For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The journey back was a descent into a private hell. Peter clung to the rattling subway car, his body a trembling, aching mess, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the war zone inside his head. M.O.D.O.K.'s psychic scream had left behind a residue, a faint, high-pitched ringing like tinnitus of the soul, and fractured, nightmarish images flickered at the edges of his vision. Every screech of the train wheels, every loud snippet of conversation, felt like sandpaper against his raw nerves. He wasn't just exhausted; he felt fundamentally violated, his innermost thoughts exposed and savaged.
He didn't even consider going home to Queens. The fragile truce with May felt impossibly distant, a problem for a version of himself that wasn't currently fighting to hold onto the edges of his sanity. There was only one place he could go. One person who could anchor him.
He used the spare key, letting himself into the profound, blessed quiet of Diana's room. It was dark, the only light the cool, blue-white glow of the city filtering through her window. He didn't turn on a light. He just stood there for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of sandalwood and her, letting the silence begin to soothe the frantic buzzing in his skull.
He heard a soft sound from the bed, a rustle of sheets. "Peter?" Her voice was a low, weary murmur, thick with sleep, but instantly alert.
He moved towards the bed, a shadow in the darkness. He didn't need to see her face to know she was watching him. He sank onto the edge of the mattress, the simple act feeling like it took the last of his strength.
"You are hurt," she stated, the words a soft certainty in the dark.
"Just... loud," he whispered, his voice a raw, broken thing. "It was so loud in my head."
He felt the bed shift as she sat up. Her hand found his arm, her touch cool and steady. "Come here," she commanded gently.
He let her pull him down onto the mattress. He didn't bother with clothes, simply kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers, seeking the warmth and solidity of her like a man seeking shelter from a blizzard. She gathered him close, her arms wrapping around him, pulling his head onto her chest. He could hear the slow, steady, powerful rhythm of her heart beneath his ear, a counterpoint to the frantic, fragmented echoes in his own mind.
"It is over," she murmured, her hand stroking his hair with a slow, soothing rhythm. "The noise cannot reach you here. This place is quiet. I am quiet."
He clung to her, burying his face against the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, grounding himself in the irrefutable, physical reality of her. They lay like that for a long time, not speaking, her steady heartbeat and the rhythmic stroke of her hand against his hair slowly, painstakingly rebuilding the shattered walls of his mind. The high-pitched ringing began to fade, the fractured images receded. The storm was passing.
He felt a subtle shift in her body, a deepening of her breath. He lifted his head slightly. In the dim light, he could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes, the slight tremor in her hand as it rested on his back. She had faced the psychic storm too, had borne the brunt of M.O.D.O.K.'s initial assault to shield him. She was depleted, her own vast reserves drained.
"You need to rest too," he whispered.
"My rest is in knowing you are safe," she replied, her voice soft but firm.
A new kind of need began to stir within him, different from the raw, desperate need for comfort from moments before. It wasn't lust, not exactly. It was a profound, aching desire to connect on a level beyond words, beyond thought. A need to reaffirm life, warmth, and sensation in the face of the cold, psychic death they had just brushed against. It was a need to anchor not just his mind, but his very soul, in her.
He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at her. Her face, pale and weary in the moonlight, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He leaned down and kissed her, a slow, deep, and impossibly tender kiss that was less about passion and more about a profound, silent communication. It was a kiss that said, Thank you. You saved me. Let me save you now.
She responded with a quiet, yielding sigh, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck. The kiss deepened, a slow, languid exploration that was a world away from the frantic, explosive encounters they often shared. This was a different kind of fire – not a raging inferno, but the steady, enduring warmth of banked embers.
He began to touch her, his hands moving with a reverence born of profound gratitude. This was not about taking; it was about giving. His fingers traced the elegant line of her collarbone, the powerful curve of her shoulder, the faint tracery of muscle in her arms. He was relearning her, remapping her, finding comfort and strength in the familiar, perfect geography of her body.
He moved lower, his hand cupping the full, soft weight of her breast. He felt her nipple harden against his palm, a silent, involuntary response that sent a jolt of warmth straight to his core. He lowered his head, his lips replacing his hand, suckling gently, worshipfully. She let out a soft, breathy moan, her fingers tightening in his hair.
This was their ritual now, their sacred rite. A communion of touch and breath and shared vulnerability. He moved lower still, his mouth blazing a slow, wet trail over the hard plane of her stomach, pausing to kiss the faint, silvery battle scars – marks of honor he now understood on a visceral level.
When he reached the apex of her thighs, he parted her gently. The scent of her arousal, clean and musky, was a grounding, life-affirming fragrance. He took her into his mouth, and the world dissolved into pure, focused sensation. This was not the greedy, devouring act of previous nights. This was a slow, meticulous worship, an offering of tenderness designed to soothe, to heal, to restore. He felt the tension leave her body, replaced by a deep, shuddering surrender. He felt the subtle shift, the deep, internal coiling that signaled her approaching release.
He eased away, leaving her suspended in a state of exquisite, aching need. He moved up her body, his erection a hard, insistent pressure against her thigh. He didn't enter her yet. Instead, he gathered her into his arms, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him, skin to skin, heart to heart.
"Just hold me," she whispered, her voice a raw, vulnerable thing he had never heard before.
He held her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, her head resting on his chest. He felt the tremors that still ran through her body, the aftershocks of the battle, the immense expenditure of her power. He held her until the tremors subsided, until her breathing deepened, until the profound stillness settled over them once more.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she rose above him, her form a magnificent silhouette against the city lights filtering through the window. She guided him to her entrance, and lowered herself onto him with a slow, profound glide that was both a taking and a giving.
Their lovemaking was a silent conversation, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that was less about achieving climax and more about the profound, grounding act of being completely, utterly joined. It was a meditation. A reaffirmation of life in the face of oblivion. They moved together, two halves of a single, breathing entity, until a shared, quiet wave washed over them, a release that was less an explosion and more a deep, resonant sigh of peace.
Afterwards, they didn't separate. She collapsed onto his chest, her body a warm, boneless weight. He held her, his hand stroking her hair, his own mind finally, blessedly quiet. The scream was gone. The city was safe. And here, in the absolute stillness, held within the fortress of each other's arms, they had found their true sanctuary.
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