There are only two bunks aboard the Milano. You all say you'll retrofit at the next port of call, close off the cargo space behind the nacelles, perhaps, but other events interfere - a heist job here, a village to save there, some political entanglements that leave Rocket in an existential huff and Drax quiet and thoughtful. You all try different variations, in the meantime - Peter sleeps in the flight deck chairs so you can have his bunk, and spends the next day yawning and complaining about his back. Rocket sleeps on a pad on the floor so that Drax can have the other bunk; Rocket claims speciesism and makes Drax sleep on the floor so that he can have the other bunk.
Everyone snores. You imagine that you do too; it's a question of being the first to go to sleep so that you can't hear them.
You miss privacy - you suspect that everyone misses privacy - but you don't regret the company, at least, not yet. After so long among people who were a threat to you, every second, it's a pleasure to be among friends; it's a pleasure to rest your hand on Drax's shoulder, or - very carefully, and after asking - stroke Rocket's soft ears
Even with Peter - pelvic sorcery or no - there's measure of comfort, of trust. He is opportunistic, yes: but he is decent.
After a few weeks, you kiss him, just to see how it is. It's nice; his species has a coarse pelt on their faces, which is scratchy, and he tastes like those terrible jerky snacks he's always leaving laying around the flight deck, but his hand on your waist is friendly and undemanding, and when you step back out of his space he lets go of you immediately.
You suspect he wants to talk about it as little as you do, and anyway, when would you talk about it? Planetside you always have work to do. Shipside you're all in each others' pockets. Better to let it be.
You all come back drunk from celebrating a particularly successful grab - the data core from a wrecked survey ship, recovered from the black market and turned in for a hefty reward. On any other night you'd work it out; somebody would wind up sleeping on the dining benches or something. Tonight you're loose-limbed and exhausted and drinking out of a shared bottle sitting on the beds, and when Peter drifts off, curled around your back, you shrug and lay down. Rocket and Drax are singing; eventually someone will cut the lights off. Peter flings a fond arm over you and you curl close in to his warmth and drift off.
You wake up again a few hours before morning, ship time. Rocket is curled into a snoring ball on the floor; Peter's curled up against you, face pressed against the back of your neck.
Perhaps it's some sort of human pheremone. Perhaps it's simply that it's been so, so long - not since you were last undercover on Xandar, and that was - complicated. But you are suddenly, sharply aware of his body, of how close you are, of how easy it would be, just now, to have sex with this half-Terran, half-crazy sort-of-captain who's laying behind you with his nose pressed to your neck. You feel like every inch of skin that's touching his tingles, and heat pools between your legs, and it's been so long since you've felt like this. It hasn't really been something you've had time to think about, in the last few months.
There must have been some shift in your breathing; you can feel him wake up, his breath changing. His thumb traces sleepy little circles on your hip; it feels good. It feels really good.
You decide. You shift your hips back, against him, in deliberate invitation.
His breath catches. He's erect - you're all mammals here, you've seen him fresh out of the shower, you know more or less what to expect from his anatomy. He holds very, very still for a moment, then traces a questioning finger up and down your stomach. It feels like all the nerve endings light up under his hand. So much of your body hasn't been touched outside of combat in years. You shift back - no, be honest, you grind back, and he chokes off a surprised noise. You can't turn to face him in the narrow bunk; you're not sure you want to. It seems easier this way, in the dark, no eye contact.
He shrugs the blanket farther up over both of you, and his hand slips up under your shirt. He noses at your neck, nips at your jaw; you stifle a gasp as his hand cups your breast, circles the nipple. It feels like it sends sparks down your body; you press back against him, twisting an arm awkwardly to tug at the waistband of his pants. The hand that's on your hip has grown bolder; he cups the curve of your ass, dips between your legs and finds you wet. He hisses out a breath. His hips are working against you, now; you press back, aching, willing yourself closer.
He pulls away for a second to wrestle with his pants, shoves them halfway down. "Yes" you whisper, as quietly as you can. It's the only thing that you feel like needs saying, right now.
Rocket shifts on the floor, mumbling in his sleep. You both freeze.
"Shit," Peter mouths against your neck, but Rocket flops over again and starts snoring - louder than before - and no, dammit, you are doing this. You take his hand and move it back onto your hip; he gets the idea - you can feel his grin - and pushes your skirt up, fingers stroking against your hopefully-not-too-unfamiliar anatomy. It's good, it's good, but it's not what you want, and you press back, finding his hip with one hand and fitting the tip of his - external genitalia, you're not entirely sure which is the human term - against the wet ready ache of your internal genitalia.
He presses his face into your shoulder, shuddering. His lips find the nape of your neck; his hand is still stroking at your breast, in a way that makes your whole body shiver, and his other hand takes a firmer grasp on your hip, and - yes. Yes. He pushes, thrusting into you a little bit at a time. It's a lot to take - you suspect you're not perfectly anatomically compatible, but you want it, and you're soaking wet, and that makes it easier. You clench around him involuntarily, panting - you press your mouth into your arm to stifle the sound. He nips at your shoulder again, traces up your neck with his lips. You wrap a hand in his hair and pull him close, rocking together, and oh, it's good, it's so good. It's awkward and wonderful and you want more, more, and then your eyes open and you realize that Drax is completely, completely awake.
You wish you could say that you freeze, but it's more of a pause. You don't think Peter can see him - it's very, very dark, and your night vision is artificially enhanced. But you're absolutely sure, from the look on his face, that Drax can see you just fine.
He doesn't look - upset, mad, like you should be embarrassed. He looks sleepy, and peaceful. Your eyes meet, in the dark. You want to look away, but you hold his gaze, silently, for a long minute.
His mouth crooks up in a smile.
You think of all the times in the last month that you've rested your hand on his shoulder. You think of pulling him to safety in the wreck of the Iris. You think of waking up in hard vacuum with Peter Quill's arms around you. You think of how much you have trusted these people with, in how short a time.
After another long minute, you smile back.
He shifts, watching you, arm pillowed under his head, and it should feel intrusive or strange, but it feels comforting.
Peter shifts and something - amazing happens, the angle is just right, and you close your eyes, pushing back against him, and yes, yes, your whole body clenches as you come around him and you bite his arm to keep from making noise. He pants out one, two, three breaths, hips going staccato, and then he's coming too, pulsing inside you, and your body gives a sympathetic, pleasurable shudder.
You lay there for a long moment, both breathing hard, and then you disentangle yourself, turning to face him. He cups your face in his hands, tenderer than you expected, and kisses you; you kiss him back, arm thrown around him. Even in the dark you can see him grinning. Drax has already fallen back asleep, across the aisle. You drift off to sleep with Peter stroking your hair.