nostalgiabomb | riverview: ic contact;

[ She can't quite hide her smile when Peter nips at her; she absolutely earned it. ]

I– [ Another kiss. ] —got distracted.

[ But since she has Peter here anyway, she slides both hands under Peter's shirt, shoving it up – and only pulling away to try and coax it over his head. ]

[ He huffs out a breath, an obvious show at an annoyance than anything earnest, but he obligingly lifts his arms, letting her pull his shirt up and over his head. ]

Hey, you know where we could be doing this?

[ She drops his shirt carelessly to the floor, pressing up against him (even as she's still fully clothed), seeking out his throat again. ]

Mm, there's laundry on the bed. That isn't folded.

[ A bite this time – not to hurt him, but to ride that edge of pleasure and pain. ]

[ His mouth opens to respond, except the first thing he utters— ]

We—

[ —quickly melts into a breathless moan before he can think to stop it. He tips his head back against the wall, a hand twisting into her hair at the nape of her neck.

Ugh. Shit. No. Okay. He really can't let Gamora keep getting her way like this. It's not a good look for him. ]

We could move it.

[ By which he means shove it all to the floor and figure it out later.

But most importantly, look at that! A coherent thought! Good job, Quill. ]

[ Give the boy a gold star!

She hums around the mouthful of his skin, digging her teeth just a little harder into the muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. He's definitely going to have the imprint of her bite left behind, pressed in deep, and she only lets go to breathe across the wet patch in the wake of her mouth. She blows cool air over the heated, swollen mark, tracing each tooth's indent with the tip of her tongue.

And then, finally: ]

Come up with a better plan.

[ She kisses that blooming bruise affectionately. ]

One that doesn't involve shoving our clean clothes onto the floor.

[ Because she knows how Peter thinks, after this long living together.

She smooths her hands down to his hips, sliding around to find his belt – though without undoing it yet. ]

[ He lets out a frustrated sound, something that's almost a growl.

Listen, that was a sound plan, okay? Sure, they might have had to sacrifice a few clean shirts, but Peter's thinking about the greater good, here.

The greater good being, of course, sex. Really fucking good sex.

His breath hitches when her hands rest at his waistband, and he struggles to think of a new idea. ]

Shove it in the basket?

[ It'd all be wrinkly as hell if they went that course, sure, but whatever. Peter can live with wrinkly t-shirts. God knows he'd done exactly that for most of his life. ]

[ Gamora's eyes flicker to Peter's face with that frustrated little growl, her lips curving with approval (and a little amusement). ]

So that it looks like we're wearing days' old clothes?

[ Bad plan.

Slowly she draws one end of his belt out, slips it through the loops in his pants. ]

Try again.

[ She pops the button on his fly next, her mouth moving down to his clavicle for another mark. She doesn't bite this time, but she sucks until she knows he'll turn red and purple right on his collarbone. ]

[ ... you know, at this rate, he's really forgetting why he was even making a big deal about getting to the bedroom, especially considering Gamora seems to be moving on well enough without it.

But at this point, it's the principle of the thing, and Peter's a stubborn bastard when he wants to be (which, incidentally, he almost always wants to be). Unfortunately, it's a difficult matter, trying to think coherently while Gamora's mouth is hot against his bare skin, while her hand is hovering just at his waistband, maddeningly close to his dick.

He lets out a shuddering exhale, fingers tightening in her curls. Then, in a rush, ]

There's a second bed.

[ Formerly Peter's, now Groot's.

Sorry, Groot. ]

[ Oh, hey, better plan.

(They can wash the sheets later.)

She lets go of the new hickey, peppering kisses up his throat, flicking her tongue over every sensitive spot she can remember, before making it across his jaw to steal his lips in another searing kiss. She lets it drag on, deep and heated and edging into a need she likes to keep tucked in her back pocket (that tiny bit of composure she holds onto).

She finally breaks away, a little breathless (maybe vaguely hoarse). ]

I can work with that plan.

[ Except now...

She only gets his zipper down before she lets her hands fall away from his pants entirely. ]

[ For a while there, he was really starting to think she planned on ignoring his (frankly brilliant) idea and just keep him huddled against this stupid wall.

Not that he's minding that course of action, the longer the kiss goes on, and a part of him is making the turn from resignation to wholehearted acceptance—

But then she flips the script on him again, pulling away and leaving him chasing after her a little.

—wait, what?

And his brain struggles to shift gears again, his progress made all the slower with the way she unfastens his fly, the way she steps back. Peter reels for a second, before his expression pinches. ]

You're so confusing.

[ But he pushes off from the wall, wrapping his hands around her waist as he ushers them both – finally – into the bedroom. ]

What's your point?

[ She lets Peter herd her into the bedroom, but she draws away again to drag her shirt over her head, tossing it off into the empty laundry hamper (instead of the clean clothes on their shared bed).

She turns back to him with her thumbs hooked in her waistband, her breasts bared, not quite pushing her pants out of the way. ]

Do you really want to complain that much?

I never complain.

[ says Peter Quill, also known as “Whine-Lord.”

But he pauses, drinking in the sight of her – silver scars etched into smooth green skin, her curls falling over her shoulders – and making no move to conceal it.

Fuck, Gamora’s gorgeous – like, he doesn’t know how, but he forgets that, sometimes. He’s so busy thinking about how cool and smart and badass and kind and totally out of his fucking league she is, that he somehow forgets she’s the deadliest woman in the galaxy and the hottest one, too. It takes moments like to provide a much needed reminder. A smack in the face that leaves him startled and staring.

Man, he’s got it so bad. He’s so goddamn in love with her.

He nudges the door shut with the heel of his boot – out of habit, rather than necessity – before he closes the space between them. He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Gamora’s pants. ]

Let me?

[ It's purely because of the way he's looking at her that Gamora doesn't immediately roll her eyes.

Peter Quill never complains and never lies. Obviously.

But he looks awestruck for a moment, and the light in his eyes, the wonder and warmth... it catches Gamora off guard; it would make her self-conscious in another moment, if she hadn't seen it on his face before.

(It still makes her smile.)

He follows after her, steps in close, and Gamora looks up into his face as his fingers tuck lightly into her pants. The way he asks permission isn't necessary, she would think, but she appreciates it. He's always looking for consent, for confirmation, and even though it's easily thrown aside in more frantic moments, she values the time he takes to ask for an allowance to her body. He doesn't assume it belongs to him.

Which is exactly why she's so happy to give herself, anyway.

She nods, pulling her thumbs out, smoothing her hands up his forearms instead. ]

I'm all yours.

[ A blanket permission.

Because she is her own, but she shares what belongs to her with him. ]

[ He gives her a chance to kick off her boots before he rests his palms against her sides, slipping his fingers down into her waistband. He hooks a finger around her panties and slowly pushes it all down, taking his time like he's unwrapping a gift.

She's perfect, silver scars and all, and she's all his, his girl, and fuck, he loves her. Stupid, how he can love all those songs from his childhood on Earth, but it hasn't been until recently that they all clicked into focus and started making sense.

Sure, it's corny as goddamn hell, but it's true.

He offers an arm to help her balance as she steps out of the last of her clothing, his other hand smoothing up along her bared side. ]

[ She rests her weight briefly on Peter's arm as she steps out of everything left, kicking her pants and panties alike out of the way before she closes the distance between them again, pressing up against him fully. She's completely naked, but his pants are still in the way – undone, half open.

She leans up, her breasts against his bare chest, to let her nose knock gently against Peter's, exhaling lightly across his lips, but not quite kissing him. ]

So, is this what you wanted in here?

[ Her lips curl in a slow smile as she winds her arms around his neck. ]

[ He takes a second or two, just feeling the softness of her skin, tracing the line of her hips, up along her waist, thumbs brushing at the lower curve of her breasts. ]

Gettin' there.

[ And the word is similarly murmured against her lips, his mouth curving in a smile. ]

You can't blame me for wanting to take a second to get a good look at my girl, can you?

[ Oh.

It's stupid – absolutely absurd – how immediately Gamora smiles when he says "my girl." She'll deny the tiny hitch in her breathing until her very last breath, but it's there, along with the twisting, giddy warmth in her chest. She never thought someone would be able to make her feel like this (she never realized these feelings even existed), but Peter makes her heart sing every single day.

Stupid.

But she loves it.

Because she loves him. ]

You look at me everyday, Peter.

[ And she hopes he never stops.

She plays with his hair, lightly and affectionately running her nails across his scalp. She's not pulling again, not yanking his head back to get at his throat or draw those breathy little whines out of him; she's just touching him, relishing the contact. ]

Weren't you in such a rush before?

[ She punctuates the teasing lilt in her voice by rolling her hips forward, undulating slowly and pointedly against him. ]

[ His nose wrinkles a little, and he gives her a look that somehow manages to express that she's being the absurd one. ]

So? I like looking.

[ He doubts that'll ever change.

The roll of her hips against his cock catches him off-guard, and he lets out a quiet sound at the back of his throat.

Right. They were in the middle of something. And he offers lightly, ]

Distracted.

[ It seems to be the running theme of the evening.

He ushers her towards the edge of Groot's bed, kicking off his boots as he goes. ]

[ She breathes a faint laugh, ever so soft, as she backs towards Groot's bed, crawling up the (less) messy pile of blankets, putting just a touch of distance between her and Peter. ]

You like looking?

[ She doesn't lie down or lean back, but makes herself comfortable on her knees as she runs her fingers through her hair, pushing her curls away from her face. Her hand leaves magenta locks, trailing her palm down her own throat, nails teasing lower to her breasts. ]

You could have said something earlier.

[ He finally shucks his boxers and pants, kicking them off and away to be scooped up later, as he follows her onto the bed. ]

I mean, it's not like it's ever been a secret.

[ God knows how often Gamora's caught him just staring at her, even before they were officially together. This month alone, she's probably snapped him out of more than a few dazes, his cheek propped up by his fist, one of those stupid, dreamy smiles curling his lips. ]

Mm, subtlety isn't your strong suit.

[ Sometimes, it's exasperating. But others, she's charmed by that particular smile, that look he gets on his face when he's just been fawning over her. She didn't understand why he did it or what he got out of it, but more often now, she's caught herself watching him with her own soft smiles.

It's hard not to stare, sometimes.

Her fingertips trace the curve of her breast, the fine point of her nail flicking across the bud of her nipple. ]

You can look a little longer, if you like.

[ He looks thoughtful for a second, his gaze caught on the way her fingers ghost along her breasts.

... and he's startled by the way the thought makes him hesitate. Not for long, though. ]

Much as I appreciate the offer, I kinda wanna get to the hands-on part of the demonstration, you know?

[ Specifically, the part where his hands are all over her. He likes that part. It's a good part. And Peter, impatient as he is, is pretty sure they've put off moving to this phase long enough. Like, he got distracted, sure, and maybe that's on him, but he would very much like to get to the audience participation portion, please.

It's why he reaches out, moving to replace Gamora's hand at her breast. ]

[ As much as she enjoys teasing him, she's also incredibly fond of when he touches her. His hands are bigger than hers, his palms broader, fingers longer, and she appreciates the callused brush of well-worn skin with his sure and steady grip.

She likes his hands, basically.

She lets her fingers fall away from her breast, and her back curves, arches ever so slightly in a sort of offering for Peter. ]

Then by all means.

[ Help yourself. ]

[ Well, that's one hell of an invitation, and it quickly punches the air out of him before he can recover. He licks his lips giving Gamora one last appreciate once-over.

He kneels on the bed in front of her, claiming the space like he was always meant to be there. His hand cups her breast, thumb teasing at her nipple, and curls his fingers of his other hand over her cheek, tilting her head up to claim a slow, heated kiss.

He pulls away eventually, pressing his lips against the pulse point just beneath the hinge of her jaw, his thumb caressing the silver lines etched just beneath her eye. ]

[ Gamora’s learned with Peter that “slow” doesn’t have to mean “less intense.” He’s cooler than she is, but not unbearably or truly noticeably so, and it still feels like a clash of heat and want when he slots into her space with all the ease in the world. She shivers under his touch, pressing herself into the hand on her breast and indulging in that deep kiss.

(Sometimes, she thinks she could kiss Peter for hours and never tire of it.)

Breaking away, she breathes slowly, her eyes sliding shut as he trails his lips lower. It’s effortless, how he finds that spot on her throat, and she shudders in his grip, one of those soft moans slipping free. She always feels hyperaware when he touches the deep grooves of a scar, but she no longer recoils or grimaces with it; she lets him touch without a second thought, knowing that, strangely, he likes them.

Fingers find his hair, her other hand resting on his shoulder and kneading ever so lightly, like a contented cat. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject