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you wish i was yours (and i hope that you're mine)

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It was unusually frigid and damp within the tunnel system of the cave, though nothing rivaled the coldness in dark eyes as she glared at her captive. His head is bowed, shoulders hunched forward, messy locks falling into his closed lids. She takes a moment to overlook him once more, he was bare at the torso with the exception of that damned leather jacket he so adored, and even more barren below the waist.

"Face me," instructs the ombre-haired woman: she's pleased by his willingness to comply. Green eyes are blackened and blown to astronomical proportions, nearly the size of Xandar's multiple moons; she almost quirks a smirk at that. "What have I told you about attempting to discover my whereabouts after I so kindly joined your battle against Thanos?"

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but lowers his head once more solemnly. "I don't think 'kindly' is the appropriate word for kicking my jewels around like a hackysack." murmurs the brunet, whose hair is roughly yanked, garnering his attention once more.

"Look at me when I address you, Peter Quill." She ponders the unfamiliar word for a second, has the mind to ask, but she refuses to compromise her position as the superior one. "No more usage of your vague, Terran vocabulary, otherwise my hand will be forced once more."

"Like this wasn't enough?" Peter attempts to shift his wrists from their uncomfortable bindings, some type of platelets in the form of handcuffs preventing him from doing so.

Gamora presses her boot against his chest, not tolerating the blatant disrespect. She applies pressure, can see the reddening of his fair-skin beneath her ministrations and is relatively pleased, continuing until he thumps back in a heap upon the grimy, hard ground. He writhes at the temperature, she presumes, and hisses as he angles his hips off the ground.

But the closer she inspects him, the more apparent his arousal becomes. She finds vague intrigue at the sight of his cock twitching so primitively to life, watches as muscular thighs attempt to right himself, but to no avail. He does manage to wriggle himself against the rigid wall, chest heaving as he pants his exertion, dark eyes flickering to meet Gamora's once more; there seems to be a hint of fight still left in him, and it strangely excites her.

It elicits a pressure in her abdomen, a fire at the very pit of her stomach, that she hadn't experienced in years. Desire, it seems to hiss in the breeze that passes through the mouth of the cave, tickling the fine hairs near her ear, making her shiver involuntarily as she straightens her spine.

"Was the other Gamora too spineless to treat you as you were meant to be treated?" inquires the former assassin, crouching down into a squat, eyes greedily travelling over his form; drinking in the sight of him. Where she had first found him a repulsive and impossible sight to bare, she now finds little things about him attractive—like the coarse hair that scatters his rugged form, from pectorals, down his chest and even further to the neatly-trimmed hair surrounding his cock. "You mean nothing to me, and I have no remorse for what has happened to you."

Peter visibly recoils at that, brows furrowing tightly at the center of his forehead, bottom lip poking out into an affronted frown. "You don't get to talk about her like that." He spits with venom dripping from his tone, sneering at the doppelganger: "Not after everything that's happened, not after Thanos took her away from me . . . "

Gamora almost winces at the name of her deceased father figure, it was still raw to an extent, even if she had played a hand in destroying the man. "Thanos took nothing from you, he took everything from me." She growls, eyes narrowing as she darts an arm forward, lithe fingers grasping the base of the brunet's throat: "You had a choice, you let her slip through your fingers like sand on Terran beaches, it was your fault."

"No, no . . . That's—that's not true . . . "

"Does it hurt knowing that every promise you ever dedicated to her never came to fruition?" It was honest curiosity, something she contemplated when avoiding detection from those still seeking to hunt her to right her misdoings; after she knew of her counterpart, she oftentimes wondered what she could have been, but will never would be.

"I loved her," gravels the brunet as the fingers continue to clench at his throat, swallowing deeply: "And I love you all the same."

Gamora releases his throat, can see the prick of tears begin to flow freely down his dirt-encrusted cheeks. She swears that there is an ounce of remorse within her system, swimming through her veins and tugging at the long-thought dead strings of her heart. For the first time since she had captured the male, who had been inconspicuously stalking her for what she could only assume was months, she breaks eye contact and releases a gruff sigh through her nostrils.

"I am not her, and I never will be." She acquiesces, muttering more to herself than to her audience. "Not now, at least, my opportunity for change died with my father." Her eyes are softened when she glances at Peter, who sniffles pitifully, maneuvering his shoulders to swipe away what tears he could. "However," she clenches her jaw tight. "There is one thing that I would like to steal from you, one thing that I am certain your Gamora never thought to take."

Peter makes an inquisitive noise in the back of his throat, a hopeful kind of noise that she has rarely heard in her line of business—she usually beat the hope out of her captives and set marks, never gave time to even begin to formulate hope. "If it's my heart, by all means, cut it outta me and serve it to yourself on a fucking platter. You can have it," he manages to quip lightheartedly, though the weathered expression on his countenance states otherwise.

An emerald hand reaches out to drag the pads of her fingers across one of his pectorals, smirking at the sight of the muscle jumping beneath her touch. She presses him back more firmly against the cave wall, straddling his lap in one swift motion, one hand fitting upon his shoulder while the other grasped his throat for leverage.

Before he can utter a peep, however, whether of approval or otherwise, she captures his mouth in a heated kiss. She wastes no time with being tentative or learning the curves of his lips, just dedicates her time to taking what was always rightfully, in some universe, hers. Her tongue drags across his bottom lip, tasting the dirt that clings there, roughly working his mouth open with hers.

He inhales sharply against her mouth, but allows the insistent intrusion. His head falls painfully back against the wall, though it was a welcome pain to the numbness he had been experiencing for months now. He aches to free his hands, to reach out and touch her, to pretend that she was genuinely his; yet he can't, still bound by the cuffs that have leave leeway to escape.

Her tongue traces every crevice of his hot cavern, grazing the roof of his mouth, eager for more of the heady taste she so desperately craves. It was maddening, comparable to her life growing up as a child of Thanos; wild and unpredictable, like an adrenaline rush, one she yearned for, like the first kill she had been assigned.

It started from the soles of her boots, surged up the veins in her legs to wrap around her thighs, ultimately sending the electricity to her core. She could feel the steady pulse between her legs, suddenly resenting the skintight leather of her attire. She finds herself focusing back on Peter, ravishing his bottom lip and tugging it between her teeth.

The sound he makes, a strangled cry that she was sure to remember, goes straight to her abdomen; and Gods, she was so slick with wanton desire, needed to relieve the ache that gradually builds as the seconds tick by. "So weak," she chastises as she reaches a hand down between his sturdy thighs, trembling slightly at her touch, slinking her small but powerful fist around his cock: "pathetic, even."

"Only for you," croaks the brunet, whose hips jerk into the welcoming warmth of her fist.

"You would do anything I asked, wouldn't you?" Gamora presses, fingers moving tantalizingly slow along his length; she focuses her thumb on the head, smearing the pre-cum that has already gathered there. Peter nods vigorously, no shame about it, though his cheeks are delightfully crimson at the admission. "Would you give your life for mine?"

Peter whimpers pathetically as she begins a steady movement on his cock, stroking him from base to tip and back. Her hand is a firm, reassuring pressure, twisting on the upstroke, and sliding down roughly. He never liked it dry-fit, always preferred lube or even spit in the most sticky of situations, but he couldn't deny the depravity of it all.

Gamora feels smug as she abruptly halts her movements in favor of standing briefly to remove the offensive leather garment that adorns her hips, shoving them down her scarred thighs to reveal her mound. Jade eyes are blown wide at the sight of her bare, pleading with glassy eyes to touch, to worship like she deserved, but she wasn't one to grant demands other than her own.

Peter opens his mouth, yet no words utter from his lips—she had successfully taken away the rational side of his brain, she muses, and had effectively rendered him speechless. She settles back down onto his lap once more, resuming her previous position. She tugs at his cock, feeling it twitch within her palm a few moments, before rising slightly to position him at her entrance.

His eyes roll deliciously as she slowly sinks down upon his cock, reveling in the burn of being stretched so profusely. Groans emanate from the man as he becomes fully sheathed inside; she was warm and wet, and it felt like home to the man who had been roaming so aimlessly without her. Her velvet soft walls embrace him, clenching tight around him, so unbearably so that he has to force himself not to cum just yet.

"This is what you were so vehemently searching for, was it not?" Gamora prods, scoffing as she sinks the blunt edges of her nails into his shoulders. "To be taken advantaged of? To be dominated and to be used to all of your potential?"

Peter thrusts his hips toward the heat he was trapped within, anticipating the friction the action would cause. "You can take whatever you need, I'll do whatever you want." He sounds breathless already, eyes hazy and unfocused as he maintains eye contact. She swivels her hips experimentally, and his eyes are rolling once more: "Gamora . . . "

Never had her name sounded so euphoric from someone's mouth before, and she was intent to force the name out once more. She begins to move her hips, slowly at first, working her way up to a grander momentum that would certainly leave him emptying inside her. But for now, she finds pleasure in teasing him, leaving him practically drooling at the mouth.

Her thighs clamp tight around his hips, sliding up and down his cock in a practiced rhythm, dark eyes examining every obscene glint that flickers across his countenance; the way he stared at her like she was the most sultry being in the galaxy, like she held the key to the universe itself, like he needed her like he needed the graces of the Gods, to deliver him from whatever fate he had been condemned to.

She uses that as fuel as she ruts against him, the salacious sound of skin slapping skin and the plunging of his cock into her wet cavern driving her senses into overdrive. Her eyes are almost pitch black with the debauchery of it all, taking what was hers and shamelessly at that.

His hips weakly meet hers with abandon as she slams down upon his cock, forcing him in deeper. His head has fallen back against the wall once more, eyes clenched tightly shut, arms struggling to rid himself of the cuffs—it was a fruitless attempt, but watching him struggle so gravely leaves her releasing a ragged moan.

Her hands meets his neck once more, applying gentle pressure there, until the man is left gasping within her clutches. He struggles to inhale, eyes pleading with her, cock pulsing at the intensity of it all. And before she registers what was happening, he steels and goes rigid, releasing deep within her, eyes crossing and blinking rapidly as he spasms.

His thighs tremble as he twitches with reckless abandon into her soaking heat, releasing an outstretched groan. "Holy shit," he elongates the vulgar word as the violent waves of his orgasm wrack through his system, rendering him temporarily blind, save for the white-hot pulse in his vision.

She releases his throat in favor of fiercely rubbing her clit, still mercilessly slamming down on his cock. Seeing him come undone like that, like he had experienced a revelation by the Gods, leaves her choking on a sob as she practically gushes around his cock—clenching him tight, holding him still, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she cums. Her head falls back, perspired locks freely flowing behind her, milking him of his release.

Peter is still fidgety by the time she slowly descends from her high, his eyes never once abandoning her form, seemingly transfixed. "Please," he gravels, mouth barren and void of moisture. "tell me this is real."

Gamora yearns to soothe the worried lines from his forehead with her fingers, but thinks against it. She can feel him softening inside her, so she raises slightly, allowing him to slip out from within her. "You mean nothing to me, Peter Quill." She retorts, though her eyes are sympathetic.

The green-skinned woman rises to her feet, wavering slightly from side to side, as she tugs the leather leggings back up her calves and thighs. She haphazardly wipes her hands upon the leather, ultimately staining it, not that she bothers to linger on that for long. Peter looks absolutely broken by the statement, and she swears she can see the prick of tears beginning to form once more within his green irises.

He looked so wrecked slumped there, shoulders hunching forward and mussed hair protruding in every direction and in impossible angles. Sweat drips steadily from his brow, down his cheek and subsequently pools within a collar bone; she wants to taste it, to see if it was as intoxicating as the rest of him. "Gamora, I—"

She raises a hand to silence him: "You are free to go, however, I must warn you about finding me once more." She pauses to fiddle with the cuffs, hearing a satisfying 'click!' as the treacherous thing was removed; she presses a button and they shrink to a size she can shove into one of her pockets. "Next time I will not be so forgiving."

Peter kneads his wrists in an attempt to alleviate the tension there, gazing up at her through his lashes—almost coy, in a way. "Maybe next time should be a thing, I'm down to see how ' unforgiving ' you can be." She heaves an annoyed groan, withdrawing her dagger from one of her holsters to press firm against his throat. "Like I haven't been through this before," he seems almost grateful to be in the position he was in, strangely enjoyed the steel of the blade against his Adam's apple.

"You are the biggest idiot in the galaxy," concludes Gamora as she reluctantly removes the blade from his throat, crossing her arms over her chest instead. "Take your leave, and for the Gods' sake, take your filthy clothing with you."

He doesn't need to be told twice, the fierce expression she wears tells him that she wasn't playing around this time. He rushes to put on his things while she busies herself with picking the dirt from beneath her nails with the blade, eyes narrowed in concentration. She glances up at him periodically, taking in a few, final glimpses of his bare form.

"Mark my words, Quill, if you return—"

Before she can complete the threat, however, she was being pulled into an abrupt embrace; she grimaces at the affection, not quite used to being intimate in this way with anyone, let alone a Terran with whom her counterpart had relations. She shoves him forcibly away, not taking notice of the weight that falls into her back pocket, pointing a stern finger to the mouth of the cave.


Peter raises his hands defensively, though he wears a broad grin. He swipes his fingers across his mouth, fondly lingering at the teeth marks that are seared into his skin. He glances over his shoulder at her in parting, eyes bright with mirth, wiggling his fingers in departure; after-all, Peter Quill never gave up on what he wanted.

She studies his retreating form, fighting the urge to smirk back at the man. Perhaps her counterpart had the right idea all along, though she would definitely need more convincing in the future. She shifts to jut her hip out, arms crossing over her chest once more, when she feels interference in her back pocket.

Brows furrowing, she makes to retrieve whatever was slipped in there, only to withdraw her hand with a small device cradled within it. Wrapped around it was a thin cord, the cord being plugged into the device itself. When she glances where the form had retreated, she had the expression of perplexity blatant on her countenance, yet couldn't question the gift since the man was long gone.

She hesitantly places one of the buds within her ear, and toys with the device until a title appears upon the screen—she assumes the last read title, but receives a surprise when an admittedly raucous melody begins to filter into her eardrums.

♪♫never gonna give you up,
never gonna let you down.
never gonna run around and desert you.
never gonna make you cry,
never gonna say good-bye.
never gonna tell a lie and hurt you. ♪♫

She clenches her fist around the device, glancing toward the mouth of the cave once more, this time with an ounce of fondness gracing her features. "What an idiot."