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[ Unconsciously, he lets out a small, dismayed noise as she pulls away, though he quiets soon enough as she presses against him, his cock caught between them where it curves toward his own stomach. A noise gets punched out of him, and his hands come to rest on her hips. His eyes go half-lidded as he ruts against her. ]

Whatever you want.

[ And that's not an answer, but seriously, whatever is good enough for him, at this point. A part of him thinks he could probably come like this, grinding himself against her stomach. Hell, she could leave him to his own devices, if she really wanted. Water drips down his face, falling in rivulets down their bodies, and his skin feels overheated, stretched too thin and made oversensitive. ]

Mm, that was not what I asked.

[ She slides her hand higher to brush over his face, wiping away water and pushing wet curls back from his forehead. ]

I asked what you want.

[ She likes seeing him like this, though – eyes glazed over, want and need thrumming through every inch of him – and she can practically hear his heart slamming against his ribs with every hitch in his breath. Those little noises that seem just beyond his control are exhilarating, if only because it feels like a glimpse of how freely she could coax responses from him, if she tried.

The hand not on his face traces his shoulder, over his chest – mapping out scars and muscles alike – to trail lower and lower along his stomach. ]

[ He falls quiet for a moment, appreciating the way her fingers briefly card through his hair, the way her touch lingers as it trails down and down and down. He's lost in it for a second, as though trying to predict where she might trail, but he comes back to himself soon enough. ]

Just— anything.

[ Panted out, the sound of his voice nearly lost in the white noise of the water hitting the tile.

But he doubts Gamora's going to accept that answer, and he makes a quick decision: ]

Your hand.

[ Because that seems the most expedient, if he's honest. And blowjobs in the shower sound great, up until your knees are met with unyielding tile and water is getting into your nose and someone slips and bangs their head—

Let's not discuss how much personal experience Peter has on that front. ]

[ This is probably the most practical option for them now. The shower isn't an ideal location for much, because the potential to slip and fall doing almost anything curbs some enthusiasm. But jerking him off? She can do that.

Her fingertips rub slow circles over his stomach, relishing the way his muscles leap and tense, and she slides lower still, to finally wrap her hand around him. All those little mental notes she made of what wrung the best responses out of him, she puts to good use now, stroking along his cock to squeeze and twist, sweeping her thumb over the head. The pace is much less teasing this time, purposeful because he's been so generous, so diligent with her, and she wants to return the favor. ]

Is this what you need?

[ Leaning closer to breathe against his skin, trailing kisses and nips wherever she can reach to taunt him, tease him. ]

[ it feels like it takes ages as her hand wanders downward, as she explores the plane of his stomach, as he tenses and twitches with her touch. But when she finally wraps her hand around him, he lets out a groan, relieved and wanting all at once. He worries, for a brief second, that she’s going to just tease him again, that she’s going to herd him slowly toward that edge until he’s sobbing and begging for it, but—

Thank god, he thinks with that first solid stroke, and his moan this time is a touch louder, trailing off into a low, heated curse. He buries his face against his shoulder, panting against her as he holds her close – one hand tensing over the small of her back with each stroke or twist, the other tangling into her hair at the nape of her neck, plastered against her skin with the water of the shower.

She asks him a question, and for a second, he can only answer with a small, pleased sound and a nod, tilting his head to one side to give her more space to maneuver. Eventually he finds his voice, or at least some of it, and he rasps out, ]

God, yeah. Yes. Just— just like this.

[ She lets him cling to her, hold her close, flush against him, and she can practically hear the hammering of his heartbeat, latching onto every ragged gasp and moan.

"Just like this," she can do.

She drags her teeth along his throat, higher to murmur against the shell of his ear. ]

One day, I'm going to make you beg for me.

[ And that's so much a promise as it might be a threat.

Her wrist twists on another upward stroke, pausing at the tip to trace over sensitive skin over and over in a slow circle. ]

I want you undone.

[ Undone and needy and pleading.

If he lets her, if he trusts her enough to see him that way. ]

[ His breath catches with each drag of her teeth, each press of her lips, each twist of her wrist, and as she whispers against his ear, he—

Okay. That’s. That’s a good fucking promise, apparently, because he lets out a sound that’s very nearly a whine, and he thrusts into her hand desperately, almost frantically. And when the tempo changes, when her hand pauses at the tip of his cock, he stops breathing entirely, hips rocking to urge her back into the same rhythm.

Yeah, he wants to say, definitely on board with that, but coherent thought has escaped him, now. He thinks his voice might have spilled from him at some point, spiraling down the drain with the rest of the water, and all he’s left with is this – the feeling of her hand, her body, her lips and teeth and tongue and breath on him. His grip tightens in her hair, as much to keep her in place as a way to anchor himself.

All he can really manage is another strained, needy noise, and a quick nod. Yep. Yeah. Sounds fucking awesome. ]

[ ... How is it that he sounds even better like this?

A growl rumbles against his ear, approval as much as it is want. The message is broadcast loud and clear, even if he can't find his voice, can't summon up the words he needs to agree with her. He'll look so good under her hand, pleading and squirming and driven closer and closer to the edge until she wants to grant him that release.

Of course, today, she does want to let him come, wants to make him come, which is why she falls into rhythm again. Not too fast, not too slow, but steady and unfaltering. ]

For now, I want you to come for me.

[ Purred into his ear, accompanied by another nip. ]

[ He thinks a swear escapes him on a low moan as she finally picks up again, though he can’t be sure, focused as he is on the rhythm of her hand on him, steady and sure. Her words are almost lost on him, but when they click in place, it’s as much a relief as it is a spur, pushing him forward. He makes a strained sound at the back of his throat – probably something meant to stand in place of Yep, I definitely want that, too – following her rhythm with each rock of his hips.

He kisses her, bruising and impassioned, every ounce of need pushed into it. He licks into her mouth, bites at her lips – inelegant, admittedly, but Peter seems to think it’s effective. His hand curls possessively over the line of her jaw, fingers tangled in her hair. That dark coil of desire and want twists low in his stomach, bounds through his veins, pulses in his ears – deafening over the hiss of the water hitting the tile. After a while, he pulls back to bury his face against her neck. He goes quiet as that edge looms closer and closer, save for the ragged drag of each inhale and exhale. ]

Fuck— [ Low and heated after a few seconds of silence, shoved out on a rasp. ] Fuck, Gamora, I’m close, I’m—

[ He breathes out a few more swears, a few more oaths – most of it incoherent and nonsensical – though he hardly realizes he’s spoken. He quickly loses the rhythm, bucking into her hand faster and faster, chasing his release. It slams into him all at once with a force that nearly bowls him over. He comes with a shout, with Gamora’s name on his lips. His grip on her tightens, and his entire body tenses as he thrusts into her grip.

It feels like an eternity; it feels like an instant. The spray of the shower washes away his spend, and that wave falls away from him, leaves him loose and trembling against her. ]

[ Lips and teeth and tongue – she kisses Peter with every ounce of herself that she has. Because that's what it is: a piece of herself that she's sharing with him, wholeheartedly and genuinely. No one else has seen her like this, truly; no one has been on the receiving end of Gamora's passion and want that wasn't purely performative. This, with Peter? None of it is for show. She wants all of him, and she wants him to have her.

... Maybe not all of her, yet. Maybe that's still too overwhelming, but—

She wants him still to have her.

It's so hot experiencing him like this, and she loves every hitch in his breathing, every curse and tense of his muscles, his fingers on her skin as he loses control. So close—

And he comes crying her name, and she loves it.

She feels him pulsing in her grip, cum splashing over her fingers and her wrist, only to mingle with the water, leaving their skin with barely a trace left behind. She doesn't keep stroking him, doesn't want to overwhelm him or cause any undue pain with however oversensitive he might be, and instead, she winds her arms around his back, holding him close and letting him shiver through the aftermath.

Her lips brush slowly over his shoulder, turning to nuzzle at his soaked hair. ]

I suppose now we can actually shower.

[ For a long, irrational moment, Peter thinks he might actually melt into a puddle and wander his way down the drain along with everything else, that only Gamora’s arms around him manage to keep him together. It’s a dumb thought, though, and Peter smiles privately with it against her neck.

Eventually, when he feels a little more like himself, he straightens a little. The spray from the shower falls against his crown, forcing his bangs into a point against his forehead. He shoves his hair away from his face, huffing out a laugh. ]

Oh, right. [ And his voice is a little raspy, still not fully recovered but wandering closer. ] That thing we came in here to do.

Yeah, I guess we can do that.

Yes, that thing.

[ An absent little smile is still on her lips as she runs her palms affectionately down his back, not trying to pull away just yet. ]

Do you think you can stand on your own without falling over?

[ She's certain he can, but that doesn't stop her from giving him grief. ]

[ He snorts out a derisive noise. ]

Shut up.

[ Though there's not even a bit of heat behind the words. For a second or two, it seems like standing might actually be a tall order, but eventually he reluctantly pulls himself away from where he'd practically plastered himself against her front.

He spreads his hands, fingers splayed. Then, without inflection, ]

Tah-dah.

Congratulations.

[ Dry as her tone may be, it's belayed by the smile that hasn't disappeared as she draws her arms away, reaching instead for the soap to hand it over. ]

Just get rid of whatever dirt you brought home, and then we can eat.

[ He takes the soap from her, face scrunching up with distaste as he makes some nonsensical, mocking sound – something that says, "oooh, I'm Gamora and I never let Peter catch a break, ooooh."

Mature to the last, Quill. ]

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