For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence in the room was a living thing, a profound, ringing quiet that was deeper than the absence of sound. It was the silence of a battlefield after the fighting has stopped, the silence of a storm that has finally passed. They lay tangled in Diana's sheets, their bodies slick and cooling, the scent of their lovemaking a thick, musky perfume in the air.
Peter's arm was a dead weight beneath Diana's head, and he didn't have the strength or the desire to move it. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind a landscape of echoing images: the violent, violet tear in reality; the golden, sun-bright radiance of Diana's power; the exquisite, shuddering release of her climax. The events were a chaotic, impossible collage, two separate lives colliding with the force of a tectonic shift.
He turned his head, his cheek scratchy against the pillowcase. Diana was watching him, her body relaxed and boneless against his, but her eyes were awake, alert, and full of a deep, searching intelligence. The haze of passion had receded, leaving behind a startling clarity.
"Your mind is quiet now," she observed, her voice a low, soft murmur against his chest.
"You have that effect on me," he admitted, his own voice a raw, tired whisper. He reached up, his fingers gently brushing a damp strand of dark hair from her forehead. "You're like... my own personal noise-canceling headphones."
A small, weary smile touched her lips. "Your analogy is crude, but the sentiment is... appreciated." She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at him. The movement was fluid, her body a study in contrasts—the warrior's strength and the lover's grace. "I have never fought alongside another like that."
The abrupt shift in topic sent a jolt through him, but he understood. They couldn't ignore the other half of their day. It was a ghost in the room, a shared trauma that demanded to be acknowledged.
"Me neither," he said, his gaze becoming distant as he remembered the battle. "That Wonder Woman... she's something else. The power she has... it's like a star decided to go for a walk. It's terrifying." He was talking about the woman lying next to him, and the irony was a heavy, palpable thing.
Diana's expression was unreadable. "She is merely doing her duty," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "But the Spider-Man... his intellect is his greatest weapon. To face a wound in the world not with brute force, but with a plan born of logic and woven from nothing... that is true strength. He is incredibly brave."
Peter felt a flush of heat rise in his cheeks, a warmth that had nothing to do with their earlier passion. It was pride, pure and simple. To be seen, to be understood, by her... it was a feeling more potent than any physical release.
"He's just a guy trying to do the right thing," Peter deflected, a familiar, self-deprecating habit.
"No," Diana countered, her gaze intense, unwavering. "He is not 'just a guy'. I saw him. He was afraid. I could feel the tremor in his hands as he built his web. But he did not falter. He faced the chaos and imposed order upon it. That is the definition of a hero."
He was speechless. She had seen his fear. In the heart of the battle, she had been so attuned to him that she had felt his trembling, and she didn't see it as weakness. She saw it as the foundation of his courage.
He reached up, his hand tangling in her damp hair, and pulled her down for a kiss. It was not a kiss of passion, but of profound, overwhelming gratitude. It was a kiss that said, You see me. You understand me in a way no one else ever could.
She melted into the kiss, her body a pliant, trusting weight against his. When they broke apart, the last vestiges of their heroic personas had dissolved, leaving only Peter and Diana, two exhausted people in a quiet room.
"I need water," he croaked, his throat suddenly parched.
"I will get it," she said, starting to move.
"No, stay," he insisted, his arm tightening around her. "I'll go."
He slid out of bed, his muscles screaming in protest. As he stood, naked and exposed in the soft light of her room, he felt her eyes on him. He saw her gaze drift over the faint, silvery lines that crisscrossed his back and shoulders—the old, forgotten scars from battles with the Vulture, with Shocker, with a hundred nameless thugs in dark alleys. They were a part of him he always tried to hide.
He walked to her small kitchenette, poured two glasses of water, and brought them back. She had pulled the sheet up to her chest, her expression thoughtful and unreadable. He handed her a glass and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Where did you get them?" she asked softly, her gaze still on his back. "The scars."
"Old sports injuries," he lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I was a... very clumsy kid."
She knew he was lying. He could see it in her eyes. But she didn't push. She simply nodded, a silent acceptance of his boundaries, a quiet offering of trust. She was giving him the space to keep his secrets, just as he gave her space to keep hers.
He drank his water, the cool liquid a blessed relief. The silence stretched, but it was a comfortable, easy silence. It was the silence of two people who had seen the worst of the world and the best of each other in the span of a few hours.
He set his glass down and turned back to her. The exhaustion was a heavy cloak, pulling at his eyelids. He knew he should go back to his own room, that it was the logical, sensible thing to do. But the thought of leaving her, of being separated by even ten feet of hallway, was a physical impossibility.
As if reading his mind, she lifted the edge of the sheet, a silent invitation. He slid back into bed, the cool fabric a welcome relief against his skin. He pulled her to him, her back settling against his chest, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. She let out a soft, contented sigh and snuggled back into his embrace, her body a perfect fit against his.
He buried his face in her damp hair, inhaling her clean, unique scent. The storm was over. The city was safe. And here, in the quiet darkness of her room, with the most incredible woman in the universe in his arms, Peter Parker finally, truly, felt home. The love he felt for her was no longer a terrifying, abstract thought. It was a quiet, steady, and unshakeable truth, as real and as vital as the slow, steady beat of her heart against his back.
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