For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The journey from Red Hook was a long, slow crawl through the city's dark veins. Peter moved on autopilot, the exhaustion a physical entity, a leaden cloak draped over his shoulders. Every muscle screamed, a symphony of new bruises and strained ligaments from the fight. The adrenaline was gone, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache that was more than just physical. He had fought alongside a goddess, and now he was utterly, crushingly alone.
He stood on the subway platform, the harsh fluorescent lights a painful glare, and made a choice. The quiet, empty house in Queens, with its lingering scent of his fight with May, was not home. Not tonight. Home was a small, neat dorm room at ESU. Home was her.
He changed his course, the train's rattle a familiar, lulling rhythm that did nothing to soothe the deep, buzzing exhaustion in his soul.
He didn't knock. He used the spare key she had given him "for emergencies," a silent acknowledgment that they were now each other's primary emergency contact. He let himself into her room, the silence a blessed, welcome relief.
And then he heard it. The soft, steady hiss of the shower.
He didn't bother to undress. He walked straight to the bathroom, pushed open the door, and stepped into the small, steam-filled space. Through the fogged glass, he saw her silhouette, a figure of impossible grace wreathed in vapor.
She must have heard the door, because the shower door slid open. Diana stood there, her body slick with water, her hair a dark, wet curtain. She wasn't surprised. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with a weariness that mirrored his own, simply took him in. She saw the new scrape on his cheek, the exhaustion in his posture, the deep, aching loneliness in his eyes.
Without a word, she reached out, her hand wet and warm, and pulled him, fully clothed, into the shower with her.
The hot water was a shock, a sudden, violent blessing. It soaked through his hoodie and jeans in seconds, a heavy, cleansing weight. He leaned his forehead against the cool, slick tiles, letting the water cascade over him, and a shuddering, ragged breath escaped his lips. He felt her press against him from behind, her soft, wet breasts a comforting pressure against his back, her arms wrapping around his waist. He leaned into her, held up by her strength, and they stood like that for a long time, two weary warriors in a baptism of hot water and steam.
"You are hurt," she whispered, her fingers gently probing a new, tender spot on his shoulder through his soaked hoodie.
"You too," he murmured, his own hand finding a faint, angry red mark on her arm, a burn from a deflected energy blast.
Slowly, tenderly, they began to undress each other, the saturated clothes heavy and clinging. It was not an act of passion, but of care. The careful, deliberate disarming of two soldiers after a battle. When they were finally naked, skin to skin, he turned in her embrace.
He began his worship not with his mouth, but with his hands. This was a cartography of a shared soul. His fingers, gentle and reverent, traced the lines of her body, seeking not just pleasure, but knowledge. He found a new, small bruise high on her thigh and pressed a soft, healing kiss to it. She, in turn, mapped the landscape of his own battered form, her touch a silent acknowledgment of the price they had both paid.
"Bed," she commanded softly, her voice a low, intimate rumble.
She led him to the cool, clean sheets. The passion that followed was not the fiery, explosive release of before. It was a slow, deep, and almost meditative act of love. He laid her on her back, his own body a warm, living blanket over hers.
"I want to feel you," he whispered, his voice thick with a profound, aching need. "Every part of you."
He moved down her body, his mouth a slow, meticulous instrument. He tasted the faint, lingering salt of the river mist on her skin, a remnant of their battle. He worshipped the strong, powerful muscles of her legs, the body of the warrior who had shielded him. When he finally parted her, the scent of her was a grounding, real thing, an anchor in the chaotic sea of his thoughts.
He took her into his mouth, and a deep, shuddering groan was torn from her throat. He explored her with a slow, worshipful reverence, his tongue a balm on the raw, frayed nerves of her own exhaustion. He felt her body begin to coil, the familiar, beautiful tension building. But this was not a race. He held her there, on that exquisite, shimmering edge, a testament to his control, to his devotion.
When he moved back up her body, she was a trembling, pliant thing, her eyes a deep, hazy blue. "Now," she breathed, the word a plea and a command.
He entered her with a slow, profound glide, a seamless, perfect joining that felt like the final, perfect piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He didn't begin to thrust. He just held himself there, deep inside her, letting their bodies, their souls, acclimate to the profound, absolute rightness of their union.
"Look at me," he whispered.
She did, and in her eyes, he saw his own exhaustion, his own fear, and his own profound, terrifying love reflected back at him.
"I have a new theory," he said, his voice a raw, intimate thing.
"Tell me," she breathed, her hips giving a slight, involuntary tilt.
"The geometry is... off," he murmured. He shifted his weight, sliding his body slightly higher on hers, pressing the base of his cock firmly against her clitoris. Her eyes went wide, a sharp, shocked gasp escaping her lips as a new, overwhelming wave of sensation washed over her. "Better?"
Her answer was a choked, desperate sound. He began to move, not with a thrust, but with a slow, deep, grinding rock. It was not a rhythm designed for a quick release, but for a slow, smoldering, and continuous burn of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Every slow, circular motion of his hips was a new, exquisite torment for her, a constant, unrelenting friction against her most sensitive point.
"Peter," she cried out, the name a broken, breathless prayer, her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around him.
He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a deep, searing kiss, his tongue mirroring the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips. This was not two bodies in motion; this was a single, unified entity, a closed circuit of pleasure so intense it was a form of meditation, a sacred, silent language.
He felt her orgasm begin, not as a sudden peak, but as a deep, seismic rumble, a slow, building wave of convulsions that gripped him, squeezed him, and began to pull his own release from the very depths of his soul. He didn't fight it. He surrendered to it, his own climax a deep, shuddering pulse that poured into her, not as a frantic release, but as a final, total offering of himself. It was a melting, a dissolving of the boundaries between them, a final, perfect note in their shared, silent song.
Afterwards, they lay in a boneless, tangled heap, the silence of the room a profound and holy thing. The city outside, with its monsters and its secrets, was a distant, irrelevant hum. Here, in the quiet, sacred space they had forged, two weary warriors had finally, truly, found their peace.
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