For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The sound of their bodies striking the wall was a percussive, violent thud. The frantic, desperate energy of the Reveal was a detonation, and this was the shockwave. Peter's hands were clamped onto her, his fingers digging into the impossible, divine muscle of her hips, holding her pinned as he drove into her. It was not lovemaking; it was a frantic, primal act of anchoring. He was a man drowning in an impossible truth, and she was the only solid ground in the universe.
Diana's legs were locked around his waist, her arms crushing him to her, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He felt the sharp, exquisite pain as her teeth sank into his shoulder, a desperate, warrior's kiss to keep from screaming, the coppery tang of his own blood a sudden, stark reality. The room was a storm of their shared, ragged breaths, the wet, percussive slap of their bodies, and the scent of spilled whiskey, sweat, and sex.
It was too much. The revelation was too big, the passion too raw. It shattered, climaxing not in a gentle wave, but in a fractured, blinding explosion that was as much pain as it was pleasure. He cried out, a raw, broken sound, his release a desperate, shuddering torrent. She convulsed around him, a series of violent, gripping spasms, her own cry a muffled, guttural sound against his bleeding shoulder.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
They remained frozen against the wall for a long, silent moment, their bodies still joined, trembling in the aftershock. The only sound was their harsh, gasping breaths. The reality of what they had just done, of what they had just learned, settled on them like a physical weight.
Slowly, agonizingly, Peter's legs began to tremble, his body, still battered from the M.O.D.O.K. fight, finally failing him. He couldn't hold her. He slid her down the wall, their bodies separating with a slick, reluctant sound. They stumbled, almost fell, and half-crawled, half-walked the few feet to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress in a boneless, tangled heap.
For a long time, they just lay there, side-by-side, not touching, just staring at the ceiling, their chests heaving. The silence was deafening, filled with the ghosts of their two separate lives.
Peter was the first to speak. His voice was a raw, torn whisper. "You... you can lift a bus."
Diana turned her head on the pillow. Her hair was a wild, dark halo, her lips swollen, her eyes wide and luminous with unshed tears and a profound, terrifying wonder. "And you," she whispered back, her voice shaking, "can stick to walls."
A single, hysterical laugh, closer to a sob, broke from Peter's throat. "I guess... I guess we both had a secret."
She reached out, her hand trembling, and her fingers found his. It was not the confident, possessive touch of his lover. It was a new, uncertain, and infinitely more profound connection. He laced his fingers with hers, his grip a desperate, white-knuckled thing.
"All this time," he breathed, his gaze distant, "I was so terrified. Of what my world would do to you. The danger. The... the freakishness." He turned to her, his eyes filled with a raw, agonizing awe. "And you... you're... you're her. You're the one on the bridge. The one in the tunnel. You were... you were protecting me."
"And you were protecting me," she replied, her voice thick. "In the lecture hall. From the noise in my own head. You were my quiet. My shield-mate." She squeezed his hand. "I just... I didn't know I was yours."
The walls were down. All of them. There were no more lies, no more veils, no more hidden compartments. There was only the raw, exposed, and fundamentally altered truth. They were not two students. They were two gods. Two monsters. Two heroes. And they were in love.
A new, slower, and infinitely deeper need began to stir. It was not the frantic, desperate claiming of before. It was a need to re-learn, to re-discover. To explore the new, terrifying, and magnificent being lying next to him.
"Let me see you," he whispered, his voice full of a new, reverent awe.
He moved, his body hovering over hers. He looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time. The perfect, full breasts were not just Diana's; they were Wonder Woman's. The strong, powerful legs that had wrapped around him were the same ones that had launched her into the sky. He lowered his head, his mouth finding her breast. He took her nipple, suckling gently, and the taste was the same, but different. It was the taste of his lover, mingled with the divine, impossible reality of a goddess.
She, in turn, looked at him. The lean, wiry body she had held was not just a student's; it was the impossible, arachnid physique of Spider-Man. The hands that had touched her with such tenderness were the same hands that had woven a web to seal a wound in reality. She reached up, her fingers tracing the faint, web-like pattern of scars on his forearms from his own web-fluid, scars he'd always passed off as chemical burns from the lab.
"All your scars," she breathed, her touch a feather. "They... they're real."
"So are yours," he replied, his lips moving from her breast to the faint, silvery lines on her abdomen.
A new, shared ritual began. It was a slow, sensual, and almost clinical exploration. A cartography of their two merged souls. He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and in that kiss was the shared, psychic echo of M.O.D.O.K.'s scream, the shared, burning cold of the whiskey, the shared, salty taste of his own blood from her bite.
"I need..." he started, his voice thick.
"Yes," she simply replied.
He moved to the head of the bed, his back resting against the headboard. "Sit," he commanded gently.
She looked at him, confused, then obeyed, moving to straddle his lap, her body facing his.
"No," he whispered, his hands on her hips. "Turn around."
A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She did as he asked, turning and lowering herself onto him, her back pressing against his chest, her legs on either side of his. He was inside her, a deep, perfect, and profound joining. It was a new, perfect intimacy. He was her anchor, her shield at her back.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hands finding her breasts, cupping their weight. He was her support. He could feel her heart hammering against his own, their bodies a single, unified entity. He leaned his head forward, his lips finding the exquisitely sensitive, vulnerable nape of her neck.
"This," he whispered against her skin, "is the Amazon's Throne."
He began to move, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh, her head falling back against his shoulder. He had complete control, and he was giving her all the pleasure. His hands moved from her breasts, one hand sliding down her stomach, his fingers finding her clit, which was already a hard, aching pearl from their earlier passion.
He began to move his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm that matched the deep, powerful thrusts of his hips. It was a symphony of sensation, an overload of pleasure. She was impaled on him, her back arched, her entire being focused on the two distinct, powerful points of contact. Her moans were no longer sharp or desperate; they were deep, resonant, and beautiful.
"Peter," she breathed, her voice a raw, broken plea.
He held her, anchored her, as the climax took her, a deep, seismic wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that shook her entire body. He felt her inner muscles clench and pulse around him, a violent, exquisite milking that shattered his own control. He poured himself into her with a final, deep groan, his own release a wave of pure, blissful peace.
They stayed like that, joined, her back pressed against his chest, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The storm was over. The cataclysm had passed. And in the quiet, sacred aftermath, two heroes, finally, truly, and completely seen, held each other in the ruins of their old world, ready to build a new one.