For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The journey home was a blur. Peter moved on autopilot, the rhythmic clatter of the subway a dull, thudding counterpoint to the high-pitched, ringing silence in his head. The psychic scream was gone, but its echo remained, a ghost of a migraine that made the bright lights of the city feel like a physical assault. He was a walking, open wound, and all he wanted was the sanctuary of home, and the healing presence of his quiet place.
He stumbled into the empty house in Queens, the silence a blessed relief. He shed his suit, the familiar, high-tech fabric feeling alien against his trembling skin. He stood under a scalding hot shower for twenty minutes, trying to wash away the feeling of violation, the lingering touch of M.O.D.O.K.'s rage in the deepest corners of his mind. It didn't work.
He was in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, staring blankly at a television that wasn't on, when he heard a soft knock at the door. His heart, a heavy, sluggish thing in his chest, gave a hopeful, painful thump.
He opened the door, and she was there. Diana. She was dressed in her simple student clothes, but the warrior was visible just beneath the surface. He saw the deep, bone-deep weariness in her eyes, the faint, bruised shadows that mirrored his own. She looked at him, and her carefully composed expression of calm concern crumbled, replaced by a wave of profound, undisguised empathy. She saw the damage. She saw the echo of the scream in his eyes.
She didn't say a word. She simply stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and wrapped her arms around him.
He collapsed into her embrace, his forehead falling to her shoulder, a shuddering, ragged breath escaping his lips. He was home. He held onto her, a drowning man clinging to the only solid thing in a raging sea. She was a fortress, a mountain, and she held him together with the sheer, steady force of her presence.
"You are safe now," she whispered into his hair, her voice a low, steady anchor.
When they finally separated, she led him by the hand to his bedroom. The late evening light cast long, soft shadows. There was no frantic, hungry energy between them. This was something else. This was a slow, deliberate act of mending.
"Let me see you," she whispered, her voice a soft command.
Her fingers, sure and steady, began to unbutton his shirt. It was not a lover's undressing; it was the careful disarming of a wounded soldier. She peeled the fabric back, her gaze taking in the new, angry bruises from the battle, her expression a mixture of anger and profound sadness. He stood passively as she unbuckled his belt and slid his jeans down his legs, leaving him standing before her in nothing but his boxers.
"Now you," he said, his voice a raw whisper. He needed to feel her, to ground himself in the reality of her.
His own hands, clumsy at first, went to the hem of her sweater. He lifted it slowly over her head. The soft lamplight caught the proud, full curve of her breasts and the hard, toned muscle of her stomach. She was magnificent, a perfect fusion of strength and softness. He unfastened her jeans, his hands tracing the sharp line of her hips as he pushed them down, kneeling to pull them off her strong, powerful legs.
They stood before each other, clad only in their underwear, two warriors cataloging the cost of their victory. He reached out, his hand cupping the weight of her breast, the skin soft and warm, the nipple a hard, pebbled point against his palm. He needed to feel her life, her warmth, to counteract the cold, dead feeling in his own mind.
She led him to the bed and pushed him gently back onto the pillows. "Lie still," she commanded softly. "Let me be your quiet."
She shed the last of her clothes and then began to worship him with her mouth. It was not the fiery, demanding passion of their previous encounters. This was a slow, tender, and meticulous act of restoration. She was not just giving him pleasure; she was exorcising the psychic poison from his mind, replacing the memory of M.O.D.O.K.'s rage with a profound, grounding wave of pure sensation. He was a passive, grateful recipient, his hands tangled in her hair, his body a trembling, pliant instrument under her skillful touch.
When she sensed he was close, she eased away, leaving him on the ragged edge, a raw, open nerve of pure need. She moved up his body, her lips and tongue tasting, healing, reclaiming every inch of him.
"My turn," he breathed, the need to give back, to anchor himself in her pleasure, becoming a desperate, overwhelming force.
He shifted, his own mouth finding the soft, full curve of her breast, suckling gently. A soft moan escaped her lips as her hands cradled the back of his head. He moved lower, but not to her core. Instead, he turned his attention to her body, his mouth and hands a testament to her strength. He kissed the hard, defined muscle of her thigh, then the soft, sensitive skin of her inner knee. He tasted the faint salt on her skin, a remnant of a battle she had fought just as fiercely as he. This wasn't about a destination; it was about honoring the vessel, the warrior who had shielded him.
A shudder ran through her, a response not of building orgasm, but of pure, emotional release. A single, silent tear traced a path from the corner of her eye.
He moved back up her body, his own erection a hard, aching presence against her leg. He looked into her eyes, and saw his own raw vulnerability reflected there.
"Peter," she breathed, her voice a raw, desperate plea that held a universe of unspoken need. It was not a plea for release, but for connection.
He kissed her, a slow, deep, and impossibly gentle kiss.
"Let me come home," he whispered against her lips.
He entered her with a slow, profound glide, a sense of rightness so complete it was a physical relief. He was home. He began to move, a deep, worshipful rhythm, and she met him, her body a perfect, fluid echo of his. He watched her face, saw the lines of exhaustion and pain being replaced by waves of exquisite, healing pleasure.
The climax, when it came, was a deep, shuddering release that seemed to pull all the pain and fear and psychic noise out of him, leaving him utterly, completely, and blissfully empty. He cried out her name, the sound a raw, grateful prayer in the quiet of his room. He felt her own release a moment later, a tight, shuddering convulsion around him, a silent, powerful testament to their connection.
Afterwards, she curled up beside him, her head on his chest, her hand stroking his hair. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. The ringing in his mind was gone. The echoes of the scream were silent. There was only the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heart beating against his, a quiet, powerful harmony that was the only signal he would ever need.
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