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The corpse soldiers lay twitching where they fell. Only Nebula and her redheaded, black-garbed companion still stood. “Sister,” Nebula slurred, broken jaw still shifting back into place after encountering a soldier’s boot.

“I didn’t come to fight you,” Gamora said. Blood dripped from a scrape down her shoulder – a scythe’s near-miss.

“Of course not.”

“The Horde is vanquished. We don’t need to do this.”

Nebula’s gaze flicked to her companion and back. “I think we do.” She stalked nearer, predatory. Gamora’s bones rang with the song Peter called fight-or-flight, but Gamora ever knew fighting – or fucking.

Nebula gripped Gamora’s hip, fingers like vises. She brushed her lips to Gamora’s neck, and she whispered to Gamora’s skin, “Did you miss me?”


Nebula shoved her backwards. “Stupid. I’ll give you something to miss.” The redhead was at her arm now, watchful, still. Nebula turned and found her mouth. She kissed the woman how she used to kiss Gamora: to bruise.

It still bruised, even from a distance. Rocket would call that efficiency.

“Wow. Don’t think you missed me that much.” Nebula slid a possessive hand over the woman’s hip. “Girlfriend have a name?”

Gamora’s pulse stuttered. “I thought she was with you.”


“The name’s Natasha.” Two daughters of Thanos gaped at the woman. She smirked back. “I don’t like corpse soldiers, either.”

“Huh.” Nebula’s hand stayed, but the gleam in her eyes was new. Speculative. “Sister?”

“I’m in,” Natasha volunteered.

“Me, too,” Gamora said, obscurely, idiotically hopeful. “I am, too.”