A/N: Wow, it's been a while since I've written a fanfic, so I feel a bit out of practice. This is my first GotG fic, so I dearly hope everyone is in character, any feedback regarding characterization would be much appreciated.

I saw this prompt at the kink meme: Peter gets separated from the group during a mission and is kidnapped by someone who actually has heard of Starlord and is not all that happy with his exploits. Maybe it's someone Peter once did a job for or maybe it's a Kree/Thanos/Ronan supporter. Either way, Peter is taken and gets the absolute shit beat out of him.

When the Guardians do eventually find him, he's beaten, bruised, bloody, and barely alive. And that's when shit really hits the fan because the Guardians are already kind of scary by themselves but once you mess with one of them, once you hurt one of them, they become completely terrifying.

+When the Guardians do find him, Peter is so delirious from pain/blood loss/injury that he thinks it's all a sick dream. Because there's no way they would really be here, right?

++For as gruff and scary as most of them are, the Guardians are actually surprisingly gentle when it comes to helping and caring for their injured friend

+++They take turns watching over Peter as he recovers and obviously the best way for everyone to get some sleep at night is to puppy pile on the bed and curl around Peter. You know, to keep him safe.

I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort so of course I had to take a try at filling this. It might not match the prompt word for word, but I'm doing my best to stay true to what the OP wanted.

Just a couple more notes. I have a very busy schedule, so I can't promise regular updates, but I'm going to do my best to finish this story. I don't anticipate it being super long, but you never know what will happen when a story takes off.

Spoilers for the movie. This takes place some time afterwards, when Groot has had a chance to regrow back to his usual self.

Disclaimer: I don't own GotG, I desperately wish that I did, so I could hang out with Chris Pratt, but alas, it is not to be.

Please excuse any typos-I've read through this a billion times, but it seems some always escape me. If someone would like to beta, I would love you forever.

One ~ In Which Peter is in Trouble

His first thought, swimming hazily through his mind is that he's cold. The ground he's lying on is hard and unforgiving and he dimly realizes that wherever he is, it's not his ship, which brings him to his second somewhat clearer thought of, Shit, Gamora's gonna kill me. Everything hurts, his head is pounding like he had been drinking too much, and he feels a sharp pain radiating from his side—he must have a broken rib, because breathing is painful and jagged.

As he drifts closer to actual functioning consciousness, he realizes that it's not just cold, it's freezing, and he's shivering, and fuck, where are my fingers? He can't feel his hands, and with a surge of panic he opens his eyes.

He slams them shut at the excruciating brightness, ohfuckohfuckohfuck, don'tpukedon'tpukedon'tpuke—but his stomach is rolling and he can't stop it, and he's shivering and puking and gasping now, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

He fades in and out for a while, just trying to breathe. He's not sure how much time passes, but when he finally comes back to himself the smell of vomit is still fresh. Groaning, he knows he has to open his eyes, he has to do something, he has to get out of wherever he is, get back to the Milano or anywhere but here and take a loooong, hot shower because shitfuck it is so cold and that thought brings him back again to the realization that he can't feel his hands.

This time however, he slowly blinks his eyes open, letting them adjust. His stomach rolls again, but apparently he has nothing left to bring up. At first he can't see anything—it's just white blurs, but then slowly his surroundings start to take shape. There's a metal rack next to him, and a grey ceiling above him, with hooks and chains dangling down—everything's covered with a silver sheen of frost, and he can see his breath in front of him, with each ragged gasp that he takes. It takes him longer than he's proud of for him to realize that he's in some sort of meat-locker. His thoughts swirl with the knowledge—he can't recall how he got to be here. Oh man, I am so dead.

He looks for his hands and a rush of relief flows through him when he sees them, tightly bound in front of him. They're completely numb, and the tips of his fingers are bloodless, gross, but they're still there, they're still attached and really that's what matters.

He lays his head back, and tries to think of a plan, but the pain and the cold make it hard to focus on anything. He vainly tries to remember how he got in this situation, who took him, whether the others were with him, but it's a big frustrating blank. He doesn't even know if his friends are somewhere close by, or halfway across the galaxy, dammit.

Yeah, Peter sighed, I am royally fucked.

Gamora is not worried, because Peter is fine—he's fine, he-has-to-be. So he was late, he had been late before, it was nothing to worry about. She knew she would find him at that seedy bar on the edge of town, probably a bit drunk, just having lost track of time. She would eviscerate him for being late, he would be sorry (Oh my god Gamora, calm down! It was just a few drinks!), and they would head back to the Milano, and get off of this sorry excuse for a planet, cargo delivered and job complete. Except the small part of her that she was currently ignoring was whispering, Peter has never been this late before…

Drax was walking purposefully beside her to the left, and Rocket was perched on Groot's shoulder, the living tree matching her strides easily. Rocket was cursing under his breath, and Gamora resisted the urge to do the same—they had all been occupied with other things, none of them had realized how late Peter was until Groot had brought their attention to it with a particularly urgent, 'I am Groot.' Gamora did not like the feeling that had come over her then. She was still unused to the idea of having friends, and the fear that tightened through her gut made her want to punch something—preferably Peter when she saw that he was fine.

They found the bar where Drax had last seen him, a semi-run down joint with a dusty sign—The Black Hole—hanging from the roof. ('Do not worry, light and gravity remain inside.') Without wasting any more time, Gamora strode through the door, the others falling in behind her—she was gonna murder Quill for making her experience this detestable emotion…

Her heart sank, and she sucked in a breath—the bar was in shambles. Broken glass was strewn across the floor, burn marks from Peter's blasters were on the walls, chairs and tables were tipped over and splintered, and the mirror behind the bar was cracked. The bartender was clearly in a daze, halfheartedly trying to sweep up the debris. Booze was dripping off the counter into a little puddle, and was that…red blood…Peter's blood…

She knew Peter wasn't there. Behind her, she heard the ch-chink of Rocket cocking his gun. The bartender looked up, face paling at the sight of them. She turned to look at the others, fury blazing in her eyes, "We are going to find him."

"Oh yes we are," Rocket growled, "I'm gonna make every asshole involved in this pay, and then when we find Quill, I'm gonna kill him."

"I am Groot."

"No, I am, I'm gonna kill that freaking idiot, and then I'm gonna throw his whatis-music thing out the airlock for good measure."

As Gamora strode through the mess towards the bartender, she agreed with Rocket. She was going to murder that smart-mouth, moronic, dancing imbecile, and stars help whoever got in her way.

To be continued...

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