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ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Eight: elephant in the room

tw: anxiety, vomit

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up.

Stiff muscles and joints scream as you stir, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room as thick curtains forbid sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the wooly dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig.

It’s dreadful. Briny and falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half of the bottle is gone anyway. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it—thick, like pudding.

Up your body urges. You sigh as you swing your legs over the side of the bed where sweet Pumpkin stares through you. Pursing your lips, you give her threaded nose a quick poke before standing. You’ve been stagnant for too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess—a zombie with half a brain.

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach into submission as your mind begins to buzz. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself.

“Morning Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.”

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.”

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly.

John turns, cutting board in hand, where he dumps the contents into the broth. The liquid quells for only a short moment before it begins to boil once more, this time with a vengeance as steam billows from the liquid like mist upon a lake. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help—to give something back to the people who housed you for the night—but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream.

Perhaps, just this once, you will allow someone to take care of you.

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veg. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” John teases as he dries his hands.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking.

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talking about.”

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Aelin enters the kitchen swaddled in a fluffy pink bathrobe, freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms. Half dried hair presses against your cheek as you’re smothered in the strong sillage of rosewater.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm—most likely thanks to her shower—and you can’t help but melt into her despite your illness.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine.

“Well, you’re feeling good enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you.

Just as John turns the stove off, Aelin slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and attempt to laugh—you’re brutally interrupted by another wet cough.

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions.

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff.

“John?” she says as if calling a dog.

He chuckles. “On it.”

“You have to keep up on taking this stuff,” Aelin chastizes. “Remember what the doctors said? You’re going to get an ear infection again if the pressure and fluids build too much, and I don’t think you can afford to lose any more of your hearing. Really, we ought to get you to an audiologist…”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure. “Just… give me the stupid medicine.”

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Aelin is going to force down your throat, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile, utterly content with herself. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes.

“You seem… happy,” you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment.

Aelin hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.”

“What about?”

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret.

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Aelin are. Even as a child, Aelin lived a somewhat privileged life due to the status of her father as a Chief Inspector. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job, he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of financial discomfort since they got married.

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you—not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough.

“Sounds fancy,” you smile.

“Sounds warm,” Aelin corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?”

“Sure, and John can drag me around like a third wheel,” you say with bitter humor. “Think if I shrink myself small enough we can trick them into thinking that I’m your child?”

Aelin’s laughter is stiff. Her smile doesn’t get her eyes to shine as bright as they normally do. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.”

A pang echoes throughout your chest. “Good idea,” you murmur, gauche.

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it to you across the island countertop like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night’s rest to thank for that.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Aelin’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.”

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the congestion that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.”

“Good,” Aelin hums, though she’s yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone this year, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.”

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Aelin out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she’s been less than tactful about it.

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA—something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared—just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong.

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup.

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis.

For a moment, Aelin turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?”

He pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.”

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat. Alone.”

A pout forms on Aelin’s rosy lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to.

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” she finally concedes.

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse; ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you—but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable.

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lips that rustles his facial hair—he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway.

“Aelin-” you start.

“You promised me on Halloween that you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.”

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene—but this isn’t his fight.

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.”

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on a chalkboard. It’s loud enough to cut through the tinnitus in your ears.

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. It’s why your hearing is marred and every flash of light seems like it’s reflecting off of the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Aelin begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you in a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Aelin.

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the island. He says something, but it doesn’t reach you. “I can’t.”

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic scrapes against the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the bin just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as soup mixes with cough syrup and salt. Aelin slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand.

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry, I-”

“Easy now,” John whispers, his voice so deep you nearly can’t register it.

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some sort of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Aelin. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back.

Once more, your stomach lurches but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop.

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone—especially yourself.

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Aelin help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Aelin’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. Not John’s attempt at comfort. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broke that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk—share that darkness inside of you—do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good at is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth.

Aelin takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest that you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father who’s been long dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, or why you’ve seemingly thrown away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually.

Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion.

For now, you let the flesh rot inside of you and pray that Aelin can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap and cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body.

You think that’s why—after all these years—you and Aelin are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it.

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like it’s sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care.

Eventually, you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger which only begins to worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame.

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you’re unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue—it hurts more than usual.

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had any time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month, your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly—you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out.

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you try to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain.

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning, you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him too well.

How are you feeling?

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it?

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought.

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. It’s that perfect canned broth that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them out for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge.

Glad to hear.

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you—forces you into the depths of dreams—but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon:

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join?

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Aelin’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike. There’s not really a need—he cleaned it last week—but he knows he has to. He has to keep his hands moving, otherwise his mind gets the best of him.

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re doing better than you were before.

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway, but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign.

It doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you’re safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow.

When his phone vibrates again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving it once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling.

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it.

“Ah, I know you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea.

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” He cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.”

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice now, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has.

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures.

“Let me guess. France?” he asks.

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains.

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.”

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.”

It’s impossible for him not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all.

“Course I am. We’re goin’ Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains.

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin.

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend and I, yeah.”

“What kind of friend?” she prods.

“Just a friend.”

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can see them swell with the curve of her lip and tilt of her head.

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…”

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.”

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame an old crone for trying,” she titters. “But, Christmas Eve. Perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.”

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother—yet again—why he never brings any girls home for the holiday.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was taking that call:

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (:

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually, he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry either, but no one at work seems to call him anything else. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain.

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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thirstydemisexual · 1 year ago

Note

2, 10, 23 with ghost pleasee

anon!!! I love this combo so much thanks for requesting it! I had so much fun writing this.

COMING HOME|| Simon "Ghost" Riley X reader

Warnings: smut, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex

no beta we die like Soap

It had been a long three months, not only Simon was deployed but their comms and connection were compromised and thus he had not being able to neither call or text you. Which very much worried you lots, but you had faith that Simon would come home to you so you tried your best to keep yourself occupied and not to think about the whole that was digging in your chest every time you thought about how long it had been since you last heard of him.

You where just getting out of the shower, towel wrapped tight around your body and hair damp when you heard rustling of keys at the front door.

You froze like a deer in headlight until you heard the familiar sound of combat boots being dropped next the entrance and recognizing the voice of your boyfriend greeting your cat, Phantom.

You rushed through the house almost slipping a couple times because of the water that was still dripping from your body.

And there he was Simon Riley, your dear boyfriend, duffle bag in hand and staring right back at you.

You literally drew yourself at him, towel falling behind you. Simon catching you by the hips keeping you steady while you straddled his torso.

"You're back!" You couldn't help but shed a few tears as you hid your face in the crook of his neck, the fear of loosing him finally subsiding.

"Not that I'm unhappy with you trowing yourself at me naked but you're going to catch a cold darling" he said chuckling

But you couldn't care less if you got sick. You finally removed your head from the crook of his neck and went in to kiss him, Simon meeting you half-way.

The kiss started sweet but soon turned intense, all tongue and teeth.

"I missed you so much darling" he mumbled before starting to trail kisses down your throat, soon finding that sweet spot that always turned you a moaning mess. His hands groping your ass and bringing you closer if even possible.

"S-Simon please" you said, trowing your head back to give him more access to your neck.

"Tell me what you want" he said, voice low while he kept the attack on your throat going, leaving marks behind every harsh kiss. At your lack of response he left a harsh bite on your shoulder which made a small yelp leave your trembling lips.

"Speak, princess" he continued

"I want your dick!" you finally let out, desperate to feel him after being away for so long " ' missed you so much! I need you inside me Si"

That was all he needed to hear as he started heading for your shared bedroom, unceremoniously trowing you on the king sized bed before he began stripping. You rested on your forearms as you admired him undressing, a pool of arousal forming in your stomach seeing his chiseled figure for the first time after many months. Even tho admittedly he ALWAYS had that effect on you.

As he was done stripping he crawled the bed and positioned himself above you, hand exploring and caressing your figure, his warm brown eyes were still surrounded by smudges of the black paint he put under his mask and with the darkened gaze he gave you they looked like they were going to suck you in like a black hole does with matter.

"Missed seeing you like this princess" he said giving you a tender kiss before positioning himself at your glistening entrance

"Already so wet for me, huh?" he chuckled as he finally entered you with a deep pleasured groan. Your hands reached out and grasped as his shoulders while you jaw went slack. The stretch was just so good, the feeling of being finally being filled by your love being almost too much for you to take in.

As he started to set the pace your mind went blank as it often did in times like this. Pleasure taking over your body as you turned into a mess of moans and mentions of your boyfriend's name. It had been so long since you had been intimate that your peak was being reached way too fast.

"Simon- I'm coming" you saying breathlessly before correcting yourself under his harsh gaze "Can I come? Please Simon"

"Beg for it" he responded, thrust becoming impossibly harder and faster, which made you head spin like you were on a rollercoaster.

"Please Simon! I need it so bad" You almost screamed gasping for air "Please, please, please"

His thrusts started becoming sloppy as he also was coming close to his pending release. "Come for me love" he groaned "Now"

And you did. The knot inside you finally snapping at the same time as he reached his peak. Your cunt spasming and milky every single drop he was painting your gummy walls with.

"so perfect for me, love" finally said Simon, breathless as he pulled out and admired his essence oozing out of you before collapsing next to you and drawing you in by your waist.

And in this moments as you both rested in each others arms he finally felt at home.

#simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #simon ghost x you #simon riley ghost #simon riley #simon riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x female reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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magic-marvel · 7 years ago

Text

Normal

Chapter 5

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Pairing: Peter Parker/Spider-man x Reader

Summary: A night out leads to an encounter with our favorite masked hero.

Word Count: 3053

A/N: I have an AO3 account now!!!

You were with your mom when it happened. You sat at the table doing homework while she started dinner. You were both laughing with each other when your phone buzzed. You ignored it. You said something about your mom's cooking, she yelled an insult back. You can't remember it now. Your phone then went off again, one more time, then another. It kept going, moving closer and closer to the edge. You picked it up. The clock read 4:03.

You scrolled through the notifications, some of them from social media.

“Text from Beverly (5)”

“Google Alerts: Bomb in D.C.”

“Twitter: Attack on Washington Monument”

“Missed Call from Beverly (3), Riley (1)”

“Text from Riley (2)”

There was a lump in your throat. Your mom asked if you were okay, it went unheard. You kept rereading the words, not even bothering to open the notifications. Your mom ended up snatching the phone from your hand after her many attempts to get your attention. Her face drained of all color.

She switched on the T.V. in an instant, quickly switching through the channels until the news came on. You turned in your seat, facing the screen as a bold banner scrolled across the bottom:

“EXPLOSION IN WASHINGTON MONUMENT, VICTIMS TRAPPED IN ELEVATOR”

Your eyes frantically scanned the screen, a news anchor tried his best to show little emotion. It didn't work. The screen then began showing a video of a family enjoying the monument. A little girl looked up in awe while a woman smiled at her. They began to stand together for a picture, a voice behind the camera telling them to smile. There was a sudden jolt, the camera shook before dust and brick crumpled down the side. The camera quickly flicked up, revealing a large crack running along one side of the pyramid that sat atop a tall column of stone.

The video was cut short, switching to a live feed.

“Oh my God...” Your mom barely whispered, a hand held tightly over her mouth.

You picked up your phone, frantically typing in the pass code before pulling up your contacts. It was a short list, so getting to Liz's name was almost instant.

You clicked the call button, holding the device to your ear. You waited.

Beeep pause Beeep pause Beeep

The phone kept ringing, each second causing your stomach to twist into knots.

“You have reached the automated-” You hung up.

Your lip was trembling, you hit the call button once more.

As the phone kept ringing, you watched the screen. Helicopters circled the Monument, people were either frantically running away or staring in awe. You weren't sure what you would do.

“You have reached-” You hung up again. A sob clawing its way from your throat. Your mom turned at the sound.

She watched as you tried again, your fist crumpling the hem of your shirt. Your knuckles were white. You kept thinking back to Liz's Snapchat story. A pool party from the night before, Flash poking fun at Peter for not joining in, her team winning, Mr. Harrington awkwardly waving into the camera, and the last you saw was of her entering the Washington Monument. There were no updates after that. Your hand shook as it held the phone up to your ear.

“You have-” You dropped the phone. The automated voice relaying its message. Your lunges struggled to take in air, your chest was on fire. A beep could be heard, your phone is recording a voicemail.

Both hands muffled your sobs. Tears streaming down your face. Liz is in there, Peter is in there. Were they okay? Are they scared? Is anyone helping them?

Your mom picked the phone up, hanging it up and wrapping her arms around you. You let out a muffled sob into her shoulder. She rubbed at your back gently, letting you hiccup and cry into her.

The camera zoomed in on the monument, slowly following up its side. You watched over your moms shoulder.

“M-Mom-” You hiccuped. “Look.”

She turned towards the T.V., her face contorting in confusion.

“Is that-”

“Spider-man.” You finished.

Red and blue crawled up the Monument, the camera shakily followed his movements as he sped up the side. Webs would be shot to give him momentum, but he kept frantically crawling up.

Your sobs subsided, your bottom lip was held tightly between your teeth in anticipation. You wiped at the tears on your cheeks, watching the news intently.

One of the helicopters hovered next to Spider-man, a megaphone blasting at the masked hero.

“Return to the ground immediately!” It shouted, Spider-man kept going.

You watched as he frantically kicked at a small window. He even begun swinging into it, it didn't budge.

Your mom was squeezing your hand, both of you watching as he climbed higher to the top. Your heart was pounding in your throat at this point.

“Return to the ground now, or we will open fire!” The voice shouted from the helicopter. You stepped forward to the screen.

“He's trying to help, you idiot!” You screamed. Your voice scratched at the shout, your mom said nothing.

Spider-man took one look back at the helicopter, the gears turning in his head. You held your breath, watching as the moments unfolded.

He pushed off the monument, spreading a pair of webbing under his arms. You watched as he flew past the blades, hooking onto the bottom of the helicopter to swing back into the window. A loud pop! followed by a crash resonated. The screeching of metal made you cringe, how the camera ever picked up that noise from so far made you wince even further. Those inside must have heard that noise painfully.

There was a pin-drop silence afterwards. The helicopter stayed by the window, people below stared up in shock. No one was talking, not even the anchors.

It felt like forever. The camera was zoomed in on the window, waiting for any signs of life. You squeezed your moms hand, she let you. You seemingly didn't even blink, not wanting to miss a moment. After a few painful minutes, the silence was cut when the camera man panned down to a newswoman.

“We just received word from authorities that all of the occupants have been safely removed from the elevator and are now on their way down the monument. No injuries have been reported so far.” She spoke eloquently into the camera, the hint of relief in her voice as she relayed the information.

You released your breath, shaking at the intake of air. Your hand was pressed against your forehead while you squeezed your eyes shut.

They are okay

You opened your eyes to find your mom handing you back your phone, a new notification was displayed at the top. You pressed it open.

Liz: hey! everyones fine!! ill call u when i get off the phone with my parents ❤

You took a seat on the couch. You were wondering how Liz seemed so calm in her message. She always seemed so level-headed, no matter the situation. You thought this kind of event would be an exception, but it seems not.

You scrolled through your contacts, stuck in the P's. The space between Pam and Phillip was nonexistent. You didn't have his number, and there was no way you could get into direct contact with him. You wanted to make sure he was okay.

Your mom left the news on while she finished dinner. You stayed on the couch, your knee bouncing as you stared into your contact list.

You had eventually returned to your spot on the table, struggling to finish your assignment. You had just gotten off the phone with Liz, the conversation mostly being you worried over her. But after finally assuring you, you believed that everyone was safe.

Well, almost everyone.

“What do you mean he wasn't there?” You asked Liz.

“He just wasn't, Peter didn't even show up to the competition. We're heading back to the hotel to grab our stuff, Ned mentioned he got sick or something so he stayed back.” She responded. A little more disappointed than anything, she really depended on him for Academic Decathlon.

You let out a worried sigh, “Okay. Call me back if anything happens. Get home safe.” You finished.

She said goodbye before hanging up. The silent line deafening in your ear.

Your stomach twisted again, your brows were furrowed in worry. You hoped he really did stay back at the hotel. What kind of trouble was he getting himself into?

It was late that night. Your homework was shoved into your backpack out of frustration, you decided to just do it at school. You still worried over Peter, especially since Liz hadn't said anything. He's fine, you thought, no message is good, it means nothing bad happened.

You were in your pajamas, leaning over your desk to close your window when you heard it.

“You're never leaving this house ever again. I don't care if you're 40, I will make sure to chain you to the couch if you try and open the door.” A woman was scolding.

You took a peek out, curiosity getting the best of you.

“C'mon May, I wasn't even actually there!” There was a whine to that familiar voice. It made you want to laugh.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You stayed in a hotel by yourself when you were supposed to be at the competition!” May said.

You watched Peter follow the woman in the building. That must have been the aunt he lives with, she really was quite the beauty.

You almost never saw Peter in the building, him being a few floors below you. His schedule seemingly prevented him from ever bumping into you. But you did see his aunt often, sometimes running into her in the laundry room.

Once they disappeared into the building, you shut the window. You were finally able to calm your nerves, him being safe and at home.

You walked out of your room and into the kitchen. You were scavenging the fridge for any snacks before you head to bed. You knew it was a bad habit, but you couldn't help yourself.

You settled for a bowl of cereal, finding nothing else worthy of your late-night habit. You held onto the bowl with steady hands, making sure to shut off the lights as you scurried back to your room. The empty hall always giving you chills when you shut the lights. You pushed your bedroom door closed with your hip, leaving the lights on in your room.

A quick tap tap tap caused you to shriek. Your precious cargo flinging into the air, pouring milk and frosted flakes all over your carpet.

You turned with wide eyes, finding Spider-man hanging upside down on the other side of your window. His hand was covering his mouth, eyes as wide as they can possibly go. He saw everything.

You slapped a hand over your face, not even wanting to look at the mess on the floor. You headed towards the window, opening it with a little more anger than intended.

“May I help you?” Anger laced every word.

“I'm so sorry.” Was all he could say. You stepped aside, letting him crawl into your room. You closed the window behind him, keeping the cold air out. “Let me help you clean it up!” He offered.

“Oh, that's so kind of you.” You replied sarcastically. “It's not like I was going to make you clean it anyways.”

He knew he should feel guilty, some sort of regret for scaring you. But all he could think about was how adorable you were angry. You were usually more reserved, small laughs here and there. He didn't even think you were capable of anger. But the way you furrowed your brows, your sarcasm dripping from those lips. The same ones that held such a beautiful, heart-breaking smile.

Don't even get him started on your outfit. The over sized 'Jurassic Park' shirt reached your thighs, almost completely covering the pair of shorts you had on. The shirt was slanted, leaving a peek of your shoulder sticking out. He wanted to melt.

“Stay here.” You commanded.

“Yes, Ma'am.” He responded automatically. He watched your figure leave the room. Trying his hardest to keep his eyes up. He didn't try hard enough.

You returned with an arm full of towels, all ranging in colors. You handed him a red one before leaving the rest on the bed. You got on your knees by the stain, trying to soak up milk with your own purple towel. Blot, don't rub you remembered.

Peter stared at you frozen, unsure exactly how legs work. He just watched you work on the stain, flipping and folding at your towel for a clean spot.

“Well? Get down here are start blotting Spidey!” You commanded once more.

“O-Oh! Right!” He spoke before joining you on the floor.

He followed your movements, making sure to not rub the stain in. Does milk stain? He didn't want to find out.

“I'm sorry I made you spill.” He commented.

“It's okay.” You spoke lightly, looking up at him. There was a lopsided smile on your part. He thought he couldn't fall in more love.

You ended up vacuuming over the stain, probably a poor decision but you didn't want to pick up the individual frosted flakes that littered your room. Peter held onto the ceiling as you went over the whole floor, not wanting to be in the way. You thought it was cute.

You mentally apologized to your downstairs neighbor, hoping the vacuum didn't disturb them. Putting the vacuum away, you walked back into the room, avoiding the still damp patch in the middle of your room. Peter still held onto the ceiling, but this time was hanging by a web. What a dork.

Taking a seat on your bed, you watched as he slowly descended from the string. He was eye level with you now.

You gave him a warm smile, “Thank you.”

“Oh-yeah, no problem. It's the least I can do. I mean I'm the one who scared you into spill-”

“Not about that.” You interrupted. He just stared, scanning your face for any hints of what you mean.

“My friend was on that elevator.” You filled the silence.

“Oh.” He said. “Uhm, I was just in the neighborhood, ya know.” He tried answering. He scratched at the back of his head, a habit it seems.

“You're good at this 'hero' thing.” You looked down at your lap, your fingers pinching the end of your shirt. “Especially for being a kid.”

He was taken aback, his posture shifting even as he hung upside down.

“I-I'm not a kid!” His voice deepened. “I'm a man!” He puffed out his chest, putting his hands on his hips as his feet pinched the web holding him.

“Yeah, right, Spider-boy.” You teased. A chuckle leaving your lips.

He couldn't help but laugh along. Your laughter struck him right in the heart, the arrow piercing with no remorse. He was so lost in your smile and he wouldn't want it any other way.

You stood up from the bed, walking up to him. The panels of his eyes widened with a whizz when you placed your hands on his cheeks. You ran your thumbs over the soft material, taking in every bit of his mask.

With a leap of faith, you leaned in.

Your lips connected with the cheek of his mask, he held still for you. Your eyes shut when you made contact. Savoring the moment, committing it to memory. Even down to his scent, rosewood, you realized.

He thought he had died and gone to heaven. Maybe he fell with the elevator? Did he catch himself when he propelled down the shaft? Who cares. What ever higher being granted him this moment, he was thanking profusely in his head.

He let you hold him in place, your lips gently pressed against his cheek. He wanted to rip his mask off, remove the layer that prevented any true contact.

But before any irrational thoughts came true, you pulled away.

Your hands still held onto him, a shy smile on your face.

“My friend is alive because of you. Thank you, Spider-boy” You meant the gratitude with all your heart. But you felt the need to joke with him, lighten any awkwardness that might arise from your bravery.

Peter stared at you with wide eyes. His heart pounding with an immeasurable speed. His chest was going to burst open and his heart was going to drop to the floor. He always thought the phrase 'looks that can kill' held a malicious meaning. But right now, in this moment, he knew that phrase was reserved for you and that beautiful smile. The way your eyelashes fluttered and how you brushed aside locks of hair. It all was deadly, and Peter didn't want to leave the crossfire.

“Mhmm. Yup. N-No problem” He tried answering, his head nodding in your hands. “Wow, um. Okay, make sure to tell your friend to get into more dangerous situations, yeah?”

You laughed at his sudden declaration. Your heart fluttered in your chest, cheeks warming at his comment.

“Sure, Spidey.” You joked.

You finally removed your hands away from him, his cheeks instantly missing the warmth they provided. His face seemed to follow them just for a moment out of instinct.

“C'mon, I'm getting a new bowl of cereal.” You spoke by the door.

He twisted in his web to face you, watched as you motioned him to follow.

Peter gently lowered himself to the floor, the web remaining on the ceiling.

“That better come off, Spider-boy.” You spoke over your shoulder, walking to the kitchen.

“It'll dissolve.” He said. Just like my heart, he thought.

The rest of his visit was spent eating cereal. He picked fruit loops, you stuck to frosted flakes. He sprinkled more sugar into his bowl and you couldn't help but laugh.

A sweet tooth for a sweetheart.

Chapter 6

Taglist: Crossed out usernames are uncooperative, message me if there is a spelling error or other mistake.

@spider-mendes @sunflower-anna @missrowle @courtneychicken @legendarydazekitten @fly-little-butterfly @zseonlydavinci @alltheloveforharrystyles @pandalandalopalis

#spiderman #spiderman x reader #spider man: homecoming #peter parker x reader #reader #reader insert #peter parker #marvel #fanfic #fan fiction #writing #normal #self insert

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gokinjeespot · 8 years ago

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off the rack #1161

Monday, May 1, 2017

It's a great week to be a geek. The TV adaptation of Neil Gaiman's "American Gods" starts airing now. Thursday, May 4th is Star Wars Day. The "Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2" movie opens in theatres on Friday, May 5th. Saturday the 6th is FREE COMIC BOOK DAY. Sunday the 7th is another CAPITAL TRADE SHOW at the Jim Durrell Arena where Jee-Riz Comics & Appraisals will be hawking their wares. Fly your geek flags high.

Ben Reilly: The Scarlet Spider #1 - Peter David (writer) Mark Bagley (pencils) John Dell (inks) Jason Keith (colours) VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). This follows the "Clone Conspiracy" debacle as Ben tries to start a new life in Sin City. If you like your Spider-Man a little bit unethical then this book is for you. Ben also talks to imaginary people which can make for some confusion but it's a quirk that sets him apart from the other Spider-Men. I don't know if I'll keep up with this mentally unstable version but I like his new costume a lot.

Batman & The Shadow #1 - Scott Snyder & Steve Orlando (writers) Riley Rossmo (art) Ivan Plascencia (colours) Clem Robins (letters). A murder in Gotham City sets Batman on the hunt for the killer with the victim's name giving us a clue to who that might be. Lamont Cranston's death leads Bruce to the Alps to visit an old teacher after some detective work talking to old associates of The Shadow. I liked how the similarities between the two dark crime fighters make this an interesting chess game between two masters of mainpulation. I wonder what the motive was if The Shadow did indeed kill his own descendant. Maybe the rest of this 6-issue mini will reveal the truth.

Big Moose #1 - This double sized one-shot features Archie Comic's iconic dumbbell jock Marmaduke AKA Moose Mason. I did not know that he had the same name as a comic strip great dane, and I don't mean Scooby Doo. The first story "Moose vs. the Vending Machine" by Sean Ryan (writer) Cory Smith (art) Matt Herms (colours) & Jack Morelli (letters) is your typical dumb jock story that would fit right in an old Pep comic from the fifties. The second story "Have It All" by Ryan Cady (writer) Thomas Pitilli (art) Glenn Whitmore (colours) & Jack Morelli (letters) shows a more intelligent Moose juggling all of his stressful high school responsibilities. I felt for the guy, especially his struggle with an English lit paper. It made me suspect that Moose might be dyslexic. The last story "The Big Difference" by Gorf (writer) Ryan Jampole (art) Kelly Fitzpatrick (colours) & Jack Morelli (letters) has Moose making a new friend that's a little "after school special" but the kids will get the message. All in all a nice feature of a minor Archie character.

No World #1 - Scott Lobdell (writer) Jordan Gunderson (pencils) Mark Roslan & Charlie Mok (digital inks) JUANCHOo (colours) Zen (letters). I picked this off the rack to read because of the sexy hot cover by Jordan Gunderson & Peter Steigerwald. Plus, Scott Lobdell wrote some comic books that I used to like. This one did not impress me. The Aspen Comics imprint seems to cater to good girl art fans, of which I am one, but a comic needs more than just T&A to keep me reading. I wasn't given enough information about the two main good girls in this debut to care about them so I won't continue reading.

Wonder Woman #21 - Greg Rucka (writer) Liam Sharp (art) Laura Martin with Hi-Fi (colours). Part 4 of "The Truth" finds Veronica Cale getting ever closer to finding Themyscira and saving her daughter. I am looking forward to the conclusion of this story in Wonder Woman #23 to see what Ares' role is.

The Old Guard #3 - Greg Rucka (writer) Leandro Fernandez (art) Daniela Miwa (colours) Jodi Wynne (letters). Two of the five team members are in the clutches of the bad guys so it's three to the rescue. This issue is a great example of a good writer making you care about the characters. Part of it has the origin story of one of the mercenaries. Another part shows how much two of the members care about each other. There's plenty of action over many pages beautifully illustrated by Leandro but also lots of action we don't see that is clearly implied in just one panel. That's good comic books.

Deadpool vs. Punisher #2 - Fred Van Lente (writer) Pere Perez (art) Ruth Redmond (colours) VC's Joe Sabino (letters). Round two has 'Pool and 'Pun in a shoot out with the Don of the Dead, a crazy Mexican bad guy as deranged as Deadpool. Round three next issue should be fun with a new bad guy who you'll recognise right away. I can't wait

Action Comics #978 - Dan Jurgens (writer) Carlo Barberi (pencils) Matt Santorelli (inks) Hi-Fi (colours) Rob Leigh (letters). Part 2 of "The New World" continues the review of Superman's origin story including his romance with Lois Lane and the birth of their son Jonathan. The identity of the villain is also revealed. What he has planned for the Man of Steel isn't anything new but it never gets old.

Kill or be Killed #8 - Ed Brubaker (writer) Sean Phillips (art) Elizabeth Breitweiser (colours). Being spotted by the police while killing his last victim has complicated Dylan's life. It seems like every law enforcement officer is looking for him, which makes it even more difficult to find and kill someone else to keep the demon at bay. This could be the end of our killer vigilante.

The Mighty Thor #18 - Jason Aaron (writer) Russell Dauterman (art) Matthew Wilson (colours) VC's Joe Sabino (letters). In part 4 of "The Asgard/Shi'Ar War" the Shi'Ar gods Sharra and K'ythri act like a couple of spoiled brats and decide to unleash their ultimate weapon to destroy the universe. The opening pages have the good guys seeking help from one of my favourite mutants. Russell's art is crazy good and he's close to Geof Darrow in the details that he puts on a page. When the force unleashed can take out The Destroyer in the blink of an eye you know the good guys are in deep doo-doo.

Detective Comics #955 - James Tynion IV (writer) Marcio Takara (art) Marcelo Maiolo (colours) Sal Cipriano (letters). I was enjoying this issue right up until the very last page. It's one of those deus ex machina moments that I better get an explanation of or else "League of Shadows" will be the Detective Comics story that benches this book.

Josie & The Pussycats #6 - Cameron Deordio & Marguerite Bennett (writers) Audrey Mok (art) Kelly Fitzpatrick (colours) Jack Morelli (letters). I loved the Michael Allred cover. I really appreciate that all the ad pages were gathered at the back so that we get to read an uninterrupted story. This is one comic book that I read just for fun.

The Wild Storm #3 - Warren Ellis (writer) John Davis-Hunt (art) Steve Buccellato (colours) Simon Bowland (letters). If Aspen Comics had done as good a job as these people in redefining their cast of characters I would endorse their books. Here we have a fire fight that's even prettier than the one in The Old Guard #3 thanks to the work of John Davis-Hunt. New readers should not be afraid to pick this series up because it's got cool characters and Warren Ellis always entertains.

Elektra #3 - Matt Owens (writer) Juann Cabal (art) Antonio Fabela (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). It's all out action as Elektra battles through Murderworld. Just when you think she's won her freedom, Arcade springs another surprise. He never fights fair. I really like the covers by Elizabeth Torque and would love to see a comic book drawn by her.

Old Man Logan #22 - Jeff Lemire (writer) Eric Nguyen (art) Andres Mossa (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). Looks like Jeff is showing us Logan's greatest hits as he winds down work on this title. Maybe it will make some fans buy a few trades.

Hulk #5 - Mariko Tamaki (writer) Nico Leon (art) Matt Milla & Andrew Crossley (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). I read recently that fans won't buy a Hulk comic book unless it's Bruce Banner as the big green galoot. Those fans are narrow minded and don't deserve to be called comic book fans. This book is great and has made the Hulk interesting to me again. I don't care who the Hulk is or who Iron Man is as long as there's a good story and nice art for the book. It's been 5 issues of this title hitting the racks and we haven't really seen the Hulk once. It doesn't matter because this story about Jennifer coping with the recent changes in her life is a good one.

Infamous Iron Man #7 - Brian Michael Bendis (writer) Alex Maleev (art) Matt Hollingsworth (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). See, this is how you make a major change in an iconic character so that fans will want to read the book and not feel sick to their stomachs. I love this new version of Victor Von Doom. Brian has shown him evolving into the Infamous Iron Man instead of what happened with Captain America seemingly out of the blue saying "Hail Hydra". Here's another character that's been made interesting again and I will promote this title to anyone looking to read a good comic book.

Ms. Marvel #17 - G. Willow Wilson (writer) Takeshi Miyazawa (art) Ian Herring (colours) VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). Okay, I don't get how Ms. Marvel and her friends defeated Doc.X but maybe it's because I'm an old luddite. I don't have a cell phone and barely know what apps are. I did appreciate the group hug that started this issue because I grew up in the sixties and that's what we wanted to do back then too.

Star Wars: Darth Maul #3 - Cullen Bunn (writer) Luke Ross (art) Nolan Woodard (colours) VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). This young disciple of the Sith is a lot less interesting than I first thought. He is merely motivated by his hatred of the Jedi and that's seems to be all that he's about. One dimensional characters aren't that interesting. It's the evil auctioneer that is making me stick to this story.

The Totally Awesome Hulk #18 - Greg Pak (writer) Mahmud Asrar (art) Nolan Woodard (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). The evil aliens find out what happens when their food fights back. Amadeus showed a side of him that surprised me and made me like this Hulk even more.

Doctor Strange #19 - Jason Aaron (writer) Chris Bachalo (pencils) John Livesay, Victor Olazaba, Al Vey, Jaime Mendoza, Tim Townsend & Wayne Faucher (inks) Chris Bachalo (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). Yay, Wong is saved from Misery but I might be miserable after the next issue because it will be Jason Aaron and Chris Bachalo's last.

Weapon X #2 - Greg Pak (writer) Greg Land (pencils) Jay Leisten (inks) Frank D'Armata (colours) VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). The bad guys are on the Warpath and the mutant super hero is outnumbered. Sabretooth and Old Man Logan are still free but it looks like that won't last. Once Greg adds in the Domino effect the gang will all be here. I like Greg Land's art a lot more with Jay's inks.

Invincible Iron Man #6 - Brian Michael Bendis (writer) Stefano Caselli (art) Marte Gracia (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). RiRi meets with Stark Industries, M.I.T. and last but not least The Champions. I'm most excited about her possibly joining the young super hero team. I wish Marvel would find a way to change the title to Ironheart. RiRi has been wearing the armour for a while now and calling this book Iron Man is just awkward.

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