#riiposted

@riiposted // send “Pain is weakness leaving the body” and I will randomly generate how your muse will find mine

9. with (a) broken rib(s)

    Peter has taken some pretty bad beats before. He’s used to crawling into his window at odd hours of the night, stumbling to the bathroom and cleaning up the wounds he doesn’t let anyone see, wiping the blood off and bandaging himself up. He’s gone to school with black eyes and bruises and broken bones-- luckily, most people don’t seem to notice too much. Ever since Peter has been taking on bigger crimes, the RISK has gotten bigger, too. Not to mention, there’s been so much pressure on his shoulders lately-- to be better, to be bigger, to be the next HERO that the world needs. And in his absence, crime had just gotten even worse. 

     That’s how Peter ends up laying down in an alleyway. 

 Coughs sputter out as he lifts a hand to cover his mouth, wheezing while it feels like his lungs are tightening, and blinking back the burning tears in his eyes. He let his guard down for a few seconds, and here he is-- Spider-Man, covered in bruises and bumps and with a few broken ribs, laying on the ground. Not very HERO-LIKE of him. His plan is to push himself up and get home, somehow handling this himself ( he can’t go to the hospital with weird healing and dna, and the Compound is too far away...and gone. ). So he stays with his back to the ground, staring at the sky. 

@riiposted said : “Never in my life have I felt so… old.” for nico,, arden shut up u arent old. he probably jst saw some kid vape & now he doesnt know what to do w himself

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” He frowns, squinting at the guy across the street. “What’s he even doing? Cigarettes don’t have lights on them, do they? I’m confused. Wait.” He continues frowning. “It’s plastic. Do they make plastic cigarettes now?”

            “NOBODY    is    bullet-proof.    ‘I   WORK    OUT’,    ‘I   EAT    CLEAN’   --    Jesus,   pass    the    DRAMAMINE.     Time    to    face   the    BRUTAL    truth:    ‘cause    we’re    all    on    a    hit-list,    might    not    live    ‘til    CHRISTIMAS,    choke    to    death     on    triscuits    --     HEY,    that’s    just    STATISTICS.”

          a grin crosses her freckled face. “h-he’ll d-deny any of th-this.” she knows she’s cut from the same cloth in that regard -- if someone bragged on her, she’d attempt to discredit their claims. dangerously self-deprecating, she’d guess was a good term. “h-he’s v-v-very t-talen-nt-t-ted. m-mus-sically, + -- i th-think h-he does-sn’t-t g-giv-v-ve h-hims-self enough credit-t.” she’s quiet for a moment, almost able to hear his protests and deflections from wherever he was. “a g-g-good frien-nd,” she chirps.

          “w-wish-sh h-he’d be a b-better frien-nd t-t-to h-hims-self, but. o-one s-st-step at a t-t-time, huh?” insert concerned but fond smile.

“Sounds like fun.” It does not sound like fun, but never let it be said he’s not optimistic. “I guess at least you know they’re coming? That’s something, right?”

          the little sprite of a girl sits crosslegged, wild hair half-pulled back. her eyes light up at the idea of an old song. she lived for old tales, the ancient ways things came to be. her compendiums of mythologies spoke for that. she leans in, curiosity placing an enthused smile on her lips. “o-oh, d-do tell.”