you land light as a shadow on a fractured rooftop, your fingers drumming an idle rhythm against the brick ledge. below, a squad of viltrumite enforcers—humans who bent the knee and traded their pride (and their everything) for a shred of false safety—stomp through the streets like overgrown toddlers in armor. their faces are twisted in frustration, and it’s delicious.
you’d led them on another wild goose chase, of course. first, the fake distress signal you rigged near the old subway tunnels—just loud enough to lure them in. then, the real trap: a web-line tripwire that sent the first three face-first into the pavement. while the others were busy untangling their comrades, you’d already swiped their comms and left a little present in their supply packs—a stink bomb cobbled together from scavenged chemicals. nothing dangerous, just hilarious.
by the time they realized they’d been played, you were long gone, perched up here with the best seat in the house to watch the chaos unfold.
too easy.
you tug your mask up just enough to free your mouth, revealing a smirk that’s more habit than humor these days. the half-stale protein bar you scavenged earlier crumbles in your grip—some kind of "nutrient-rich survival ration" (if you squint really hard). not exactly the greasy pizza you used to inhale after patrols, back when the world made sense. back when he was still—
you bite down before the thought finishes.
it’s food. that’s all that matters. food is hope, and hope is currency now—for the rebels holed up in the subway tunnels, for the kids in makeshift shelters who still light up when you swing by with supplies. for the ones who haven’t given up, even when the sky is full of monsters wearing familiar faces.
that’s why you do this. why you keep swinging, keep tossing out jokes that land a little too hollow now. why you breathe through the ache in your ribs, the one that has nothing to do with last week’s bruising and everything to do with the gaping hole where your best friend used to be.
(you’d known him since you were both knee-high troublemakers, since shared lunchboxes and scraped elbows and promises whispered under blanket forts. "us against the world, right?" you’d said. he’d grinned, a small smile reserved just for you. "always."
now the world’s burning, and he’s the one holding the torch.)
a sudden gust of wind nearly knocks you off balance—the kind of wind that doesn't belong on a rooftop, the kind that carries the scent of ozone and conquest. your spider-sense screams a second too late, because of course it would hesitate when it's him. your body knows that voice even when your heart wishes it didn't.
"you're becoming a real problem."
that voice. god, that voice. it's deeper now, rougher around the edges like everything about him has been sanded down into something sharper. it sends a cold knife straight through your chest, twisting with the memory of how it used to sound when he'd laugh at your dumb jokes instead of scowling at your resistance.
you don't turn around. you can't. because if you do, you'll see nolan grayson's—no, omni-man's son—not the lanky kid who used to trip over his own feet during little league, but the empire's golden boy with that ridiculous little grey skirt-flap thing that somehow makes him look more graceful (and... hotter?). you'll see the way his shoulders carry the weight of entire conquered worlds, the way his eyes have gone as cold as the vacuum between stars. when did he start looking so haunted? what happened to the boy who used to sneak out his window just to stargaze with you on your fire escape?
mark grayson hovers behind you, a living monument to everything you've lost. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, burning into the back of your skull with an intensity that makes your spider-sense hum uneasily. this isn't your best friend anymore—this is the heir apparent to omni-man's legacy, a harbinger of the empire with the face of someone who's seen too much and regretted too little. the boy you knew would have been cracking dumb jokes about his "princely cape" (it's not a cape, you'd argued a hundred times, but he'd never listened). this man? this man only speaks in threats and ultimatums.
what happened to you, mark? you want to ask. when did we become this? but the words turn to ash in your mouth before you can speak them.
"what's the matter?" you force a laugh that doesn't quite reach your eyes, fingers crumpling the protein bar wrapper as you shove it into your pocket with more force than necessary. the movement makes your shoulders roll in a careless shrug—all practiced nonchalance, all performance. "big, bad empire can't handle one little spider? i'm flattered, really. didn't know i rated this much personal attention from viltrum's finest."
the silence that follows is heavier than it should be, thick with all the words neither of you will say. when he finally speaks, his chuckle is hollow, the sound of fabric closing over something broken. "you're not little. you're a thorn in our side." a pause that lasts just a beat too long. "and thorns get plucked."
your breath catches despite yourself. that's new—the cold precision in his voice, the way he says "our side" like he wasn't once the kid who whispered "your side or no side" during midnight movie marathons when he thought you were asleep.
finally, you turn. and god, there he is.
his hair's longer now, strands sweeping across his forehead in a way that would've made fourteen-year-old mark groan about it getting in his eyes during training. but the boy who used to complain about haircuts is gone—replaced by someone whose gaze cuts deeper than any blade. the insignias on his shoulders catch what little light filters through the smog, gleaming like polished grave markers.
your chest aches. because this isn't just nolan's son, the empire's rising star—this is the human disaster who used to follow you around like some bizarre mix of lost puppy and overprotective golden retriever. the one who'd show up at your window at 2 AM, shaking and silent, until you pulled him inside and let him cry himself out against your shoulder after particularly brutal "training sessions" with his dad. the one who promised through bloody lips that you'd always have each other's backs, even when the whole world went to hell.
liar.
or maybe you're the fool for believing it. for not seeing how deep nolan's hooks were set. for not trying harder to pull him out when you still could. the thought settles like lead in your gut—another weight added to the collection you'll unpack someday when the world isn't ending.
"so what's the deal?" you cross your arms, the movement deliberately casual even as your pulse thrums too fast under your skin. your head tilts with false ease, the way you'd do back in high school when pretending his dad's latest brutal training session hadn't left him shaking. "you here to recruit me? or just to finally squash me?" the words come out lighter than they feel, your trademark smirk feeling more like armor than amusement today.
mark's expression flickers—just for a second—and there it is. that ghost of something human in his eyes. regret? guilt? or just indigestion from whatever morally questionable viltrumite rations he's been eating? you wish you could laugh at your own joke, but the question claws at your ribs instead: why would a conqueror, a killer, someone who chose this path, still have room for that look? the one that used to cross his face when he'd show up at your door with split knuckles and a story about "training accidents" you never quite believed.
"join us." his voice is lower now, rougher, but you'd know that cadence anywhere—it's the same one he used when convincing you to sneak out for 3 AM diner runs. (one of the times he was being rebellious. he should have been sleeping, resting, recovering, before another day of training and listening to boring but brainwashing lectures and teachings about viltrum. instead, he eagerly flew to you when he was sure that his dad was asleep; and you eagerly followed him in-between skyscrapers as you swung and flew by each other's side.) except now it's wrapped around words that taste like betrayal. "you're strong. skilled. the empire could use someone like you."
your chest aches like someone's reached in and squeezed your still-beating heart. strong. skilled. but not 'you'd be safe here' or 'i miss you' or any of the things the boy you knew might have said. just another asset to be collected, another piece on the board. the realization settles heavy in your gut, but you'll be damned if you let it show. instead, your grin sharpens, all teeth and no warmth.
"wow." your fingers tap against your chin in mock contemplation, the movement deliberately theatrical—the same way you'd ham up decisions about which flavor of ice cream to split back when things were simple. "that almost sounded like a compliment." you snap your fingers like you've reached some grand conclusion. "let me think—hard pass."
his jaw tightens, that muscle twitching near his temple just like it used to when you'd needle him about his terrible taste in movies. "this isn't a joke."
the air between you crackles with all the unsaid things—the memories of late-night rooftop confessions when you'd shown him your first clumsy web-shooters, his awed laughter as you stuck to the ceiling of his bedroom that very first time. you let your voice drop, all pretense of humor bleeding away like the sunset at your backs. "never said it was." your fingers twitch toward your web-shooters out of habit, but what you really wish you could reach for is the past. "but i don't bow to conquerors. even if they're..." your throat tightens. "even if they're old friends."
his eyes widen slightly—not with confusion now, but with something far more dangerous: remembrance. you see the exact moment it hits him, that flicker of the boy who'd stayed up all night with you, alternating between freaking out and geeking out over your transformation. his breath catches almost imperceptibly, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say your name.
"you don't know what you're throwing away," he growls instead, but there's a new edge to it now—something raw beneath the anger. the words land differently when you both know exactly what's being thrown away: not just ideals or allegiances, but every shared secret, every whispered promise, every stupid inside joke that still echoes in your head at the worst moments.
"funny," you say, the word tasting like ashes on your tongue. "i was about to say the same thing to you." your voice doesn't waver, but your fingers curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms through the fabric of your gloves. the familiar gesture hides the way your hands want to shake.
the air between you grows thick enough to choke on. for one suspended moment, the years melt away. you're not a rebel and a conquerer—it's just two dumb kids again, shoulders pressed together in your treehouse fortress, pinky-sworn to protect each other from anything and always saving each other a seat at lunch. you can almost smell the grape soda and bandaids.
then you see his head tilt slightly, those enhanced ears catching some distant command you can't hear. his shoulders stiffen like someone's poured liquid nitrogen down his spine. the sudden shift is jarring—the boy you knew freezing over before your eyes, replaced by the soldier he's become. his fingers twitch at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from clutching his temples.
when his gaze refocuses on you, whatever fragile connection you'd almost rebuilt shatters. his face becomes a mask of cold determination, the kind that used to only appear during his father's worst training sessions. "last chance," he grinds out, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction. there's something almost pleading in his eyes, buried deep beneath the viltrumite discipline.
you know this dance too well—the subtle straightening of his spine, the way his fingers flex like he's physically shaking off weakness. you'd seen it a hundred times during childhood sleepovers when nolan's voice would slither through the phone, watched how mark would transform from the boy who laughed at your dumb impressions into a statue of perfect discipline mid-sentence. now his muscles coil with that same terrible readiness, but there's hesitation in the way he keeps shifting his weight, like part of him is physically fighting against his own instincts.
your stomach twists. you don't want to fight him. you never did. not when you were kids defending each other from bullies, not when you practiced sparring moves in his backyard, and certainly not now when every punch would land harder emotionally than physically. the guilt sits heavy in your throat—you should've seen the signs sooner, should've dragged him away from that house when you still could. you were just a kid too, but that excuse rings hollow when you remember how he'd looked at you like you hung the stars, how he'd always followed your lead. you could've led him somewhere safer.
(maybe that's why this hurts so much—if you failed him then, fixing him now is your responsibility. the tragic punchline to your childhood promise: "i got your back, okay?")
you pull your mask back down with hands that don't shake (they don't, they won't) as you turn. "see you around, grayson." the surname tastes bitter—you haven't called him that since the day he first introduced himself, small and bright-eyed on the playground.
his fist clenches so tight you hear fabric stretch. but he doesn't stop you. doesn't say your name. doesn't do anything except stand there like a monument to everything you've both lost as you leap off the roof, the wind stealing your breath as you swing into the smog-choked sky.
your heart pounds loud enough to drown out the city's screams. your eyes sting with more than just pollution.
you don't look back, but your traitorous mind paints the picture anyway—that same shattered expression he'd wear when nolan's training went too far, the one where his lips pressed into a thin line but his eyes screamed for help. he'd always wait for you to bridge the gap, to be the one to hug him first or crack the joke that broke the tension. now there's no one to reach for him, and the image of him standing alone on that rooftop, arm half-raised like he might actually call you back this time, hurts worse than any punch ever could.
you can't afford to look. can't afford to hope. not when the world's burning and your hands are already full carrying the weight of all the times you should've reached for him sooner.
wow... wow wow wow. not gonna lie, writing this made me feel like i was emotionally gut-punched in the best worst way possible. who knew 2.6k words could hold so much pain? i just love and hate angst so much—it’s like craving spicy food when you know it’ll burn, but damn if it doesn’t hurt so good.
this idea clawed its way into my brain thanks to the request and refused to let go until i wrote it: mark, your childhood best friend, now standing across from you as the enemy, both of you drowning in what could’ve been. the way he still hesitates. the way you still see the boy behind the soldier. THE WAY IT ALL FALLS APART ANYWAY. sobs
i hope this one-shot wrecked you as much as it wrecked me. let me know if you cried, screamed, or threw your phone—i’ll be here in the corner, hugging my knees and whispering "but they were supposed to be happy."
why am i saying this lolol, i could've made them happy—
p.s. if you need fluff to recover… i make no promises, but i might be persuaded.
hear me out: travis biting you but not really aggressively he just kind of gnaws on you when hes on top
wait. think think brain blast. him biting you to keep himself from getting too loud (like before hhe fire when he has to be quiet because even the cabin bedroom isnt very well soundproofed)
ugghhhh travis is definitely soo loud.. like even when he’s on top and dominant (or trying to be) he’s still whining and whimpering, face smushed into your neck. lots of “thank you, baby” and “you feel so good around me” and “i love you.”
your relationship is still in this delicate stage where it’s intimate and quiet. neither of you really want anyone else knowing and making it a big deal, so that means lots of sneaking around. which would be considerably easier if not for travis and his big mouth.
so instead he has to bite your shoulder, neck, anywhere to keep himself quiet. it’s not even particularly harsh, he just needs something to muffle the sound. if he’s on the bottom and you’re riding him, putting your fingers in his mouth will definitely suffice. the whole time he’ll be biting them softly and whimpering around your digits.
I am so fucking peeved rn I spend all day looking forward to writing but when I get home I have to get through a mountain of homework and by the end of the night I’m too tired to actually write anything this has been happening for several days now I am going to harm someone on live television istg
i’m so annoyed i just saw an (otherwise good) pitt edit on tiktok to Call Your Mom by Noah Kahan, but they used robby’s breakdown scene in peds for the lyrics save your soul for jesus. like, seriously!?
Ok so he hasn't been introduced yet bc I'm not trying to spoil anything & I'm still developing his character butttt
I call him Drimmy (Dream + Jimmy = Drimmy) and he's Curly's "perfect" ideal version of Jimmy that only exists in his mind after the real Jimmy left him... He's an atomic missile of pure angst and he has a whole corruption arc thing going on and I kin him so much I just love him w all my heart he's my sweet babygirl and my absolute favorite character without a doubt 🥲 💗
