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Guardians of the Galaxy fic: The Hard Way (2/2)

August 22nd, 2014 (06:52 pm)

feeling: geeky

Post split for LJ. Part one is here.


Peter’s willing to die, but he’s not actually suicidal. He’s not even a hero or self sacrificial or any of that. He doesn’t want his team to end up barbecued, and if he has his choice, he’d like to avoid it for himself, too.

See, Peter’s not great with plans, but he’s pretty damn good at thinking on his feet.


On his one foot, pressed on a landmine, ready to blow.

Once he moves, it’s going to go off.

So the best possible solution is to be as far away as possible.

Most people wouldn’t be able to get clear fast enough to make a difference.

Peter Quill, however, is not most people.

He’s Star Lord.

Legendary Outlaw.

Which, really isn’t relevant, but it does mean he has rocket boosters.

Pitching forward, he blasts himself toward his team, and the force of the rockets blows the mine in the opposite direction as it detonates. Peter hurtles forward graceless, losing control of his boosters as the explosion catches him and sends him hard into a tree.

He slams into another tree before the ground rushes up to meet him.

His last thought is for his team.

And how much he hopes they’re still alive.

Even if he’s not.


Except he is.


Holy crap, he’s alive.

For a moment, Peter has a moment of giddy elation.

He’s alive.

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

He’d been so sure that he was going to die -- he’d been standing on a landmine -- but he’s alive.

That’s definitely the best news he’s had all day. All week. Maybe all month.

Of course, the way he knows that he’s alive is the pain.

Lots and lots and lots of pain.

He inhales sharply, and his eyes pop open. His body feels like it’s on fire, and the intensity is diffuse but unrelenting. He’s chest feels tight, and his breathing is stunted. His body is heavy, and his face is pressed disconcertingly against the mud and leaves.

He groans, trying to shift. He’s flopped onto his side, and it’s all his effort to roll onto his back. He falls heavily, and regrets it as fresh agony washes over him. All of his muscles protests, and he swears, he can feel a yawning ache all the way in his gall bladder.

It’s not clear how he knows it’s his gall bladder, but some internal organ is in total misery. His arm feels like it’s been twisted, and there’s something weeping blood down the side of his face as he feels his face start to swell from the bruising.

Being blown up, it turns out, hurts like a son of a bitch.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to sit up. The moment he gets his head off the ground, he’s overcome with a sense of vertigo so violent that he nearly flops back. He’s too stupid to let that happen, though, and he blinks dazedly a few times while the nausea presses up the back of his throat and his heart hammers between his ears.

He lets out a breath.

He frowns.

At first, he can’t see much besides his six legs, which doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t have six legs. Especially ones that are twisted and--

He shifts again, moving his legs this time, and that’s when the agony ratchets up another notch. This time, he does black out, dropping limply back to the ground while he chokes on a cry. He’s trying to breathe through his nose while hot tears collect in his eyes, and he’s so focused on not sobbing like a baby that he can’t open his eyes when something heavy goes to the ground next to him.


“Oh, what the hell.”

“Quill, are you injured?”

“What kind of question is that? Just look.

“I am being polite.”

“Peter, open your eyes. Peter.

Something soft touches his face, and he startles. His breath catches on a curse, and he blinks rapidly as he looks up into Gamora’s face.

“So, that plan needed some work,” Peter manages to say between halting exhalations. He’s trembling now, and a sense of cold washes over him as his strength starts to falter.

“You should have listened to us,” Gamora says.

Peter laughs, a little hysterical. “I told you, I never learn.”

“But you should trust--

Peter shakes his head, tilting his head wildly to the side. He sees Rocket and Drax and Groot’s legs. They look like stumps. He’s not full grown, but he’s still massive. Peter’s got a tree for a teammate, and it strikes him now that it’s taken almost a year for that to actually seem odd.

Gamora is pulling his jacket away, and Rocket busies himself ripping through Peter’s pantleg with his teeth.

“Wait,” Peter protests, but the word is slurred and almost unintelligible. “I -- you should--”

Rocket merely grunts, and Gamora’s fingers are running up his ribcage.

Moaning, Peter fists his fingers into the ground. Rocket jars his leg, and he can’t stop the cry of pain.

This time, though, it’s Rocket who curses.

Peter lifts his head. “What the hell are you doing? That hurts--

His voice stops, and he blinks watery eyes as he sees his legs. With the pant leg torn open, Peter can see the distended shin, his foot turned unnaturally to the side.

With a shock of white bone poking through the skin.

He gapes.

He swears.

He hyperventilates.

“Peter,” Gamora starts to say, but Peter’s too busy freaking out. Because his leg is broken, and it’s not just broken, but it’s been snapped in two and the pieces are sticking out of his skin like damn human toothpicks. Peter’s seen worse before, but he’s never felt worse, and his vision starts to dim as he realizes that he very well could still die.

Or he’s going to lose his leg.

Shit, he’s going to be the guy with a prosthetic in jail, and Rocket will steal it just for kicks because it’s so damn funny--

His sobs break on a laugh, and he’s hysterical again. This time, however, he can’t pull it back in.

“Peter, I need you to relax,” Gamora says, more sternly now.

Peter sobs again, shaking his head. “My leg is broken.”

“We know,” she says evenly. “It could be worse.”

He laughs at her. “I’m not sure how this could possibly be worse!”

“Well,” Gamora says. “You could be dead.”

She should be joking, but she’s not. Of course she’s not, because they’re the Guardians of the Galaxy and they set the bar kind of low sometimes.

His head drops back to the ground, and he lets it loll. “I really don’t want to die.”

“Could have fooled us,” Rocket says. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I didn’t want you to die more!” Peter yells back. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stop the tears. “I just didn’t think you all had to die. Just, don’t die, okay? Don’t die.”

“Hey,” Gamora says, her hand clasping his shoulder.

He opens his eyes.

She almost smiles. “We could say the same for you,” she says. “Don’t die.”

He holds her gaze. He’s trembling, and he’s fading, and he’s hurting, and he’s scared. He wants to say no, but he doesn’t have the energy.

She squeezes his shoulder again. “Just trust us this time,” she says. “We’ll take care of this.”

Peter Quill doesn’t trust anyone.

Except, this time, it seems he doesn’t have a choice.


For a second, he passes out.

It’s a glorious, beautiful second.

Then, he wakes up.

He’s been moved, arranged flat on his back in an open spot between the trees. Gamora is by his foot, and Drax is crouched above him. He smiles. “I apologize in advance,” the larger man says. “This is for your own good, however.”

Peter frowns, confused.

He’s even more confused when Drax sits over him, straddling over his hips.

“Whoa,” Peter slurs. “I don’t know if I feel that way about you--”

“Please, Quill,” Drax says, leaning forward and pressing his hands into Peter’s shoulders. “Hold still.”

“This is going to hurt,” Gamora warns.

“Yeah, you may want to shut him the hell up,” Rocket says. “I mean, we’re a ways from the road, but we already saw what happened when we lost the element of surprise.”

Peter shakes his head, because he doesn’t understand.

“Groot,” Gamora says. “Can you?”

There’s a rustling, and then Groot is sitting behind his head. His large flat face is benign, and he smiles, lifting a wooden finger and running it along Peter’s face. It’s oddly comforting, and Peter’s about to ask if this is some kind of sadistic sex ritual they’re about to embark on when Groot’s finger presses against his lips.

Peter tries to pull away, but Groot’s insistent.

“I am Groot,” he says, nodding eagerly.

Peter tries to turn again, but Drax’s frame is too heavy and Groot’s finger is, too, well, wooden. It wedges its way between his teeth, and Peter presses his tongue in futility against the gritty texture, struggling in vain against it all.

This doesn’t make sense.

This isn’t a plan.

This is torture.

“Rocket, are we clear?” Gamora asks.

“As we’ll ever be,” Rocket reports.

“Groot, keep him quiet,” Gamora orders. “Drax, he can’t move.”

Peter struggles to talk, mumbling nonsense against the wood in his mouth.

Gamora peeks her head around Drax’s massive shoulder. She looks at Peter. “Peter,” she says. “I really am sorry.”

She’s apologizing.

Why is she apologizing?

What’s going on?

What the hell is going on?

One second, he’s planning a mission. The next, it’s all going wrong. He’s stepping on landmines and blowing himself up and breaking his legs and almost dying and--

He feels Gamora touch his leg, and he tenses. Her fingers wrap tight around his ankle, and Peter sucks in hard against the pain.

Then, she pulls.

And Peter’s world explodes again.


This time, he doesn’t pass out.

No, because Peter’s life can always get worse. Because the universe well and truly hates him. Because just when Peter’s endured as much as he can handle, he’s forced to deal with more.

He thrashes, his body bucking desperately against the pain, but Drax’s grip is unyielding, pressing Peter down to the ground with a force that Peter simply can’t fight.

He opens his mouth to scream, but there’s no sound. The wood threatens to choke him, and he has no choice but to bite down as he sobs and begs around Groot’s finger.

It’s mere seconds as Gamora yanks his foot and rotates it mercilessly to the side.

The longest seconds of his entire life.

When she’s done, he’s still crying, teeth digging grooves into Groot’s finger. Drax’s brow is furrowed as he looks down in concern, but Peter’s not fighting him anymore.

No, Peter’s spent, and he’s sweating and trembling, prone on the ground. Gamora comes into view on one side, and Rocket on the other.

The racoon swears. “Damn it, Quill,” he mutters softly.

Gamora touches Drax on the shoulder, and the larger man shifts his weight off Peter, getting delicately to his feet. Groot is the last to move, gently wiggling his finger to unclench Peter’s teeth.

“Easy now,” Gamora soothes, her fingers lightly pressing against Peter’s sweat-soaked brow. “We’ll take it from here.”

When the wooden finger is pulled free, Peter doesn’t even have the energy to moan. His head rolls to the side, and all the fight is drained out of him.

He’s got nothing left.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

He still has two thugs, an assassin and a maniac.

To some, that may not seem like much.

To Peter, though, it has never seemed like more.


Peter sleeps.

Sort of.

He’s not sure it technically is sleep. In reality, it seems more like varied stages of consciousness, ranging from almost lucid to downright spaced out. It could be the pain, or it could be the fever, but Peter’s trapped between consciousness and blissful unawareness by just a few degrees in either direction.

For the record, that sucks about as much as one might expect, but Peter’s never had particularly high standards for things like this.

Sometimes, when he’s almost coherent, he sees Drax tending a fire and Rocket ripping strips of cloth with his teeth. Gamora removes bloody bandages as Groot fills his arms with branches to make a canopy over them all.

Sometimes, when he’s less coherent, he dreams of the Infinity Stone pressed into the palm of his hand, burning through him hotter and hotter. He dreams of Ronan stalking toward him, treading Peter beneath his feet while planets fall before him. He dreams of Yondu, forcing Peter to sleep in the engine room when he screws up a job, where it got so hot that he ran out of tears to cry. He dreams of his mother in a hospital bed, and the sound of her heart monitor when it beeped that one last time.

It’s easier, though, if Peter’s just asleep.


“Peter,” a voice calls. “Wake up.”

He’s ready to ignore that request when soft fingers brush against his face. The feminine touch is more than a little compelling, and Peter’s eyes are open before the rest of his body knows what’s happening.

It hurts like a son of a bitch, pain coursing through him, radiating from his leg and encompassing his entire body. He makes a mental note not to go getting himself blown up again any time soon. It’s not worth it.

Except Gamora.

She seated above him, smiling slightly. “Good to see you up.”

She looks amazing. Truly, amazing. Her skin is almost glowing, and her eyes are bright, and Peter’s starting to have a thing for green.

He swallows, trying to get some saliva back in his mouth. “Gamora,” he says, and his voice sounds scratchy and awkward. He swallows again with a wince. “I’ve got to say, I’ve totally had dreams about this.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You’ve had dreams about getting an open fracture while on the run from heavily armed guards who want to kill us?”

He blinks. Her skin is glowing...with sweat. Her eyes are bright...with worry. Peter might have a thing for green, but Gamora’s more likely to throttle him than sleep with him.

Which just makes her even sexier.

But that’s not the point.

No, Peter remembers.

His eyes widen and he tries to sit up. “The landmine--”

He doesn’t get very far. Gamora has a hand on his shoulder, but she’s too late to stop him from jostling his leg. The pain is blinding, and he’s breathing through tears as she presses him not quite gently back to the ground.

“You only partially blew yourself up,” Gamora informs him tersely. “Not for a lack of trying.”

Peter takes a few ragged breaths, and his vision almost clears. “You’re okay?” he asks. He looks around at what appears to be a makeshift campsite. Drax is sharpening his knives by the edge of the clearing, but Rocket is curled up and asleep on Groot’s lap. “We’re okay?”

“We’re fine,” Gamora tells him. “You, on the other hand--”

Peter winces, looking down at his leg. It’s been splinted, and there is a bulky layer of bandages to hide the damage, but it still feels pretty much like the worst thing ever. “How bad is it?”

“Well, it’s not good,” Gamora says. “An open fracture leaves you wide open to infection. And I have no way of knowing for sure if it’s set correctly, and if there are bone fragments--”

Peter’s eyes are wide. His leg has been snapped in half, like a twig, and Gamora is talking about the ways in which things can actually get worse.

She stops herself, looking almost guilty. “You have good circulation,” she amends, softer now. “And you have a fever, but there’s no sign of blood poisoning or anything more severe yet. As long as we get you out of here soon, I think you’ll be fine.”

Peter nods, because that’s the way it is. Shit happens, and he turns out okay. Somehow, against the odds, he’s okay.

He tells himself that, then tells himself that again, because he really needs to believe it right now.

With a grunt, he levers himself up more slowly this time. His head spins for a moment, but he gets himself under control. Licking his lips, he nods again. “How long have we been here?”

“A full day,” Gamora reports. “You were in no shape to travel.”

Peter makes a face. He’s lost a day -- a full day. That’s not good. Not on any level. “But we have a deadline--”

“Which we can still make,” Gamora says.

“And the Milano--”

“Is easy enough to take back,” she says. “Assuming they decided to impound it at all. I think you’re giving them too much credit.”

Peter furrows his brow, ignoring the impulse to remind her how they got in this mess, and scoots a little further upright. “We need a plan,” he says, because a plan is good, a plan is very good. “We need to get out of here--”

“You need to rest,” she says.

“I’ve been resting for a day,” Peter protests as he feebly tries to get up. “If we don’t start planning--”

“Hey,” Gamora says, putting a hand on his arm to keep him in place. “We have a plan.”

“Well, does it involve getting out of here?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as petulant as he thinks he does. Not that he doesn’t have an excuse this time. “And getting the ship? We need to get the ship, man. That’s my ship.”

“It’s our ship,” she tells him tiredly. “And as a matter of fact, yes.”

“But we’re still in a forest with landmines,” he says, gesturing to the surrounding trees. “And armed soldiers--”

“Have probably stopped looking for us, assuming that we’re dead,” Gamora says. “We’ve been charting a clear path. We’re going to head out before twilight so we’re traveling with some light but will be at the road when it’s dark enough for the element of surprise.”

Peter opens his mouth, because he should have something to say to that. The problem is, of course, that he’s been blown up and his leg has been snapped in half. The exhaustion is a factor; the pain is another one; and there’s just the general stress of knowing everything is screwed the hell up.

Defeated before he start, Peter slumps back down. “That’s a pretty good plan, actually.”

Gamora smirks. “You think?”

Peter shrugs sheepishly, sinking all the way back down as his energy leaves him completely. “I just, I mean, if you need me--”

“We need you to get better,” she tells him emphatically. “For now, that’s your only job.”

He nods, trying to be reassured. He looks at her. “And you guys have got this?”

“Peter,” she says. “We’ve had this all along.”

He wants to ask if they’ve considered breaking up into teams, if they’ve thought about another route, if they’ve considered how to breach the air defenses, if they’ve thought about just leaving him behind, but then he looks at Gamora again.

She’s right.

It’s just taken him almost getting his leg blown off to see it.

His team hasn’t let him down.

And they’re sure as hell not going to start now.


Things, naturally, get worse. The fever rises, burning through his leg and leaving him shivering and cold. His breathing grows stunted and garbled, and when he’s awake, he’s not sure he’s awake at all. His eyes can’t quite focus, and he can’t quite draw a deep breath, and when Gamora holds water to his mouth, most of it just spills down his chin.

Rocket tells him what an idiot he is.

Drax promises to exact revenge.

Gamora tells him to hold on, just a little longer.

Groot smiles fondly as he murmurs, “I am Groot.”

If only it were that easy.


He wakes when Gamora sits him upright, and Drax holds him by the shoulder.

“Don’t drop him, you lumbering oaf,” Rocket says.

“He is quite unwieldy,” Drax tells him, adjusting his grip on Peter’s shoulders while Gamora moves around to his legs.

“He’s burning up, moron,” Rocket says. “He’s probably hallucinating.”

“He’s probably not even remotely coherent,” Gamora says, shifting Peter’s good leg.

He rolls his head, trying to prop it up. “Guys?” he asks. “Are we going?”

“Son of a bitch,” Rocket says.

“Quill,” Drax says. “You should be very still or this process could be excessively painful.”

Peter shakes his head, letting it loll back until he can see his team. “The plan…”

“The plan is to get you out of here before you die,” Rocket tells him.

“That’s not even...twelve percent,” he slurs.

“Eh, close enough,” Rocket says. “Groot, you ready?”

Peter shakes his head again, flailing his arms in protest. “But I need to--”

“Quill!” Drax says, sounding alarmed. “You will injure yourself further!”

Peter thrashes. “But I’ve got to--”

“That’s enough,” Gamora says, cutting them all off. “Peter, if you’re ever going to trust us, now is the time to start.”

Peter frowns, shaking his head. “But, I have to--”

Gamora sighs, rolling her eyes. “Fine,” she mutters. “We do this the easy way.”

Peter is thoroughly confounded now. “But it’s hard--”

“No,” Gamora says, fingers around the ankle on his injured leg. “It’s actually really, very easy.”

Before he can say anything, she starts to lift him up. Drax takes him under the armpits, and Gamora steadies his leg, jarring the injured one just enough to send a bolt of pain all the way up his spine. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t have the energy. Hell, he barely has the coherency to recognize the pain as anything but soul sucking agony that threatens to consume him. It spikes once more, and then everything starts to go blessedly dim.

The easy way, Peter decides as he passes out, may not be so bad after all.


This time, Peter sleeps.

Sometimes he hears voices.

Sometimes he feels pain.

Mostly, though, he feels safe. Whatever else there is to do, it can wait, he decides.

This time, Peter just sleeps.


He wakes up on the Milano.

He knows that much immediately. The smells, the movement, the sounds -- it’s as much of home as Peter remembers, and he doesn’t have any doubt.

He tries to sit up and promptly knows the rest.

He’s on the Milano, laid out on his bunk. He’s pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics with a full cast around his leg.

All things considered, this is an improvement.

Of course, Peter doesn’t like to consider all things. Really, this still sort of sucks. His head is fuzzy, his mouth is dry and he generally feels like crap. If the alternative is death, then it’s not so bad, but Peter’s not even sure how he got here.

“We made the meet,” Gamora says.

Peter startles, jerking his head to the side where Gamora is propped up on a chair by the door.

She tilts her head at him with a small, knowing smile. “And got paid in full.”

Peter is actually surprised by that. “No more problems in the forest?”

“After you tried to blow yourself?” she asks. “No.”

“And the guards,” he says. “Did you run into any guards.”

“A small squadron on the road, but they were unconscious before they could sound any additional alarms,” Gamora explains.

“Well, the ship,” Peter says. “Surely they had the ship.”

“They had it, yes,” Gamora says. “But then we took it.”

Peter wrinkles his brow “And you made the meet?”

“And got paid,” Gamora tells him.

“So, the job’s done,” Peter concludes.

Gamora nods. “The job’s done.”

Peter nods, trying to believe it. “It’s done.”

“And you’re fine, by the way,” Gamora says. “You spiked a bad fever before we left the surface, but your friends at the Nova Corps were generous with their medical aid. The infection has been dealt with, and they set your leg correctly.”

Peter looks down at his leg. “Still sort of feels like crap,” he admits.

Gamora sighs, dropping her feet down to sit up and look at Peter more closely. “That’s because you almost killed yourself,” she says. “You realize that, right? You almost killed yourself.”

Peter knows this, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is still a little numbing. Part of him likes to think the rest was a dream, but with a team, he knows he’s not so lucky. What happens to him actually happens now, and he can’t run from the repercussions. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh.

“What were you thinking?” Gamora asks.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t think I was. I just knew that I couldn’t let you guys down.”

“So you thought dying was the best answer?” she asks.

“I thought you not dying was the best answer,” he says.

“We had a plan,” she says. “You just had to trust us.”

“Well, that’s not so easy,” he says.

“And it is for us?” she returns. “I trusted my own skill. Drax trusted his strengths. Rocket and Groot trusted each other, but you convinced us to trust you, and here we are. We’re still trusting you.”

“That’s the thing,” Peter says. “It was my idea. It was my plan. It’s on me. I can’t let you down.”

“You’re not going to,” Gamora says. She sighs, settling her lips into a line. “Peter, you’re trying too hard.”

“I’ve never done the straight and narrow,” he says. “I’ve never had anyone follow me. I’ve never been responsible for anyone other than myself. I can’t let you down.”

“That’s not the problem,” she says.

He groans. “Then what is the problem?”

“The problem,” she continues. “Is that you need to trust us like we trust you. If you want to lead, then you need to believe we’ll follow. If you’re willing to die for us, then trust that we are willing to die with you. You can trust us.”

“But you want to kill everyone,” Peter says. “And Rocket wants to blow crap up, and Drax, man. Drax is crazy, and Groot’s sprouting stuff all over the place.”

“And that’s why you’re the leader,” she says. “We know you’ll do your part, and you can trust us to do ours.”

That makes sense, it really does, and Peter knows it. He wants to believe. He sighs again, shoulders falling. “I just…,” he starts and falters. “It’s not just that I’ve never been responsible for people. I’ve never had anyone be responsible for me. There’s never been anyone watching my back. If I wanted something, I had to do it myself. If I was going to survive, I had to take care of myself. This is new crap for me.”

Her face softens. “It’s new for all of us,” she says. “We just have to learn.”

He snorts. “I told you, I don’t learn,” he says. “One of my issues.”

She smirks, sitting back again. “I think you already have.”

She’s right.

She’s always right.

Peter sees no point in fighting that now. He smiles, nodding his head sheepishly. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I just had to figure it out the hard way.”

Grunting, she gets to her feet. “Would you like to get up?” she asks. “I could help you get to the cockpit--”

He shakes his head, settling himself more comfortably on the pillows. “Nah, I think I’m good.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “Rocket’s got a new course--”

He makes a face, shrugging one shoulder. “You guys have got it under control right?”

She pauses, then nods. “Of course.”

“Then if it’s all the same to you,” Peter says. “I’m going to get some more rest.”

She lingers, not quite smiling, but there’s a brightness in her eyes. “I’ll have someone check on you soon,” she says. “Maybe Drax can bring you some food.”

“Sounds great,” Peter says. “I am kind of hungry.”

“I’ll let Drax know.”

“I really am craving salt,” he says. “Something meaty, if we have it.”

“I’ll have to see what we can do,” Gamora says.

“And oh,” Peter says, snapping his fingers. “Do we have any of that ale still?”

“I’m not sure alcohol is the best--”

Peter flits his hand in the air. “Then the flavored water, maybe? Or oh! The juice!”

Gamora visibly steels herself even as her eyes narrow.

He grins at her. “I’m just saying,” he says. “This whole trust thing -- it’s a little hard, but I got to start somewhere, right?”

She rolls his eyes, making her way out.

He’s still grinning when the door closes behind her.

Sighing, he looks up at the ceiling. All jokes aside, it’s a little strange, really. The idea that there are people out there looking out for him, taking care of him. People who will put his own well being ahead of their own, even when there’s not a single thing to be gained.

It’s weird, and it’ll take some getting used to.

But, Peter reflects as he settles back into sleep, maybe it’s not that hard after all.


Posted by: honor_reid (honor_reid)
Posted at: December 30th, 2014 08:04 pm (UTC)

This was really nicely done. You wrote Peter and his trust issues very well. It all felt very in character.


Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: January 23rd, 2015 02:58 am (UTC)
gotg star lord 2

I'm really glad you liked it! Thank you :)

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