[ 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. ]
[ It's weird, how she says that like a fact. "Water is wet. Fire is hot. I want you." He's caught somewhere between pleased and disbelieving for a second, and he feels warmth creep up neck, settle in his cheeks. Embarrassment, probably, and he huffs out an uneasy sort of laugh. ]
[ She glances up at him again, though she still keeps her face pressed against his palm. She shifts one hand from her cheek to press against the side of her neck, and it elicits another soft sigh of relief. ]
I mean that I want you.
[ His hands are nice, and that lowered temperature helps, but there's something about the insistence that makes it clear she isn't simply referring to this contact. ]
[ He swallows thickly, letting her move his hands where she wants them, and part of him thinks this is patently unfair, that she's only saying shit like this when her filter is clearly on the fritz.
Gamora probably doesn't mean what he thinks she means. And more than that, she probably doesn't mean what she thinks she means, because whatever toxin or strange substance she's dealing with right now is making her weird.
Something tugs in him, though, something makes him want to surge forward, to move his hands along her exposed skin, to slip his fingers beneath the loose collar of her – his – shirt, to map out the contours of her body—
It's— suddenly a lot warmer in here, isn't it? And now he's seriously lamenting the choice of a long-sleeved shirt.
He swallows, gaze darting to a nearby cabinet. ]
Maybe, we, uh. Ought to just— sit here. Quietly. [ So no one says anything they might regret. ]
[ He's not looking at her anymore, and through that haze of heat, she's— confused by it. Did she say something wrong?
She moves his hand once more, resting his palm against the tendon where her neck meets her shoulder (exposed thanks to the low dip of that t-shirt she's borrowed), and again, his skin is still cool in comparison to her own. She turns his other hand to rest his knuckles against her cheek in search of another cool surface. ]
Why? [ She frowns, cocking her head slightly as she considers him. ]
Do you not want me?
[ ... Though maybe it's a failing of that foggy warmth that she doesn't specify what capacity she means it in – both the question itself and what she'd just said. ]
[ 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.
[ That confusion eases with the words that come tumbling out of his mouth, reassuring as they are. He wants her, and that was what she'd thought, what she'd assumed, but he's so careful that, even with the warmth spreading insistently through her veins, she'd needed to be sure.
His knuckles brush over her cheek, and it coaxes a quiet sigh from her, something that's almost a purr as her eyes slip closed, but— he pulls his hand away. On reflex, she reaches up to catch his wrist before he can get too far, looking at him again with those darkened eyes, but it's something more than the disorienting heaviness that hangs behind her gaze now. ]
Talk?
[ Right. Talking. She'd said they should do that, and she wants to, has wanted to for weeks now, but—
Everything she can focus on now is the heat and him. Physical contact is exactly what she'd wanted when they'd been returning from the moon, and she'd wanted to do so much more, to grab him and pin him against something, to kiss and touch and—
The hand she'd used to guide Peter's fingers to her shoulder moves to his jaw instead, and she cups his face (hot against near-chilled skin by comparison), just— looking at him. ]
I want you.
[ She says it simply but quietly as her fingers travel to his hair. ]
All of you.
[ And despite the heat and the distracting sensations that accompany his skin on hers, she means all of him. She doesn't just want this, the physicalness of it, but for now, so much of what she can concentrate on is the press of his skin to hers, the way she remembers it felt to kiss him, to be pushed up against him, and—
Her fingers tighten in his hair (not brutally so, but enough for a grip). ]
[ Oh, that's not fair, the way she looks at him, the way she practically purrs at him. He feels his breathing pick up, turn slightly ragged, and the hand resting against her neck slides down, fingers brushing against the skin bared by the crooked collar of her shirt.
He sucks in a breath between his teeth, startled when her fingers curl into his hair – not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to keep him pinned in place. A strange fog seeps into his head, blotting out the rest of the room, the rest of the world, and all he can see is Gamora – the bright magenta at the tips of her curls, the darkness of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her neck meeting her shoulder—
His eyes flick up to meet hers, his pupils blown wide and skin flushing under the heaviness of her gaze. ]
Fuck, Gamora—
[ He can feel his pulse pounding in his veins, hears his heartbeat slamming against his chest like war drums. Heat blossoms from his chest, clouds his mind, makes the tips of his fingers buzz, and he just barely hears her question.
Tell me what you want, she says.
And for a long second, the only thing he thinks back is, want, want, want—
Even with her hand still on his wrist, he cups her cheek – something almost possessive, without any of the hesitation of even moments ago. ]
[ If she wasn't so distracted, she wouldn't hesitate to ask him what that means specifically, what that want of his extends to; she would try to understand how they should define themselves and what they need from each other. She would try to come to an agreement of what this is, but—
The fire sparks low in her gut, and a rush of heat, of that need to touch every last inch of him fuels in her blood, because his skin is against hers, his eyes trained on her and nothing else, and has he ever looked quite so gorgeous, quite so irresistible? His fingers trail over her bared skin, and suddenly, that's not enough. He's touching her, but she wants more of his hands, more of him, and that involves more contact.
That heat fogging her mind is past the point of careful consideration, and before she can stop herself, before she can think anything about it, she's using that grip she has on Peter's hair to drag him in for a kiss.
Whether the flush that runs through her is from the fever or from the kiss, she doesn't care enough to know; right now, all she can focus on is that intense rush of adrenaline, of want and need and things she doesn't have a name for beyond zeroing in on Peter and every point of contact she can find.
Restraint? Oh, that's gone out the window, and the sound dredged up from her over-warm throat to breathe against his lips is absolutely a moan. ]
[ If this had been just moments ago, Peter would've resisted more, would've made a point to remind them both that there's something wrong with Gamora, that sickness or poison or something is clouding her head, messing with her judgment.
But it's not moments ago. It's now, and a strange sort of heat surges through him impatience and need and want all knotted into a tangled mess, rolling through him, knocking down any restraint he might've had. She moans against him, and he makes a strained, needy noise in return, the hand at her cheek sliding back to tangle in her hair. His other hand leaves her shoulder, rucks up the hem of the too-large-for-her shirt so he can smooth his palm over the soft skin of her waist.
He presses in against her, crowding her against the counter, licking into her mouth. It's— shit, his skin feels two sizes too small, every nerve blazing with heat. Sweat beads against his skin, and his head swims, but as long as he focuses on Gamora, as long as he focuses on the shift of her body against his, it's fine, isn't it? ]
[ There it is – exactly what her nerves had been screaming for ever since they were back on board, and she'd wanted to get her hands all over him, to slam him against the nearest available surface, to mark him and demonstrate exactly who he belongs to.
At another moment, the thought would make her balk. Instead, here, she's only that much more eager to return the kiss, a short gasp catching in her throat as his hand meets the plane of skin at her waist, cool against the fever-hot temperature radiating off of her. She pulls back just to breathe, another sound spilling from her – partially a mumble of his name, but tumbled into a needy growl – as she tugs at his hair, grabbing at the long-sleeved shirt that is now completely in the way. ]
Don't— you dare stop touching me—
[ Still a snarl, still an order, and everything around her feels hazy and coated in heat, like she's standing in front of a blazing sun, but somehow—
She doesn't care.
Every second that her body screams at her to pay attention to the extreme condition it's falling into, every insistence and blind demand of that need for self-preservation is thrown by the wayside in favor of pulling at Peter's shirt, of being as close as she can get. ]
[ A better, more coherent Peter Quill might laugh warmly at that command while Gamora's tugging at her shirt. He might say, "You're making it kind of hard, considering you're in the middle of stripping me," or he might challenge her and ask, "Or else what?"
But as it is, he moans when uses his hair like reins, tugging his mouth away. That same strained noise escapes from the back of his throat – ostensibly agreement – and he helps her strip him of her shirt. It's clumsy and awkward and made far more difficult by that mounting need in him, that voice screaming want, want, want, that visceral need to keep touching her, to stay close, to keep their skin pressed together.
They finally tear his shirt away, and if he were more present, he'd notice the sound of more than a few seams snapping and popping in their haste. For now, he just chucks the offending article of clothing away to the deck and instantly forgets about it. His skin is flushed, hypersensitive to her touch, and he can feel heat bounding through him, leaving him dizzy, making his eyes ache in that peculiar way fevers always tend to. That headache still pounds behind his temples, stronger now than when he first noticed it, but he forgets about that, too. His hands ruck up Gamora's – his – shirt, both hands exploring her skin, tracing the curves of her body, and he mouths at her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat, drinking in the heat that had worried him only moments before. ]
Her body is practically shrieking it with every second that ticks by, but Gamora doesn't pay it the slightest bit of heed because Peter is shirtless, the expanse of his back and shoulders and chest exposed to her, and it doesn't take much time at all before his hands and lips return to her own skin.
Yes—
Tipping her head back, she leaves her throat exposed to him, a shudder running through her entire system – though whether it's from the fever or his hands, she can't entirely differentiate.
That's fine.
She explores the newly bared swaths of skin, tracing muscles that cord over his shoulders, dragging nails down, down, down – enough to mark him, to leave red scratched across his back, though intentionally light enough to avoid breaking skin or actually bruising. Despite the fogging need, she's not trying to hurt him (doesn't want to in any way he might dislike), but she wants to leave her mark on him, all the same. ]
[ He groans against her as her nails score her back – not enough to hurt, but enough to feel, and heat surges through to his gut, screams through his veins. Her hands on his back, the warmth of her palms against his already blazing skin, leaves him dizzy, leaves him, breathless, wanting. He bites at her neck, teeth grazing the tendon, easing it away with a swipe of his tongue.
And when she says his name like that, rough and filled with desire, he lets out another moan.
He wants— needs— wants— needs— more. It shrieks through every nerve, every fiber of his being demanding contact, like he needs to be touched, that he needs to touch, and he can hardly help the way his hands explore her skin, like they move of their own accord.
He pulls himself away, readying himself to lift Gamora onto the counter, but when he pulls back, his head swims, the room sways, and grunts out a startled sound, his hands leaving Gamora to catch himself on the edge of the counter, to press against his brow. He screws his eyes shut against the spinning of the room, and once everything settles, he goes right back to kissing Gamora.
Apparently this need has burned that sense of self-preservation right out of him. ]
[ That bite reminds her all the more that the roughness is so very much up her alley, and she moans with it, arching against him, nearly trembling with it as that flash of not-quite-pain feeds into the burning in her head, her blood, pooling between her legs—
God, if her heart wasn't already about to pound right out of her chest, it just might now.
A growl of protest catches behind her teeth when he pulls away, even though she realizes what he's about to do, but— he nearly falls against her, and really, if she was more coherent, she'd have immediately brought this to a complete halt to check on him. Unfortunately, she's easily distracted by his lips pressing to hers, by the reinitiation of heat and contact. ]
Need— you, Peter—
[ His name again, words spilling against his lips in a husky, low tone, breaking on another moan as she grabs at every part of him she can reach.
It's too hot, too much, and she feels like she's going to melt right out of her skin, but she can't— stop. Whatever this is, whatever fuels it, makes it impossible to sort through the fever to rationality, and all she knows is that as long as Peter keeps touching her, she can deal with it (that she doesn't want it to end).
But as fixated as she is, she's shaking, fingers unsteady and uncoordinated as they slide down his sides, around his stomach to reach for his pants. It's easy to pass it off as that overeagerness, that desperation to get closer, to get more (while almost completely forgetting to abandon her own clothes yet), because the slip of her usually-dextrous fingers doesn't faze her in the slightest. ]
[ Fuck, the way she says his name is like fucking music, and if he were in a better place for it, he'd appreciate it, he'd revel in it, he'd grin and laugh with it.
For now, he lets out another low noise, almost a growl, as she pulls him in closer, as her hands rove over his body. And he does the same for her, the material of her (his) shirt loose enough on her lithe frame that he can move it aside without a fuss as he explores her skin. (she's burning up, a distant, almost buried voice reminds him. this is a problem.) Her fingers slide across his overheated skin, leave trails like fire, and when she fumbles at his belt, he groans against her lips. He can't help the way he moves against her, hips shifting as need buzzes through him—
Or— or maybe that's an actual buzzer. A shrill noise from the intercom sounding over and over, trying to get their attention, interspersed with a gruff voice shouting Peter's name with growing impatience. Peter pulls away for a second, startled by the noise, stunned and dazed and split on what to do. ]
[ The voice, however, is not saying Gamora's name, and it's definitely not Peter trying to get her attention, so she doesn't care. If anything, the noise out of her is more impatience, aggravation when Peter pulls away, and she instead presses her lips to his throat, teeth and tongue and persistence, wanting him to focus on her again, to stay engaged and keep feeding that fire.
Except—
She can't find purchase with his belt. She can't make her fingers work enough to figure out the catch, and that shaking has spread deeper into her bones, her muscles finally starting to wane in protest. Her knees buckle as bright spots fill her vision, and the heat, the heat— ]
Peter—?
[ But this time, his name comes on confusion, distress, her throat too tight as her next breath takes even more effort.
... Staying upright is about to become very difficult. ]
[ Okay. Okay, what the fuck, that's distracting, Gamora, and—
That voice from the intercom – Kraglin's voice, Peter thinks, but does it matter? – practically shouting, now, worry and irritation edging into his voice.
"Pete, I swear to god, if you don't answer me right the hell now—"
Peter makes an irritated sound of his own, turning back toward Gamora to pick up where they left off, except— except her hands are slipping away, except she's swaying dangerously, except—
The way she says his name this time cuts straight through the fog, and that worry (that fear) from earlier makes him suck in a sharp breath. ]
Oh, shit—
[ This, croaked out as he catches her as best as he can. It's an effort, but he lifts her up as he had tried to earlier, helps her to sit on top of the counter, putting her at roughly eye level with him. Both of his hands bracket her face. ]
What's wrong? What's happening?
[ (Kraglin's voice behind him, shouting something about a quarantine, something about the Nova Corps, something about shit that doesn't matter, because Gamora's skin is far too hot against his palms, her breathing far too strained.) ]
Gamora, c'mon. Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.
[ If she had the presence of mind, Gamora might have some complaints about Peter simply picking her up and putting her where he pleases, but as it stands— well, she isn't able to stand.
She can barely focus on Peter now. His hands against her face are almost cold, even with his own fever, but she doesn't turn away from him, trying to keep her eyes on his as he tells her to breathe.
Reaching up, her fingers curl loosely around one of his wrists, but there's no real grip to it, no pressure as she tries to draw a slower breath in, tries to keep her eyes open. ]
My— mods—
[ —should have taken care of this.
Should have burned whatever this is out.
But instead, that fever is raging out of control, and the self-regulation in her system can't keep up. ]
I can't—
[ Hoarse, as her eyes try to close, as she slumps just a bit more in his grip. ]
He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]
[ Concentration isn't coming to Gamora, even after Peter manages to lay her out on the small bunk provided in the infirmary. The room is spinning, swarmed by what looks like heat waves, though she knows it's simply the distortion in her own vision. She's trying to listen to Peter and the voices from the intercom, trying to focus on something more than how heavy her body is, how it feels like swimming through thick mud just to keep her eyes open.
She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
[ At that question, Peter sort of— blinks. Because he knows about as much as Gamora knows, honestly. Which is basically nothing. ]
Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.
[ With more conviction than he feels.
He should’ve asked for more details, but— that’s not important. Not really, anyway, in the face of everything else. His hand tightens around hers, wincing at that unnatural heat she’s giving off. He should— get another towel. Get her some water. Give her those disgusting fever reducers. Something, because that helplessness is clawing at his ribs again, climbing up his throat, and—
Is this happening again? Really? A million things left unsaid. Someone else slipping through his fingers while he can only watch—
No. No. Okay. He sucks in a breath, pushing himself to his feet. Towel. Then water. Then medicine. He should’ve done this earlier, should’ve done literally anything, but something had come over him, something had clouded his head, made him think with his dick before his brain.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He stumbles over to the sink, grabs a new towel and dampens it with cold water, fills a new glass with water. He digs through a nearby cabinet, retrieves the little tube with that shitty-tasting medicine, and brings it all back to Gamora. He brushes the towel across her face, wiping away sweat. ]
[ She hadn't... quite made out that part of the conversation, unfortunately.
The towel is so relieving, though, that cool brush against her face almost too much, but she doesn't want him to pull it away.
Her vision wavers again as she tries to keep her gaze focused on Peter, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut in an effort to steady herself.
Pull it together.
She forces herself to take a deeper breath, shifting and trying to get her elbow underneath her to sit up, but— she just shakes and slumps down against the bunk again. ]
The hospital. [ He thinks that’s what they’re waiting on, anyway. That’s where they were headed, after all, and it logically follows, with Rocket’s talk of med techs and junk. ] We’re almost there.
[ She struggles to sit up, and Peter makes a small, unhappy sound when she does – and he outright winces when she falls back to the bed. ]
Hey, just— just relax, alright?
[ And he reaches out, moving to help her sit up. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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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[ She says it matter-of-factly, though it lacks some of that growl from before. ]
I want you.
[ And that must be some of the fever, at this point, but it's no less honest as she relishes the coolness against her face. ]
no subject
You mean you want my lower body temperature.
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[ She glances up at him again, though she still keeps her face pressed against his palm. She shifts one hand from her cheek to press against the side of her neck, and it elicits another soft sigh of relief. ]
I mean that I want you.
[ His hands are nice, and that lowered temperature helps, but there's something about the insistence that makes it clear she isn't simply referring to this contact. ]
no subject
[ He swallows thickly, letting her move his hands where she wants them, and part of him thinks this is patently unfair, that she's only saying shit like this when her filter is clearly on the fritz.
Gamora probably doesn't mean what he thinks she means. And more than that, she probably doesn't mean what she thinks she means, because whatever toxin or strange substance she's dealing with right now is making her weird.
Something tugs in him, though, something makes him want to surge forward, to move his hands along her exposed skin, to slip his fingers beneath the loose collar of her – his – shirt, to map out the contours of her body—
It's— suddenly a lot warmer in here, isn't it? And now he's seriously lamenting the choice of a long-sleeved shirt.
He swallows, gaze darting to a nearby cabinet. ]
Maybe, we, uh. Ought to just— sit here. Quietly. [ So no one says anything they might regret. ]
no subject
She moves his hand once more, resting his palm against the tendon where her neck meets her shoulder (exposed thanks to the low dip of that t-shirt she's borrowed), and again, his skin is still cool in comparison to her own. She turns his other hand to rest his knuckles against her cheek in search of another cool surface. ]
Why? [ She frowns, cocking her head slightly as she considers him. ]
Do you not want me?
[ ... Though maybe it's a failing of that foggy warmth that she doesn't specify what capacity she means it in – both the question itself and what she'd just said. ]
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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.
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His knuckles brush over her cheek, and it coaxes a quiet sigh from her, something that's almost a purr as her eyes slip closed, but— he pulls his hand away. On reflex, she reaches up to catch his wrist before he can get too far, looking at him again with those darkened eyes, but it's something more than the disorienting heaviness that hangs behind her gaze now. ]
Talk?
[ Right. Talking. She'd said they should do that, and she wants to, has wanted to for weeks now, but—
Everything she can focus on now is the heat and him. Physical contact is exactly what she'd wanted when they'd been returning from the moon, and she'd wanted to do so much more, to grab him and pin him against something, to kiss and touch and—
The hand she'd used to guide Peter's fingers to her shoulder moves to his jaw instead, and she cups his face (hot against near-chilled skin by comparison), just— looking at him. ]
I want you.
[ She says it simply but quietly as her fingers travel to his hair. ]
All of you.
[ And despite the heat and the distracting sensations that accompany his skin on hers, she means all of him. She doesn't just want this, the physicalness of it, but for now, so much of what she can concentrate on is the press of his skin to hers, the way she remembers it felt to kiss him, to be pushed up against him, and—
Her fingers tighten in his hair (not brutally so, but enough for a grip). ]
Tell me what you want.
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He sucks in a breath between his teeth, startled when her fingers curl into his hair – not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to keep him pinned in place. A strange fog seeps into his head, blotting out the rest of the room, the rest of the world, and all he can see is Gamora – the bright magenta at the tips of her curls, the darkness of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her neck meeting her shoulder—
His eyes flick up to meet hers, his pupils blown wide and skin flushing under the heaviness of her gaze. ]
Fuck, Gamora—
[ He can feel his pulse pounding in his veins, hears his heartbeat slamming against his chest like war drums. Heat blossoms from his chest, clouds his mind, makes the tips of his fingers buzz, and he just barely hears her question.
Tell me what you want, she says.
And for a long second, the only thing he thinks back is, want, want, want—
Even with her hand still on his wrist, he cups her cheek – something almost possessive, without any of the hesitation of even moments ago. ]
I want— I want— you.
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The fire sparks low in her gut, and a rush of heat, of that need to touch every last inch of him fuels in her blood, because his skin is against hers, his eyes trained on her and nothing else, and has he ever looked quite so gorgeous, quite so irresistible? His fingers trail over her bared skin, and suddenly, that's not enough. He's touching her, but she wants more of his hands, more of him, and that involves more contact.
That heat fogging her mind is past the point of careful consideration, and before she can stop herself, before she can think anything about it, she's using that grip she has on Peter's hair to drag him in for a kiss.
Whether the flush that runs through her is from the fever or from the kiss, she doesn't care enough to know; right now, all she can focus on is that intense rush of adrenaline, of want and need and things she doesn't have a name for beyond zeroing in on Peter and every point of contact she can find.
Restraint? Oh, that's gone out the window, and the sound dredged up from her over-warm throat to breathe against his lips is absolutely a moan. ]
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But it's not moments ago. It's now, and a strange sort of heat surges through him impatience and need and want all knotted into a tangled mess, rolling through him, knocking down any restraint he might've had. She moans against him, and he makes a strained, needy noise in return, the hand at her cheek sliding back to tangle in her hair. His other hand leaves her shoulder, rucks up the hem of the too-large-for-her shirt so he can smooth his palm over the soft skin of her waist.
He presses in against her, crowding her against the counter, licking into her mouth. It's— shit, his skin feels two sizes too small, every nerve blazing with heat. Sweat beads against his skin, and his head swims, but as long as he focuses on Gamora, as long as he focuses on the shift of her body against his, it's fine, isn't it? ]
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At another moment, the thought would make her balk. Instead, here, she's only that much more eager to return the kiss, a short gasp catching in her throat as his hand meets the plane of skin at her waist, cool against the fever-hot temperature radiating off of her. She pulls back just to breathe, another sound spilling from her – partially a mumble of his name, but tumbled into a needy growl – as she tugs at his hair, grabbing at the long-sleeved shirt that is now completely in the way. ]
Don't— you dare stop touching me—
[ Still a snarl, still an order, and everything around her feels hazy and coated in heat, like she's standing in front of a blazing sun, but somehow—
She doesn't care.
Every second that her body screams at her to pay attention to the extreme condition it's falling into, every insistence and blind demand of that need for self-preservation is thrown by the wayside in favor of pulling at Peter's shirt, of being as close as she can get. ]
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But as it is, he moans when uses his hair like reins, tugging his mouth away. That same strained noise escapes from the back of his throat – ostensibly agreement – and he helps her strip him of her shirt. It's clumsy and awkward and made far more difficult by that mounting need in him, that voice screaming want, want, want, that visceral need to keep touching her, to stay close, to keep their skin pressed together.
They finally tear his shirt away, and if he were more present, he'd notice the sound of more than a few seams snapping and popping in their haste. For now, he just chucks the offending article of clothing away to the deck and instantly forgets about it. His skin is flushed, hypersensitive to her touch, and he can feel heat bounding through him, leaving him dizzy, making his eyes ache in that peculiar way fevers always tend to. That headache still pounds behind his temples, stronger now than when he first noticed it, but he forgets about that, too. His hands ruck up Gamora's – his – shirt, both hands exploring her skin, tracing the curves of her body, and he mouths at her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat, drinking in the heat that had worried him only moments before. ]
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Her body is practically shrieking it with every second that ticks by, but Gamora doesn't pay it the slightest bit of heed because Peter is shirtless, the expanse of his back and shoulders and chest exposed to her, and it doesn't take much time at all before his hands and lips return to her own skin.
Yes—
Tipping her head back, she leaves her throat exposed to him, a shudder running through her entire system – though whether it's from the fever or his hands, she can't entirely differentiate.
That's fine.
She explores the newly bared swaths of skin, tracing muscles that cord over his shoulders, dragging nails down, down, down – enough to mark him, to leave red scratched across his back, though intentionally light enough to avoid breaking skin or actually bruising. Despite the fogging need, she's not trying to hurt him (doesn't want to in any way he might dislike), but she wants to leave her mark on him, all the same. ]
Peter—
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And when she says his name like that, rough and filled with desire, he lets out another moan.
He wants— needs— wants— needs— more. It shrieks through every nerve, every fiber of his being demanding contact, like he needs to be touched, that he needs to touch, and he can hardly help the way his hands explore her skin, like they move of their own accord.
He pulls himself away, readying himself to lift Gamora onto the counter, but when he pulls back, his head swims, the room sways, and grunts out a startled sound, his hands leaving Gamora to catch himself on the edge of the counter, to press against his brow. He screws his eyes shut against the spinning of the room, and once everything settles, he goes right back to kissing Gamora.
Apparently this need has burned that sense of self-preservation right out of him. ]
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God, if her heart wasn't already about to pound right out of her chest, it just might now.
A growl of protest catches behind her teeth when he pulls away, even though she realizes what he's about to do, but— he nearly falls against her, and really, if she was more coherent, she'd have immediately brought this to a complete halt to check on him. Unfortunately, she's easily distracted by his lips pressing to hers, by the reinitiation of heat and contact. ]
Need— you, Peter—
[ His name again, words spilling against his lips in a husky, low tone, breaking on another moan as she grabs at every part of him she can reach.
It's too hot, too much, and she feels like she's going to melt right out of her skin, but she can't— stop. Whatever this is, whatever fuels it, makes it impossible to sort through the fever to rationality, and all she knows is that as long as Peter keeps touching her, she can deal with it (that she doesn't want it to end).
But as fixated as she is, she's shaking, fingers unsteady and uncoordinated as they slide down his sides, around his stomach to reach for his pants. It's easy to pass it off as that overeagerness, that desperation to get closer, to get more (while almost completely forgetting to abandon her own clothes yet), because the slip of her usually-dextrous fingers doesn't faze her in the slightest. ]
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For now, he lets out another low noise, almost a growl, as she pulls him in closer, as her hands rove over his body. And he does the same for her, the material of her (his) shirt loose enough on her lithe frame that he can move it aside without a fuss as he explores her skin. (she's burning up, a distant, almost buried voice reminds him. this is a problem.) Her fingers slide across his overheated skin, leave trails like fire, and when she fumbles at his belt, he groans against her lips. He can't help the way he moves against her, hips shifting as need buzzes through him—
Or— or maybe that's an actual buzzer. A shrill noise from the intercom sounding over and over, trying to get their attention, interspersed with a gruff voice shouting Peter's name with growing impatience. Peter pulls away for a second, startled by the noise, stunned and dazed and split on what to do. ]
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Except—
She can't find purchase with his belt. She can't make her fingers work enough to figure out the catch, and that shaking has spread deeper into her bones, her muscles finally starting to wane in protest. Her knees buckle as bright spots fill her vision, and the heat, the heat— ]
Peter—?
[ But this time, his name comes on confusion, distress, her throat too tight as her next breath takes even more effort.
... Staying upright is about to become very difficult. ]
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That voice from the intercom – Kraglin's voice, Peter thinks, but does it matter? – practically shouting, now, worry and irritation edging into his voice.
"Pete, I swear to god, if you don't answer me right the hell now—"
Peter makes an irritated sound of his own, turning back toward Gamora to pick up where they left off, except— except her hands are slipping away, except she's swaying dangerously, except—
The way she says his name this time cuts straight through the fog, and that worry (that fear) from earlier makes him suck in a sharp breath. ]
Oh, shit—
[ This, croaked out as he catches her as best as he can. It's an effort, but he lifts her up as he had tried to earlier, helps her to sit on top of the counter, putting her at roughly eye level with him. Both of his hands bracket her face. ]
What's wrong? What's happening?
[ (Kraglin's voice behind him, shouting something about a quarantine, something about the Nova Corps, something about shit that doesn't matter, because Gamora's skin is far too hot against his palms, her breathing far too strained.) ]
Gamora, c'mon. Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.
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She can barely focus on Peter now. His hands against her face are almost cold, even with his own fever, but she doesn't turn away from him, trying to keep her eyes on his as he tells her to breathe.
Reaching up, her fingers curl loosely around one of his wrists, but there's no real grip to it, no pressure as she tries to draw a slower breath in, tries to keep her eyes open. ]
My— mods—
[ —should have taken care of this.
Should have burned whatever this is out.
But instead, that fever is raging out of control, and the self-regulation in her system can't keep up. ]
I can't—
[ Hoarse, as her eyes try to close, as she slumps just a bit more in his grip. ]
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He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]
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She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
She's better than this.) ]
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Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.
[ With more conviction than he feels.
He should’ve asked for more details, but— that’s not important. Not really, anyway, in the face of everything else. His hand tightens around hers, wincing at that unnatural heat she’s giving off. He should— get another towel. Get her some water. Give her those disgusting fever reducers. Something, because that helplessness is clawing at his ribs again, climbing up his throat, and—
Is this happening again? Really? A million things left unsaid. Someone else slipping through his fingers while he can only watch—
No. No. Okay. He sucks in a breath, pushing himself to his feet. Towel. Then water. Then medicine. He should’ve done this earlier, should’ve done literally anything, but something had come over him, something had clouded his head, made him think with his dick before his brain.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He stumbles over to the sink, grabs a new towel and dampens it with cold water, fills a new glass with water. He digs through a nearby cabinet, retrieves the little tube with that shitty-tasting medicine, and brings it all back to Gamora. He brushes the towel across her face, wiping away sweat. ]
Just— gotta wait, alright?
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[ She hadn't... quite made out that part of the conversation, unfortunately.
The towel is so relieving, though, that cool brush against her face almost too much, but she doesn't want him to pull it away.
Her vision wavers again as she tries to keep her gaze focused on Peter, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut in an effort to steady herself.
Pull it together.
She forces herself to take a deeper breath, shifting and trying to get her elbow underneath her to sit up, but— she just shakes and slumps down against the bunk again. ]
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[ She struggles to sit up, and Peter makes a small, unhappy sound when she does – and he outright winces when she falls back to the bed. ]
Hey, just— just relax, alright?
[ And he reaches out, moving to help her sit up. ]
Let’s get some water in you, huh?
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what the fuck i never got this notif....
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