[ The warmth of her palm against his neck is evidence enough, but he presses the back of his hand against her forehead all the same. Sure, he still has the data in front of him on the screen, but those are just numbers. The old back-of-the-hand test is tried and true, as far as Terran methods go. ]
What the hell, Gamora, you’re burning up.
[ He glances around, spots a chair nearby, and he nods her toward it. ]
Sit down for a sec, okay? We’re heading back. We need to get you checked out.
[ She doesn't let go of him quite yet, her expression hardening. ]
I just told you my modifications will handle it. I do not want to go back.
[ And maybe that's a more intense reaction than is actually necessary, but through the haze of her frustration and the heat clouding her mind, it's somehow that much harder to tamp down on the aggravation bubbling up. ]
That was worrying. Like, the last time he suggested Gamora go to a hospital, she had been reluctant, sure. She had told him it was unnecessary, told him it was a waste of time. It was nowhere near as vehement as this, though. ]
Gamora— [ As calmly as he can manage, and he tries to pull his arm out of her grip. The intercom is at the back of the room, and he’s pretty sure Kraglin is at the helm. Kraglin, at least, won’t put up much of a fuss about the change in plans, whereas Rocket would bitch and gripe about the waste of fuel to turn back to moon they’d just left. ]
You’re running a pretty bad fever. Maybe your mods will burn it out of you by the time a doc sees you, but I’d still rather be sure, alright?
[ That irritation flares in a rush of intense heat that burns behind Gamora's eyes, and her fingers tighten instead on Peter's arm. ]
I said no.
[ —and it comes in a tone that Gamora hasn't used with Peter in ages, more snarl than calm, and she suddenly realizes how brutally she was squeezing his arm until she lets go immediately, stumbling a step back from him.
She presses the heel of her hand to her eyes, grimacing down at the deck ]
[ Okay. Okay. Maybe no more struggling, because ow.
Ow, ow, ow.
Peter tenses as her fingers squeeze around his arm like a vise, and he sucks in a startled breath at the tone of her voice. Hell, when’s the last time she’s talked to him like that, like he was an enemy instead of her friend? Like she might actually rip his throat out?
And just as quickly as it happens, she relents. Her grip disappears from her arm, the ferocity of her expression is replaced by confusion, and when she stumbles back, so does he. He rubs at his arm, wonders if he’ll sport a hand-shaped bruise in the next several hours, and he backs away toward the intercom. ]
Just sit down, alright? [ This, at least, he manages in that same calm voice. No fear, no warning, just worry. ] Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or anything, but there’s definitely something wrong, here.
[ This time, Gamora doesn't try to resist as he tells her to sit, and she's careful about lowering herself into a seat, blinking glassy eyes down at her hands. That haze feels thicker, hotter, and she flexes her fingers, forces herself to do it slowly – trying to exercise control, trying not to shake with the pent-up energy that accompanies the heat. The fever hasn't made her sluggish, and if anything, she feels the need to do— anything. To fight? To touch? To rend something to pieces? To not think about the warmth spreading through her mind—? ]
Nothing's— wrong.
[ No, no, something has to be wrong, because she knows she wouldn't grab Peter like that, wouldn't speak to him like that. ]
[ He pauses at her objection, the word bullshit materializing briefly on his tongue.
But that's not going to help anything, he knows, and instead, he lets out a slow breath. ]
Probably.
[ Agreement again, even if it's a lie on Peter's part, because he's worried as hell. That was weird. That was out of character. Gamora is usually so calm and collected, and maybe she got pissed sometimes, but she hasn't gotten pissed like that at anyone on the team since—
Since Knowhere, probably. And that feels like years ago.
He makes it to the intercom, finally, hailing the flight deck. Kraglin answers, surprise in his voice – probably startled to see a message coming from the medbay. ]
Turn us back. Head for the nearest medical facility.
[ There's a beat of silence, but a slight lurch of the ship tells Peter that Kraglin has followed the order without argument (and a part of Peter is gratified that someone listens to him on this damn team). ]
Everythin' alright, Pete?
Yeah. [ He pauses, wondering how much he ought to share. He frowns a little, then, for Gamora's sake, decides to keep the information under wraps for now. ] Just a precaution. Sooner the better though, Krag.
Aye, Cap'n.
[ The line shuts, and Peter frowns as he turns back to Gamora, rubbing at the back of his neck. He walks cautiously toward her, movements careful like he doesn't want to startle her. ]
[ Distantly, Gamora hears Peter telling Kraglin to turn the ship around, that he leaves out the details (good, because she's fine, nothing is wrong, and whatever it is will resolve itself, it's fine), and if she had the presence of mind for it, she'd be grateful.
As it is, one of her hands keeps flexing her fingers, the other pressing momentarily against her eyes. ]
—Fine.
[ Ground out through grit teeth, and she swallows around the tightening in her throat. She forces her breathing to slow, careful about the way she curls and uncurls her fingers, and then she looks back up at Peter. Her eyes are glassier, her pupils dilated, but she sets her jaw with that determination to overrule the overwhelming heat. ]
[ Jesus Christ, she doesn't look good, and a look of dismay crosses his face.
(It's so painfully familiar, that glassy-eyed look, that strange resolution to pretend that everything is just fine, Peter, just fine.)
He swallows thickly, turning toward the sink in the corner. He wets a towel with cold water, fills a glass, and brings both over to her, kneeling in front of her. ]
Not long.
[ A pause, and he tries for reassurance, ]
By the time we get there, you'll probably be recovered, huh?
[ She refocuses on Peter, watching him busy himself with the sink, but she's relieved when he comes over with the glass and the towel at the ready.
She reaches first for the wet towel, immediately chilled against her fingers. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder to set it on the back of her neck (though she gives a short hiss at the intense difference in temperature), and then she goes for the water. ]
Don't look so concerned.
[Mumbled around the lip of the glass. She's trying for reassurance, but it doesn't have quite the same effect when there's still something of a growl in her voice. ]
[ Peter. Peter is concerned. Even if he tries to smooth out his expression and force it out of his voice.
Even if he still hears that dangerous sort of edge in her voice, the sort of restrained snarl he hasn't heard directed at him since the shit with the Infinity Stone.
He rocks back, sitting on the deck and frowning at her. ]
Must've been something at the warehouse.
[ As much to her as it is to himself. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feels the start of a headache building behind his eyes, and he gets to his feet again. ]
[ Despite the raging haze of heat that keeps trying to pull her attention, Gamora focuses wholly on Peter as she takes a few more sips of water. She straightens up slightly in her chair as he gets to his feet, and concern seems like it's doing its best to fight its way through agitation. ]
What does that mean?
[ Through that fog, she wants to focus on Peter, even with all that prickling energy that she's keeping in check (or, still trying to, at least).
The glass in her hands creaks in protest as she squeezes a little too much, and she finally eases up before it breaks. ]
[ She didn't even consider that one of the others might have to deal with this – whatever this is. ]
There was... something on the glass in those containers. I think.
[ She frowns as she tries to remember. ]
There were empty, but the glass was discolored.
[ Another wave of heat, and Gamora grimaces, getting to her feet suddenly with the need to move. She at least sets aside the water so she doesn't break it the next time her fingers clench and curl. ]
[ He turns to her as she speaks, that concern coming back in full force.
Worry makes his words sharp: ]
And you didn't think that was worth mentioning earlier?
[ Peter's about to launch into something of a lecture, for whatever that'll do either of them, when Gamora abruptly stands. He tenses, taken aback, before stepping toward her in case she needs support. ]
[ Though she says it with far more aggression than she means to. If the fever wasn't so distracting, she'd probably apologize.
As it stands, she's instead inclined to pace – some way to channel that strange energy, to turn it into more than the thrumming of it under her skin. ]
And I didn't mention it because whatever this is should have been filtered out. It shouldn't have—
[ She interrupts herself with a short growl, pressing her knuckles against her eyes as she pauses mid-step. ]
[ It's a good thing Peter's used to people snapping at him, which means her tone hardly bothers him. ]
Yeah, well. We might be dealing with some weird drug shit. Who knows what kind of chemicals that prick might've been messing with?
[ He watches her with an undisguised frown, that terribly familiar sense of helplessness and worry clawing up his throat. He swallows it down as much as he can, tries to tell himself that Gamora will be fine, that she's made to withstand worse things, as she always tells him. ]
C'mon. Drink some more water. Whatever this is, you obviously need to give yourself time to burn it out.
[ Gamora looks about ready to snap at Peter again that she doesn't need water, but through the haze of heat, she seems to realize he's just trying to help. ]
What do you think I'm trying to do?
[ ... Though she's still somewhat less successful in regards to the hostility.
But she reaches for the water she set aside instead, finishing it off – though more to satisfy him than because she's particularly thirsty. ]
[ He struggles for the words, then gives a vague wave of his hand. ]
—kinda freaking me out.
[ Because he spends a whole lot of his time seeing Gamora as indestructible, as the cool, calm, and collected one. And even if recent events have definitely conspired to wreck the "indestructible" label he had slapped on her – because shit has been scary lately – he still can't help but be shaken whenever he's reminded that she's just as mortal as anyone.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose again, eyes screwing shut against the headache blooming, before he turns to the intercom again. He sends out a ship-wide message – "Hey, uh. If anyone's not feeling well – like, if you're feeling feverish, I guess? – head to the medbay. Please." – and after a few moments, he receives a chorus of responses.
It seems everyone else is fine, which is something of a relief. They also all seem to assume it's Peter that's under the weather, which is probably fine, but it makes annoyance curl and snap in his gut.
He sighs when he gets off the line with Kraglin, who assures them they're on course to the medical facility, and that if he's not feeling so hot, he should take one of those awful-tasting pills and head to bed. Peter only grumbles a response as the line cuts, and he leans forward to press his forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead.
At length, he turns back around, looking to Gamora. ]
Kraglin says we're nearly there. [ As if she couldn't hear everything already. ]
[ Gamora listens, however distantly, to Peter and the subsequent responses. It's reassuring, at least, to know that no one else is experiencing something like this (or it would be if she could focus on it), but she's more preoccupied with the heat swimming in her vision. ]
My hearing is still just fine, Peter.
[ Though she's taken the opportunity to lean against the counter, stopping her pacing as she tries for that slow, grounding breathing.
... It only works so much.
She also pulls the towel from the back of her neck, because it's already warmed through, and she drops it somewhat unceremoniously onto the counter beside her. ]
Just— come here.
[ She sounds far less steady than she did before, and when she raises her eyes to look at him, her pupils have almost completely swallowed up that ring of brown. ]
[ He studies her, taking in the details – the glassiness of her eyes, still, the flush in her skin, the agitation in her every move. And now, with the way her eyes are darkened, pupils blown wide, Peter feels worry ramping up into fear, starting to scrabble at the inside of his ribs for purchase.
The concern he's feeling is making him feel— weird, he thinks. Makes him feel jittery and agitated, and he needs to keep his head on. He forces it down, forces himself to stay calm, because that's how Gamora would treat a disaster like this. He takes a steadying breath, scrubbing his face with his hand.
He follows her direction, though, moving toward her with an undisguised frown. ]
[ Gamora blinks past the fever to focus on Peter as he comes close, and she reaches for his wrists. ]
Give me your hands.
[ Because he runs cooler than she does normally, and now, she can only assume the difference will be far starker than before. Through that strange haze, she knows she wants to touch him still, wants that contact, though she's mindful of the strength in her fingers as she moves to tug his hands up to her face (given that she doesn't want to leave further bruises).
[ But she turns her face against the coolness of his broad hands, sighing with relief. It settles something in that feverish heat, even as her heart pounds a little too fast, and she glances back up at him again. ]
It has to work its way through my system.
[ Whatever she came into contact with, she at least believes in her modifications and their ability to process this strange toxin – because finally, given how much it's overwhelmed her, her hazy mind is apparently willing to admit that this isn't right. ]
[ He swallows thickly, trying to force down that worry, that weird sense of helplessness that comes over him whenever someone on the team is hurt. Peter hopes she's right, because— man, the heat she's giving off is scary.
He brushes sweat-dampened hair from her forehead before returning his palm to her cheek. ]
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[ The warmth of her palm against his neck is evidence enough, but he presses the back of his hand against her forehead all the same. Sure, he still has the data in front of him on the screen, but those are just numbers. The old back-of-the-hand test is tried and true, as far as Terran methods go. ]
What the hell, Gamora, you’re burning up.
[ He glances around, spots a chair nearby, and he nods her toward it. ]
Sit down for a sec, okay? We’re heading back. We need to get you checked out.
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[ She doesn't let go of him quite yet, her expression hardening. ]
I just told you my modifications will handle it. I do not want to go back.
[ And maybe that's a more intense reaction than is actually necessary, but through the haze of her frustration and the heat clouding her mind, it's somehow that much harder to tamp down on the aggravation bubbling up. ]
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That was worrying. Like, the last time he suggested Gamora go to a hospital, she had been reluctant, sure. She had told him it was unnecessary, told him it was a waste of time. It was nowhere near as vehement as this, though. ]
Gamora— [ As calmly as he can manage, and he tries to pull his arm out of her grip. The intercom is at the back of the room, and he’s pretty sure Kraglin is at the helm. Kraglin, at least, won’t put up much of a fuss about the change in plans, whereas Rocket would bitch and gripe about the waste of fuel to turn back to moon they’d just left. ]
You’re running a pretty bad fever. Maybe your mods will burn it out of you by the time a doc sees you, but I’d still rather be sure, alright?
It’s just business as usual.
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I said no.
[ —and it comes in a tone that Gamora hasn't used with Peter in ages, more snarl than calm, and she suddenly realizes how brutally she was squeezing his arm until she lets go immediately, stumbling a step back from him.
She presses the heel of her hand to her eyes, grimacing down at the deck ]
I—
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Ow, ow, ow.
Peter tenses as her fingers squeeze around his arm like a vise, and he sucks in a startled breath at the tone of her voice. Hell, when’s the last time she’s talked to him like that, like he was an enemy instead of her friend? Like she might actually rip his throat out?
And just as quickly as it happens, she relents. Her grip disappears from her arm, the ferocity of her expression is replaced by confusion, and when she stumbles back, so does he. He rubs at his arm, wonders if he’ll sport a hand-shaped bruise in the next several hours, and he backs away toward the intercom. ]
Just sit down, alright? [ This, at least, he manages in that same calm voice. No fear, no warning, just worry. ] Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or anything, but there’s definitely something wrong, here.
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Nothing's— wrong.
[ No, no, something has to be wrong, because she knows she wouldn't grab Peter like that, wouldn't speak to him like that. ]
It— just needs to burn itself out.
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But that's not going to help anything, he knows, and instead, he lets out a slow breath. ]
Probably.
[ Agreement again, even if it's a lie on Peter's part, because he's worried as hell. That was weird. That was out of character. Gamora is usually so calm and collected, and maybe she got pissed sometimes, but she hasn't gotten pissed like that at anyone on the team since—
Since Knowhere, probably. And that feels like years ago.
He makes it to the intercom, finally, hailing the flight deck. Kraglin answers, surprise in his voice – probably startled to see a message coming from the medbay. ]
Turn us back. Head for the nearest medical facility.
[ There's a beat of silence, but a slight lurch of the ship tells Peter that Kraglin has followed the order without argument (and a part of Peter is gratified that someone listens to him on this damn team). ]
Everythin' alright, Pete?
Yeah. [ He pauses, wondering how much he ought to share. He frowns a little, then, for Gamora's sake, decides to keep the information under wraps for now. ] Just a precaution. Sooner the better though, Krag.
Aye, Cap'n.
[ The line shuts, and Peter frowns as he turns back to Gamora, rubbing at the back of his neck. He walks cautiously toward her, movements careful like he doesn't want to startle her. ]
You alright?
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As it is, one of her hands keeps flexing her fingers, the other pressing momentarily against her eyes. ]
—Fine.
[ Ground out through grit teeth, and she swallows around the tightening in her throat. She forces her breathing to slow, careful about the way she curls and uncurls her fingers, and then she looks back up at Peter. Her eyes are glassier, her pupils dilated, but she sets her jaw with that determination to overrule the overwhelming heat. ]
... How soon until we return?
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(It's so painfully familiar, that glassy-eyed look, that strange resolution to pretend that everything is just fine, Peter, just fine.)
He swallows thickly, turning toward the sink in the corner. He wets a towel with cold water, fills a glass, and brings both over to her, kneeling in front of her. ]
Not long.
[ A pause, and he tries for reassurance, ]
By the time we get there, you'll probably be recovered, huh?
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[ She refocuses on Peter, watching him busy himself with the sink, but she's relieved when he comes over with the glass and the towel at the ready.
She reaches first for the wet towel, immediately chilled against her fingers. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder to set it on the back of her neck (though she gives a short hiss at the intense difference in temperature), and then she goes for the water. ]
Don't look so concerned.
[Mumbled around the lip of the glass. She's trying for reassurance, but it doesn't have quite the same effect when there's still something of a growl in her voice. ]
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[ Peter. Peter is concerned. Even if he tries to smooth out his expression and force it out of his voice.
Even if he still hears that dangerous sort of edge in her voice, the sort of restrained snarl he hasn't heard directed at him since the shit with the Infinity Stone.
He rocks back, sitting on the deck and frowning at her. ]
Must've been something at the warehouse.
[ As much to her as it is to himself. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feels the start of a headache building behind his eyes, and he gets to his feet again. ]
Might not be just you, either.
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What does that mean?
[ Through that fog, she wants to focus on Peter, even with all that prickling energy that she's keeping in check (or, still trying to, at least).
The glass in her hands creaks in protest as she squeezes a little too much, and she finally eases up before it breaks. ]
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Oof. That's a little intimidating. ]
Just— maybe one of the others is running a fever, too. They might not even realize it. Something in the air? Some kinda residue?
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There was... something on the glass in those containers. I think.
[ She frowns as she tries to remember. ]
There were empty, but the glass was discolored.
[ Another wave of heat, and Gamora grimaces, getting to her feet suddenly with the need to move. She at least sets aside the water so she doesn't break it the next time her fingers clench and curl. ]
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Worry makes his words sharp: ]
And you didn't think that was worth mentioning earlier?
[ Peter's about to launch into something of a lecture, for whatever that'll do either of them, when Gamora abruptly stands. He tenses, taken aback, before stepping toward her in case she needs support. ]
Dude. What're you doing? Sit back down.
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[ Though she says it with far more aggression than she means to. If the fever wasn't so distracting, she'd probably apologize.
As it stands, she's instead inclined to pace – some way to channel that strange energy, to turn it into more than the thrumming of it under her skin. ]
And I didn't mention it because whatever this is should have been filtered out. It shouldn't have—
[ She interrupts herself with a short growl, pressing her knuckles against her eyes as she pauses mid-step. ]
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Yeah, well. We might be dealing with some weird drug shit. Who knows what kind of chemicals that prick might've been messing with?
[ He watches her with an undisguised frown, that terribly familiar sense of helplessness and worry clawing up his throat. He swallows it down as much as he can, tries to tell himself that Gamora will be fine, that she's made to withstand worse things, as she always tells him. ]
C'mon. Drink some more water. Whatever this is, you obviously need to give yourself time to burn it out.
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What do you think I'm trying to do?
[ ... Though she's still somewhat less successful in regards to the hostility.
But she reaches for the water she set aside instead, finishing it off – though more to satisfy him than because she's particularly thirsty. ]
Shouldn't— you check on the others?
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[ He struggles for the words, then gives a vague wave of his hand. ]
—kinda freaking me out.
[ Because he spends a whole lot of his time seeing Gamora as indestructible, as the cool, calm, and collected one. And even if recent events have definitely conspired to wreck the "indestructible" label he had slapped on her – because shit has been scary lately – he still can't help but be shaken whenever he's reminded that she's just as mortal as anyone.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose again, eyes screwing shut against the headache blooming, before he turns to the intercom again. He sends out a ship-wide message – "Hey, uh. If anyone's not feeling well – like, if you're feeling feverish, I guess? – head to the medbay. Please." – and after a few moments, he receives a chorus of responses.
It seems everyone else is fine, which is something of a relief. They also all seem to assume it's Peter that's under the weather, which is probably fine, but it makes annoyance curl and snap in his gut.
He sighs when he gets off the line with Kraglin, who assures them they're on course to the medical facility, and that if he's not feeling so hot, he should take one of those awful-tasting pills and head to bed. Peter only grumbles a response as the line cuts, and he leans forward to press his forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead.
At length, he turns back around, looking to Gamora. ]
Kraglin says we're nearly there. [ As if she couldn't hear everything already. ]
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My hearing is still just fine, Peter.
[ Though she's taken the opportunity to lean against the counter, stopping her pacing as she tries for that slow, grounding breathing.
... It only works so much.
She also pulls the towel from the back of her neck, because it's already warmed through, and she drops it somewhat unceremoniously onto the counter beside her. ]
Just— come here.
[ She sounds far less steady than she did before, and when she raises her eyes to look at him, her pupils have almost completely swallowed up that ring of brown. ]
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The concern he's feeling is making him feel— weird, he thinks. Makes him feel jittery and agitated, and he needs to keep his head on. He forces it down, forces himself to stay calm, because that's how Gamora would treat a disaster like this. He takes a steadying breath, scrubbing his face with his hand.
He follows her direction, though, moving toward her with an undisguised frown. ]
What do you need?
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Give me your hands.
[ Because he runs cooler than she does normally, and now, she can only assume the difference will be far starker than before. Through that strange haze, she knows she wants to touch him still, wants that contact, though she's mindful of the strength in her fingers as she moves to tug his hands up to her face (given that she doesn't want to leave further bruises).
Better than a wet towel, at least. ]
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That's a really weird request. ]
Uh.
[ He lets her guide his hands, though, and he winces at the unnatural heat coming off her as his palms rest against her cheeks. ]
Shit, Gamora. [ Murmured, eyebrows knitting together. ] This is getting pretty bad...
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[ But she turns her face against the coolness of his broad hands, sighing with relief. It settles something in that feverish heat, even as her heart pounds a little too fast, and she glances back up at him again. ]
It has to work its way through my system.
[ Whatever she came into contact with, she at least believes in her modifications and their ability to process this strange toxin – because finally, given how much it's overwhelmed her, her hazy mind is apparently willing to admit that this isn't right. ]
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He brushes sweat-dampened hair from her forehead before returning his palm to her cheek. ]
You sure a towel wouldn't do this job better?
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what the fuck i never got this notif....
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