For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence in the subway tunnel was a heavy, ringing thing. Emergency crews were beginning to descend, their voices and the crackle of their radios a slow intrusion into the profound quiet left by the rift's collapse. It was their cue to leave.
Spider-Man and Wonder Woman exchanged a final, professional nod. It was a look of deep, mutual respect, a silent acknowledgment of the perfect, terrifying synergy they had just shared. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, a universe of things he wanted to know about the incredible woman before him. But this was not the time or the place. They were two soldiers who had won a battle, and now they had to vanish back into the lives they were fighting to protect.
With a final, almost imperceptible glance, Spider-Man fired a web line into the darkness and swung away, disappearing into the upper levels of the station. A moment later, Wonder Woman launched herself into the sky, a silent, graceful ascent back to a world that would never know what she had just done for it.
Minutes later, Peter Parker, soaked in exhaustion and smelling faintly of ozone and adrenaline, stumbled out of a different subway entrance three blocks away. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. His head throbbed. The sheer physical and mental toll of weaving that web while fighting the rift's chaotic pull was a debt his body was now collecting with interest.
But as he walked the familiar route back to campus, the physical exhaustion was overshadowed by a profound, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with his muscles. He had just shared the most intense, dangerous experience of his life with someone, and he couldn't talk to her about it. He had fought alongside a goddess, and now he was desperately, overwhelmingly lonely.
He didn't just want his lover; he needed his anchor. He needed Diana.
When he got back to the fourth floor of Auerbach Hall, he didn't even hesitate at his own door. He walked straight to 4J and knocked, a soft, tired rhythm. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing. A sliver of unease, sharp and cold, cut through his exhaustion. He knew she had to be as depleted as he was.
"Diana?" he called softly, his hand on the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned. The door was unlocked.
He pushed it open slowly, his heart thudding in his chest. "Di? You in here?"
The room was quiet, her books stacked neatly on her desk. And then he heard it. The soft, steady hiss of a shower running. A wave of relief, so powerful it almost made his knees buckle, washed over him. She was here. She was safe.
He quietly closed the door behind him and walked to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm, steam-filled light spilling into the room. He pushed it open gently. The small room was a cloud of steam, the mirror completely fogged, the air warm and humid. Through the translucent, fogged glass of the shower door, he saw a silhouette, a feminine form wreathed in vapor.
He was about to turn, to give her privacy, when the shower door slid open.
Diana stood there, completely naked, her body slick with water, her hair a dark, wet curtain plastered to her back and shoulders. She wasn't surprised. She wasn't startled. She simply looked at him, her deep blue eyes heavy-lidded with a weariness that mirrored his own. A slow, languid smile touched her lips.
"I was wondering when you would arrive," she said, her voice a low, husky purr that cut straight through the sound of the running water. She reached out, her hand wet and warm, and took his. "Join me. You feel... loud."
He didn't need a second invitation. He was out of his clothes in seconds, his movements clumsy with exhaustion and a raw, desperate need. He stepped into the shower, pulling the glass door shut behind him, sealing them in their own private, steamy world.
The hot water was a balm on his aching muscles, a blessed relief that seemed to wash away the grime and tension of the battle. He leaned his forehead against the cool, slick tiles, letting the water cascade over his back. A moment later, he felt her press against him from behind, her soft, wet breasts a comforting pressure against his shoulder blades, her arms wrapping around his waist. He leaned back into her, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping his lips. They stood like that for a long time, not speaking, simply holding each other, letting the water wash over them, cleansing them of the chaos of their other lives.
Finally, he turned in her embrace to face her. The water sluiced over her chest, drawing the rosy peaks of her breasts into tight, sensitive buds. He looked down, mesmerized, then leaned in, his mouth closing over one nipple. The taste of her, clean and sweet, mingled with the hot water, was intoxicating. He suckled gently, and she let out a soft, breathy moan, her hands tangling in his wet hair, holding him to her.
He lavished attention on her, his mouth and hands relearning the geography of her body under the slick cascade of water. He was kissing his way down her stomach when she gently pushed him back.
"My turn," she whispered, her voice thick with desire.
To his complete and utter shock, she knelt before him in the narrow space of the shower. Her hair brushed against his inner thighs as she lowered her head. Peter's back arched, his hands flattening against the tiled wall for support, his eyes squeezing shut as a raw, helpless sound was torn from his throat. The sensation of her warm, wet mouth, combined with the hot spray of the shower, was an act of exquisite, almost unbearable pleasure. He was completely at her mercy, lost in a rising tide of pure sensation. He tasted the clean, feminine salt of her, a flavor that was the essence of their shared passion, and knew he would never get enough.
"Diana," he gasped, his voice tight, strained. "Di, I'm... I'm close."
She lifted her head, her lips slick and swollen, her blue eyes dark with a triumphant fire. "Good," she commanded softly.
She rose, her body slick and ready, and pushed him gently against the wall. She wrapped a strong leg around his hip, guiding him to her entrance. He entered her with a single, deep, fluid motion, the sound a wet, satisfying slap against the steady hiss of the shower.
Their movements were a primal, percussive rhythm against the constant spray. He pressed her against the cool, slick tiles, a stark contrast to the burning heat of their joined bodies. He held her hips, lifting her slightly, driving into her again and again, each thrust a desperate, possessive claim. This wasn't a gentle act of love; this was a raw, carnal exorcism, a way of washing away the violence of their day and replacing it with a violent, beautiful pleasure.
"Peter," she cried out, her voice a ragged plea as he drove into her, her nails digging into his shoulders.
He felt the climax building, a frantic, desperate wave. Seeing her like this, completely undone, her head thrown back as the water streamed over her face, was what finally shattered his control. With a final, desperate thrust, he poured himself into her, his own name a ragged prayer on her lips as she convulsed around him, her orgasm a violent, shuddering echo of his own.
Afterwards, they simply sagged against each other, held up by the wall and their own tangled limbs, the water still running, washing away the sweat and the aftermath of their passion. He rested his forehead against hers, their breathing harsh and ragged in the small, steamy space.
The battle was over. The chaos was cleansed. Here, in the heart of their own private storm, they were finally, truly, safe.
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