[ Gamora moves his hands again, and his gaze is drawn back to her, to where his calloused hands rest against her smooth skin. He's staring. He knows he's staring. But he can't stop—
He winces at her question, unsure of what to say – because everything in him is screaming, God, of course I want you, what the fuck kind of question even is that? Yes, yes, yes—
He swallows thickly against the words trying to burst from him, against the heat creeping up his neck, pooling in his cheeks, coloring his ears. Embarrassment, he thinks. And— that familiar note of want, the kind that sends him to seedy clubs with thumping music and people looking to waste away the night and— ]
Of course I want you.
[ —the words escape him anyway. Rough, croaked out. He feels his heart slam against his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears, and—
No. No, okay. This isn't fair to either of them. Gamora's sick. There's something that's not letting her think straight, and Peter needs to rein it in for both of them.
... He thinks that, anyway, but his knuckles run over her cheek, thumb brushing over the silver lines at the swell. It's a second before he realizes what he's doing, and he carefully pulls his hand away. ]
This— [ Shit, they still need to talk about them. They still need to figure out what the hell they're doing. They still need to sit down and hash out what, exactly, they mean to each other, but it's really, really, really hard to concentrate with their bare skin touching, with Gamora looking at him like that, with just a few breaths of space separating them. ]
We— we need— [ Haltingly, because it's really fucking difficult to string words together, for some reason. ] We still need to talk. About us.
no subject
He winces at her question, unsure of what to say – because everything in him is screaming, God, of course I want you, what the fuck kind of question even is that? Yes, yes, yes—
He swallows thickly against the words trying to burst from him, against the heat creeping up his neck, pooling in his cheeks, coloring his ears. Embarrassment, he thinks. And— that familiar note of want, the kind that sends him to seedy clubs with thumping music and people looking to waste away the night and— ]
Of course I want you.
[ —the words escape him anyway. Rough, croaked out. He feels his heart slam against his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears, and—
No. No, okay. This isn't fair to either of them. Gamora's sick. There's something that's not letting her think straight, and Peter needs to rein it in for both of them.
... He thinks that, anyway, but his knuckles run over her cheek, thumb brushing over the silver lines at the swell. It's a second before he realizes what he's doing, and he carefully pulls his hand away. ]
This— [ Shit, they still need to talk about them. They still need to figure out what the hell they're doing. They still need to sit down and hash out what, exactly, they mean to each other, but it's really, really, really hard to concentrate with their bare skin touching, with Gamora looking at him like that, with just a few breaths of space separating them. ]
We— we need— [ Haltingly, because it's really fucking difficult to string words together, for some reason. ] We still need to talk. About us.