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[nostalgiabomb]

You've reached the voicemail of Star-Lord. Hit me with your best shot. Or— crap, wait, I should've quoted "Call Me" instead. Aw, dammit. Is it too late to— [ BEEP ] [ text | video | voice | action ] gif credit

USERNAME star.lord RESIDENCE community housing: floor 13, room 4 OCCUPATION perimeter guard: surveyor / salvage & repair specialist

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He doesn't waste breath with answering aloud – which is funny, maybe, considering of the two of them Peter is the one who constantly wants validation, wants to hear the words aloud, as if speaking them provided them more weight, more depth.

I'm here, she says, and Peter exhales, something just barely voiced as his hand tightens over the line of her jaw, and the small sound of it borders on desperate. (afraid.) She didn't go very far, but he still pulls her back in to properly kiss her, to slot his lips over hers. ]

[godslay]

[ It's only for a bare second that they're apart, but even that feels like too much.

She kisses him with everything that she has, but instead of riding him again, finding that rhythm over, she tightens her knees around his hips. She leverages them both to roll onto their sides without so much as budging Peter from inside of her, as she keeps one leg carefully hitched over his to drag him as close as he can get. Her breathing is getting heavier by increments as she refocuses on their connection, like that will keep anyone from ever tearing them apart.

It's foolish; she knows it's foolish, but that doesn't stop her from having those brief moments of looking for something to cling to. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a quick, startled noise as she shifts them, though the way her knees lock around his hips keep them from having to reposition. In a different moment, he might offer a few words of praise for the maneuver.

But as it is right now, he rocks against her, each thrust becoming a little sharper, a little harder. One of his hands finds the small of her back, guiding her to meet each snap of his hips. ]

Gamora—

[ A heated whisper against her lips, something that might've been a growl if it were even just a little louder. ]

[godslay]

[ She'll never get enough of the way he says her name. The quality of his voice sends that singing heat through her again as he leads the pace, keeping her in perfect sync with every sharp thrust.

Her fingers slip up, tangling in his hair and holding him close, keeping him there for presses of lips, the near clack of teeth. It's intense, but in a different way from before: she wants to cement being alive with him.

Like that's enough to beat back their demons.

A flicker of that fear makes her pull at Peter's messy curls, her breathing hitching on a needy moan. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The kiss turns messy, almost bruising, and that feeling of need ramps up in him, sends his blood boiling and singing through his veins by turns. He bites at her lips, breathing heavily and letting out a small, pleased sound when she tugs at his hair.

Those sparks traveling down his spine pool together, building and building into a flame, and he lets out a breathless groan of his own against her lips. He pulls her in more firmly against him, his hand shifting from her back to the meat of her thigh, fingers digging into firm muscle. ]

Fuck— [ Moaned out, breathless and heated. ] Fuck, Gamora, I'm close, I'm—

[godslay]

[ She loves seeing him at this point: need gets the better of him as he chases after his orgasm, just within reach. He grabs her harder, fucks her with abandon, and the dip in his voice sends thrills running up and down her spine.

Her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling that much more, her other hand coming down to curl around his jaw and keep his face so close to hers. ]

Come for me. [ Her voice is hoarse, torn between a purr and a growl. ] Do it, Peter, come for me.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out another groan, almost desperate this time, and he loses his rhythm to chase after his release, each inward thrust becoming a little rougher, a little sharper, hips pistoning against hers and—

The wave crashes over him, and he moans her name, cursing and swearing oath after oath as he spends himself into her. He pulls her in flush against him, limbs tangling with hers, his mouth falling open as he gasps in breath after frantic breath.

And as the wave recedes, his hips twitching and stuttering before finally slowing to a stop. He pulls himself from her, letting out a small, contended sound. He takes a second or two to catch his breath, his hands slowly loosening their grip on her, a sweat-dampened brow resting against hers. ]

[godslay]

[ It's perfect – in the way that makes Peter so perfectly imperfect.

(Because she would never call Peter perfect, because no one is. But he's everything she needs and more.)

Her fingers comb through his hair as he comes down again, still holding his face sweetly. ]

I love you.

[ And this, she offers without prompting, without being lost in her post-orgasmic haze. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Three times in one day has to be some sort of record, and Peter breathes out a small laugh, something almost wondering. ]

I know.

[ His turn to be Han Solo, apparently, and he pries his eyes open to smile at her, to brush her hair away from her face, to sweep those long curls back over her shoulder. ]

I love you, too.

[godslay]

[ maybe he can give her context for that reference someday

She nuzzles her nose gently against his (all warm and sweet in ways she never lets anyone else see). ]

We're going to need to wash Groot's sheets before Mantis drops him off.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a low sound, something almost childish. (The sort of sound a kid might make first thing in the morning, begging their mom for "just five more minutes." ]

We've got time.

[godslay]

Enough time?

[ Listen to how skeptical she is.

But she's also not moving to get out of bed; her fingers are still petting back his hair, and she's stealing little kisses here and there. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He makes another sound – a soft, contented hum, this time. ]

More than enough.

Plus, it's not like he ever goes right to bed, anyway. Factor in the time it takes to chase him down and pry him off the ceiling or wherever he manages to end up.