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Their mouths finally meet and Peter almost can’t believe it.
He kisses her with abandon, both hands tangled in her hair, holding her close, closer, while her arms wrap around him and pull him in. It’s everything he’s been dreaming of and more, because Gamora is ablaze with a desire he could have never imagined and it’s intoxicating, so much so that breathing is no longer a priority, and all he wants, all he has ever wanted is to taste her lips, to caress her every inch, to eliminate any distance between them.
Nimble fingers slide across the fabric and slip underneath to find warmth, searching mouths travel over tingling skin, diving into secret nooks, nibbling and suckling and eliciting stifled moans. Eager hands pull at the garments, unbuckling and unzipping and unbuttoning, discarding the clothes onto the ground as they blindly stumble toward the bed. The last scraps of fabric come off as Gamora lands on the mattress and Peter breaks contact for a moment, to marvel at her and drink it all in.
As his gaze leaves hers to wander downwards, the passion in his eyes turns into something else entirely.
Scars. Gamora’s body is littered with them. Faded old marks and newer dark ones; jagged wounds from a thousand fights on a hundred planets and precise ones from the heartless surgeries meant to turn her into a cold-blooded war machine. Along her ribcage, across her stomach, down her legs, so many that Peter asks himself how he could have never noticed, before realizing she hardly ever uncovers herself. Her body is a battlefield and she has been fighting tooth and nail for decades.
A flurry of snatched blankets and Gamora has covered herself, glowering at Peter, already trying to push him away. The fury in her eyes makes it clear that her reaction is not fueled by trivial aesthetic insecurities.
“I don’t need your pity,” she hisses, words as bitter as venom.
“Gamora, I…” he starts, before trailing off. He is aware of his expression at the chilling sight, aware that he is an open book.
“I’m not weak,” she declares, and despite laying on the bed beneath him, she looks tall and fierce. “I’m a warrior, every mark bears testament to my survival.” There is something artificial, almost practiced in the words and, while it might be the first time Gamora has to speak them out loud, Peter suspects she has been saying them to herself for years.
Despite her scathing glare, Peter is still staring deep into her eyes with a tender, almost pained look. When he raises a hand to her face to gently run his thumb over the silver scars on her cheekbone, something falters within her and the proud façade seems to fracture.
“I’m sorry you had to survive through so much,” he murmurs. Gamora’s eyes soften and widen ever so slightly, as a shadow passes over them. She opens her mouth, vainly trying to say something to prove she is strong, unyielding, ruthless, before Peter touches his forehead to hers and words fail her. He knows her enough to understand, to know that she does not allow herself to feel the pain of her past, to feel vulnerable, in need of comfort. He knows that she truly is a warrior and a survivor, and that, despite this, or maybe especially because of it, she is just as human and fragile as he is. Softly, he kisses her lips, and Gamora’s eyes flutter close: the kiss deepens, becomes moving, meaningful, teeming with unconditional acceptance. Once more, yet for an entirely different reason, breathing is momentarily forgotten, as they are overwhelmed with emotion.
Slow and gentle, Peter’s mouth moves away from hers, drifting across her body and coming to rest on each and every wound. She relaxes under his kisses, her quiet breath gradually turning into content sighs, her hands gliding into his hair and holding him closer.
Peter does not need to hear about the hurt inscribed on Gamora’s skin. Even as he showers her with the affection she deserves yet has never experienced, he knows he cannot change the story behind her scars. He just wants to add a loving postscript.