For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
Peter woke to the smell of coffee.
It was a rich, dark, and deeply comforting aroma that cut through the lingering fog of a heavy, healing sleep. He opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, the morning light a soft, grey filter through his perpetually dusty blinds. He turned his head. Diana was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him, a sheet wrapped loosely around her torso. She was sipping from one of his own mismatched mugs, the one with the faded Stark Industries logo. Her back was a landscape of elegant, powerful muscle, the line of her spine a perfect, graceful curve.
The vulnerability he had shown her, the complete, shuddering breakdown... he expected to feel a morning-after wave of shame. But he didn't. He felt... settled. Known.
"Morning," he said, his voice a rough, sleepy rasp.
She turned her head, a slow, warm smile spreading across her face. It was a smile of deep, uncomplicated affection, and it hit him with the force of a physical blow. "Good morning, Peter. I took the liberty. Your coffee supply is a tactical vulnerability we must address."
"Add it to the list," he said, pushing himself up on his elbows, wincing as the bruises on his side protested.
Her smile faded, replaced by a look of soft concern. "You are still in pain."
"It's fine," he said automatically. "It's just a reminder of a... clumsy day."
She set the mug down on his cluttered nightstand and turned to face him fully, her movement fluid and deliberate. The sheet pooled in her lap, exposing her breasts, full and soft in the morning light. She wasn't being seductive; she was simply being, with a profound lack of artifice that he found more intoxicating than any overt gesture.
"There is no need for lies this morning, Peter," she said softly. She reached out, her fingers gently tracing the angry purple and blue marks on his torso. Her touch wasn't clinical this time, nor was it sexual. It was a touch of pure, simple reverence. "A warrior's scars are a map of their trials. They should be honored, not hidden."
He stared at her, speechless. She saw his secret life etched onto his skin, and she called it honor.
The emotion that rose in him was so powerful, so overwhelming, it demanded a physical expression. Words were inadequate. He reached for her, his hands cupping her face, and pulled her into a kiss. It was not a kiss of passion, but of pure, unadulterated gratitude. It was a kiss that tried to say thank you, I see you, I love you all at once.
She responded in kind, her lips soft and yielding. When they broke apart, the air in the room was thick with a new kind of charge. It wasn't the frantic energy of lust; it was the deep, resonant hum of emotion seeking release.
He gently pushed her back onto the pillows, his body following to hover over hers. He looked down at her, at the woman who had held him while he wept, who had faced down a tear in reality, who was now looking up at him with eyes full of absolute trust.
"Let me," he whispered, the words a plea. "Let me... honor you."
Her answer was a slow, deliberate nod, her eyes never leaving his.
This was not about a system or a physical need. This was a rite. He began with her lips, a series of slow, tender kisses that explored and worshipped. He moved lower, his mouth tracing a path down her neck, over her collarbone. He paused to breathe in her scent, the clean, unique fragrance that was purely Diana, now mingled with the familiar scent of his own sheets.
He took his time, his hands and mouth mapping the geography of her body with a painstaking reverence. He kissed the full, soft swell of her breasts, his tongue teasing her nipples into hard, aching peaks. He felt her breath hitch, her hands coming up to fist in his hair, but she remained silent, giving herself over to his worship completely.
His lips traced a path over her stomach, pausing to press a soft, healing kiss over the faint, silvery battle scars that marked her own history. When he finally moved between her thighs, parting them gently, a soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips.
He took her into his mouth with a reverence that bordered on religious. This was not the devouring hunger of their previous encounters. This was a slow, deliberate act of giving, of pouring all his gratitude and awe into her. He learned the unique taste of her, the specific way she responded to the flick of his tongue, the low, guttural moans that rumbled in her chest when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He felt her body begin to tremble, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure pleasure. She was a finely tuned instrument, and he was learning to play her song.
She was on the very edge, her hips beginning to move in a familiar, unconscious rhythm, when he eased away. She let out a soft cry of protest, her eyes fluttering open.
"My turn," she whispered, her voice a raw, husky thing.
With a fluid strength that still surprised him, she rolled them, her body now covering his. She returned his worship in kind, her mouth and hands tracing the lines of his body, paying special attention to the bruised, tender skin on his side. Her kisses there were not of passion, but of healing, as if she could absorb his pain into herself.
By the time she took him into her mouth, he was on the ragged edge of sanity. She brought him to the very brink of release, her skill and focus absolute, before pulling back, leaving him panting and trembling. She eased back up his body, her slick thighs sliding against his, and lay down, pulling him gently on top of her.
"No," he breathed, his control a frayed thread. "Not inside. Not this time."
He moved, shifting his position so that he was kneeling between her parted legs. He looked down at her, at the magnificent canvas of her body, and knew what he wanted. He took himself in hand, his erection a hard, aching testament to his need. He watched her face as he began to stroke himself, her eyes widening, her lips parting as she watched him, a silent, willing participant.
Her hands came up to cup her own breasts, her thumbs teasing the hard peaks, her eyes never leaving his. It was a shared, beautiful, and profoundly intimate act. He was giving his pleasure to her, and she was receiving it with every fiber of her being.
"Diana," he gasped, his rhythm quickening, the final vestiges of his control dissolving in the fire of her gaze. He saw the anticipation in her eyes, the raw hunger. He moved over her, his hands gripping her shoulders, and with a final, shuddering groan that was her name, he released himself.
His climax was a hot, pearlescent offering that coated the full, soft curve of her breasts, a stark, white tribute against her tanned skin. He collapsed beside her, his chest heaving, his body trembling with the aftershocks.
For a moment, they just lay there, their harsh breaths filling the quiet room. Then, Diana lifted a hand, her movements slow and deliberate. She dipped a finger into the evidence of his release on her chest, then slowly brought the finger to her lips, tasting him with a look of intense, possessive satisfaction that sent a fresh jolt of pure lust straight through him.
"The data is consistent," she whispered, her voice a low, throaty purr.
He let out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. He pulled her to him, not caring about the mess, and buried his face in her hair. The system was dead. The arrangement was a distant memory. This was just them. Raw, real, and more intimately connected than he had ever thought possible.
SUPPORT BY POWERSTONS