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Tweak says, "IT'S HIGH NOON"

ɢᴀᴍᴏʀᴀ (

soulstoned) wrote in

valloic,
@ 2024-09-18 09:58:00

Gamora & Peter

WHAT: A conversation about family planning and broken coffee tables
WHERE: Knowhere
WHEN: Backdated to Sunday, September 15th
WARNINGS: Very light talk about fertility issues
STATUS: Complete
ART CREDIT: Here

“I do have a thing against needles,” he admitted. “Might help to have my super supportive wife there. Maybe you could even pet my hair.”

Gamora thought it was best to wait a few days after, well, literally breaking most things in their apartment and unleashing upon them creatures of some mirror hell dimension—which seemed really fucking extreme for a stint of bad luck—to clean up more thoroughly and replace what was damaged. She was here to exist peacefully and yet, the struggles persisted. “Why does everything on this skull keep breaking,” she said out loud, a sigh following her complaint. Somehow her third sweep around their dwelling resulted in unearthing more pieces of glass and broken bits from knicknacks. She’d tripped a lot, stubbed every single of her toes on every corner; she really should have just let Peter wrap her up in bubble wrap and chain her to the bed. They had gone out to one of those Home Goodies stores to replenish what they’d lost. The bathroom sink mirror, for one. The one in their bedroom. A few decorative pieces she had out. She’d let Peter do the hard work of hanging it all back up, but she was done with the broom and dustpan and ultimately chose to position herself across the couch, hands over her stomach, and groan. “I’m done and over doing things today.” There was bad luck, and then there was Gamora’s bad luck. Peter knew there had been an epidemic of people having extreme bad luck and extreme good luck, but as far as he knew, there hadn’t been an influx of weird, demonic mirror creatures anywhere but Knowhere. Fucking tracked, though; even before this, they’d been dealing with way too many random creature attacks, and he was getting sick and tired of it. The worst of it was the clean-up felt endless. Well, maybe the worst of it was that Gamora might be actually cursed, knowing Vallo the way he did now, but they didn’t really have proof of that. So, clean-up got the This Sucks title for now. He was pretty sure they’d gotten most of it gone, but he kept his boots on for now, just in case. Shards of glass in the sole of your foot? Not even a remotely fun feeling. “You did good, babe,” he replied, coming over to sit on the coffee table across from his wife while she sprawled out on the couch. “Think it’s as good as it’s gonna get for now.” Gamora’s cleaning skills were impeccable, yes, she knew she did very good, but it was also likely that in a few weeks, there’d be more broken things to clean up. Whether it be in here or somewhere around their massive skull of a deceased celestial. Whoever the hell this celestial was. “That’s not somewhere your ass should be,” she spoke to Peter after a moment, clucking her tongue at him with a sharp look that said why are you there and not over here. Gamora raised her legs too, implying that she was making space for him. Peter grinned, obeyed Gamora’s silent command, and joined her on the couch, pulling her legs onto his lap. Without hesitation, he unlaced her boots and tossed them onto the floor so he could rub her feet, sweat be damned. She had earned some foot rubs. “Damn, you sweat a lot,” he teased, grasping one foot between both hands and making an exaggerated face of not-at-all-genuine disgust. Her eyes would have fallen shut for several moments to enjoy the affection bestowed upon her feet (in a thankfully unfetish-y kind of way) until Peter Quill opened his mouth and ruined it, as he was known to do. “Careful, husband,” Gamora warned in that smooth, honey tone, the one that was known to whisper the promise of threat. “You wouldn’t want my sweaty feet to accidentally kick you in the face. You know my luck has been absolutely—” Suddenly, her foot jerked as if it were possessed, almost whacking him in the nose. “—horrible,” she finished. Peter instinctively dodged backward, still holding Gamora’s foot between his hands, and grimaced at the near-miss to his nose. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if her foot had connected – he’d taken punches to the face and damage to his nose plenty of times over the years – but he wasn’t trying to summon the bad luck demons back to make it worse. “It’s the mirrors, isn’t it,” he grumbled. “You broke so many you probably have a hundred and thirty years of bad luck coming your way. Maybe we should see some witchy people for curse-breaking stuff.” Gamora dug the heel of her palms into her eyes. “Peter, no.” Don’t jinx her. What he just voiced into the world was a concern that nagged the back of her mind, but she felt doomed by his words and did genuinely contemplate making that kick a reality. Alas, she also did genuinely like Peter’s face unbroken. He was prettier that way. “Sorry, sorry,” Peter said, squeezing her foot before he began it with his thumbs. “Didn’t mean it.” And he didn’t, not totally, but he was worried. He didn’t think it was the worst idea to make sure nothing terrible was attached to Gamora now. Even before this, with the shit they’d dealt with, he was kind of anxious that something could happen to her. “Yes, I know, you think you’re very funny,” sighed Gamora, dropping her hands away from her eyes. She, in turn, wasn’t too worried. Nothing dreadful happened today. She existed in the presence of mirrors without finding some obtuse, accidental way of shattering them. The extra caution just wouldn’t hurt. But nothing terrible could happen right now when they were one with the couch, and Peter was tending to her sweetly. “You’ve almost been here a year,” she brought up, letting her eyes close again. “And you haven’t disappeared on me a second time.” Peter let the subject drop, smiling over at her and flattening his palm into the arch of her foot. He knew his official Valloversary was coming up soon, and it was still weird to think he wasn’t the first Peter who’d been here. But he was the one who’d lasted and planned on sticking around as long as he could. He didn’t want to live in a world without Gamora—not when he had the option of one with her. “I’ve got great staying power,” he joked with a smirk, switching to her other foot to give it the same treatment. “Guess I should just be glad Vallo felt like being nice this time around.” “See, my luck isn’t too awful then,” she chuckled, but it felt a little flat because that also felt dangerously like jinxing things too—which was a completely ridiculous idea. Their situation felt both secure and fragile, somehow. Part of her felt as if this place was giving her a nice, temporary time with her loved ones as a way to soothe the ache of her death, and then she’d be alone again, like one often was in death. Gamora shook her foot free from his hand, moving her body to scoot down so her ass could be pressed flush against his thigh. “That might be my luck,” Peter countered, but he grinned anyway and pulled the length of her legs across his lap before turning his head back to her. “But whoever’s it is, I’ll take it. It’s been a pretty awesome year. With, you know, some weird exceptions lately. But still great.” “I’ll pay the price of weird exceptions for this,” Gamora replied thoughtfully, grasping one of his hands into hers so she could bring it to her lips, kisses ghosting along his knuckles and even the dips in between. “This is the longest I’ve been on a planet. Settling down isn’t so bad. And culturally, it’s been—enlightening.” That was a nice way of putting it. Peter shifted to lean against her, dipping his head to kiss her softly. “Longest for me, too, since Earth anyway.” He and the guys had made Knowhere into their own home back in their world, too, but it wasn’t a planet, and it still didn’t top his first eight years on Earth. Maybe he’d stick it out at least that long back there, now that he was back with his family, but he didn’t know. And knowing wasn’t a priority right now. “What’s been the most enlightening culture stuff?” “How most snacks in this world come in some varying form of cheese-flavor,” Gamora began to list off, holding up her fingers as she spoke. “American pie isn’t an actual flavor of pie. If milk is advertised at two percent, you don’t need to worry about the other ninety-eight percent. The word yeet, while being socially acceptable, needs to be erased from language completely. I’m still not over Kevin Bacon.” That was five already. She held up her other hand. “I’m either going to continue, or you can kiss me to shut me up. Up to you.” “Hell of a choice there, babe,” Peter chuckled. “I wanna hear all your culture thoughts, but…” Of course he leaned down to kiss her instead. Not to shut her up but because she was here and kissable, and it was his duty as a husband to kiss his wife whenever she wanted. He took that duty very seriously. Gamora fisted his shirt, meeting his mouth with a smile. She also used her mighty strength to coax Peter on top of her, and she was determined to endure the bit of finagling and shifting bodies to accommodate that. She kissed him deeper, and feverishly, which was a terrible road to go down if she was going to break away from his mouth to speak. “When you were gone,” she breathed, plucking at a ringlet of hair on his head. “That was when I met Merry—and they say that the whole situation tends to happen often.” Peter slotted into a comfortable space between Gamora’s legs, half on top of her and kissing her back just as eagerly. Exhaustion and irritation seemed to have gotten her into a fun mood—and that honestly kind of tracked. Half their relationship had always been riling each other up in various frustrating ways without any true anger behind it. He loved every freaking second. He braced himself around her on his upper arms, leaning into her fingers as they pulled through his hair. It was getting shaggier again, after a slightly shorter summertime cut, and she seemed to enjoy it most like that. But his focus was much more on the mention of their daughter—the little girl he’d only seen images of, having arrived just late enough to miss the weird timeslippery thing Vallo seemed to do on what was apparently a regular basis. “I hope I get to see her this time,” he said wistfully. “I was kinda hoping… I mean, I thought you might’ve been pregnant? A couple months ago? You were talking about being tired a lot, so I thought maybe?” It took a moment for Gamora to process what he was talking about. A couple months ago, when— “The gnomes?” she asked, brows furrowed. She remembered Peter suddenly getting weird about how she had talked about wanting a nap but it was quickly forgotten. They’d gotten busy. Knowhere was a magnet for weird little invasions, most of it dumb and harmless. “The chances of me and that,” she continued, having a difficult time with the word ‘pregnant’ because while she loved Merry and the idea of her, the thought that she could be in that state was a big disconnect for her, “happening are very low to begin with, and I don’t… I don’t know if it’s dumb luck, or if we have to make some active, medical attempts. My body’s one fucked up weaponized science experiment even if I had it better than my sister.” “Yeah, I figured,” Peter agreed. He’d had high hopes for a few days there, but when there hadn’t been any real signs, he’d let it go. He knew Thanos had fucked up Gamora—less than Nebula, but there were parts of her that still weren’t completely biological. And while he liked to joke that he was skilled enough to get the job done, they didn’t know that. Maybe they would have to recruit some medical intervention. “You have any thoughts on a timeline on that?” he asked. “Not in a rush here. I mean, I could probably do it when I’m sixty or something. But I don’t know anything about, like…” There was an awkward pause as he fumbled for the words. “Best…years there, for Zehobereians.” What an odd conversation. Gamora blinked. They should have probably had this conversation early on but other things trumped it—like Peter being back, for one, and remembering his time here. Adjusting to a life together of just them on a planet they were forced to stay grounded on. Making sure he didn’t slip back into any alcoholic tendencies. And maybe she’d been cautious about bringing it up too, afraid that she’d get more attached to the idea than she already was just to have it ripped away from her. This place was capable of it. “I wouldn’t wait until you’re sixty,” she said, carding her fingers through his hair. She chose to focus on the shape of his nose while she figured out what to say next. “And I’m probably in the… best years,” Gamora added, making a face at that phrase. “This is strange.” Peter pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yep, yeah. Definitely…strange,” he agreed. They had sort of skipped over this talk despite getting married because they already knew they would have at least one kid. Getting into the how hadn’t been necessary at the time, but they did have Gamora’s alterations to consider to get there. “So, do you want to…start? Should we make appointments?” he asked next, cautiously. He really wasn’t trying to push here. There was no hurry. But now that they’d ended up on the topic, he thought they might as well figure out the basics. Gamora opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. She closed it, rolling her lips together, wishing the answer was an easy yes. In a way, it was. They wanted Merry. She only wished the process of having her didn’t fill her with uncertainty. “I have never been looked at by a doctor,” she confessed after a moment, which probably wasn’t surprising to Peter. “I guess we should… begin there. The idea of it is daunting. I expect someone to tell me that my insides are monstrous and all steel and not entirely compatible with growing a person.” “I doubt that’s what any doctor’s gonna say,” Peter told her. “That would be some shitty bedside manner.” He threaded one hand into her hair and looked down at her. “We can start there. It’s been a couple of decades since I’ve seen a doctor, too. Ravagers weren’t really big on healthcare. So we’ll go together and knock it all out at once.” “Mmm,” Gamora chuckled, bare feet sliding up the back of his calves before wrapping her legs around Peter’s waist. “Not a bad idea. It also sounds like a very hot date. We can hold hands while getting vaccinated.” Peter shifted to take Gamora’s hands, interlocking their fingers and grinning down at her. “I do have a thing against needles,” he admitted. “Might help to have my super supportive wife there. Maybe you could even pet my hair.” Squeezing his hand, her head tipped back for an even louder laugh and a shove of her heel into his ass. A poor attempt at spanking with her foot that didn’t work very well, but maybe he’d get the hint. “Might even get you a lollipop for being so brave afterwards,” Gamora told him. Peter knew what that foot was trying to do and gave her his best ouch face with a curled bottom lip. She could probably have bruised him if she’d tried hard enough, so he was grateful she seemed to be going easy on him. Not that he minded getting a little beat up at her hands. “Love a lollipop,” he replied with a smirk. “I’ll be a good boy.” “Bet you would be,” Gamora snarked back, catching his mouth into a devouring kiss. Open-mouthed and hot, tongue slipping in between his lips and teeth with a tease. Her hand slipped in between them, pressing flat against his chest. Her legs unwound from his hips. “Bet you’ll be really good, and—” She meant to shove him seductively. She meant to drop him onto the floor and roll on top of him because bullying Peter was sometimes foreplay. What she didn’t mean to do was add more strength than necessary to how she handled him, because the shove threw him off her farther than she had intended. Peter yelped in surprise as he was suddenly foisted off his wife and landed, thankfully ass first, right onto their coffee table—which promptly collapsed under the sudden oncoming weight. His head whacked back against a piece of the broken wood, and he blinked up at Gamora dazedly. That was unexpected; he felt like one of those cartoon characters with cuckoo birds circling around his head. “Damn,” he huffed. “Maybe you should be the one promising to be good.” “Oh my god—Peter!” Gamora sat up, and while she knew that Peter had also been on the receiving end of much harsher injuries, she had not expected to be the one injuring him today. She stood and offered her hand quickly while also staring at the latest debris of damage caused by her hands. “Are you alright? That… wasn’t me getting you into the mood.” That was it. She was cursed. Time to see a witch. “I’m alright, babe,” Peter assured her, accepting her hand so he could pull himself out of the pile of broken wood. The other hand rubbed against the back of his head with a wince, but it was a dull pain, nothing that wouldn’t fade after a few minutes. “No worse for wear. Thinking we should look into a sturdier coffee table, though. Jesus,” he muttered, looking over at the broken table. If there was an open wound he’d be gushing blood everywhere, so to see the lack of red was reassuring. Gamora went to help soothe his head and to also feel for anything lumpy, and then, “That’s another reference!” she exclaimed, a eureka moment that was completely displaced but she was having it anyway. “Jesus. What a crazy Christmas story.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Not relevant,” she said. “Let me get you ice.” Peter blinked in surprise, but the confusion quickly transformed into a grin of amusement. He could just hear half the damn Earth’s population protesting that Jesus was being called a Christmas story, but he didn’t bother trying to correct her. Religion was a whole different topic and not one he was getting into with his alien wife today. “I’m fine,” he said, grabbing her arm to stop her from stepping away. “Seriously, babe, all good. Kinda considering taking you to a witch again, but I promise I’m okay.” “I think I’m with you on the witch idea,” Gamora relented, wrapping her arms around his waist and plopping an apologetic kiss to his scruffy cheek. “At least sit for me. I’ll… grab the broom and dustpan again, for the millionth time.” “I don’t think the broom and dustpan are gonna cut it for that,” Peter pointed out. The table hadn’t been smashed to smithereens, more like sliced up into some big pieces and some small pieces. “I’ll help you toss it out.” “For the little pieces,” she pointed out with a sigh, because there were a few and instead of getting glass in their feet, they were at risk for fucking splinters now. “And I told you to sit. I threw you onto this table, Quill, and I can carry the rest out without a problem. You’re being a bad boy. Not even in a sexy way.” “At least put some shoes on,” Peter countered, raising up his hands in surrender before he sat back on the couch like he was told. He knew better than to irritate his wife when she was already in a mood. If she didn’t want him to help, then he wouldn’t help. Gamora rolled her eyes fondly and did what she was told, just to appease him. “Fine,” she relented. “Let’s make a game and see if I end up breaking anything else while I handle this. I might even laugh about it.” But a trip to a witch soon, yes, just to be sure.

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