A/N: Here I am again! With another story as promised. This is "In His Veins", my latest GotG fic.
Sumarry's this: Gamora, the Zehoberi princess, has taken flight to a distant star system with an escaped criminal and a talking tree. Her father hires Peter Quill, a gun for hire and infamous Ravager, to find her and bring her back unharmed. The princess is about as willing to go as Quill is to bother looking for her. He soon finds, to his eventual dismay and discomfort, that she can and will put up a fight. One thing he'll wish he had learned: Never love a wild thing.
1.) This is my first attempt at writing Yandu (because yay daddy!Yandu will be mentioned and yes, he's a prominent figure in the story) so let's hope I get this right. Also, Rocket and Groot will be in this story, so there will some epic Root as well. (Is that their name? Or is it Grocket or Rockoot?)
2.) This idea came to me during (my third time seeing) the scene in Peter first met Gamora, and I thought, why the hell not.
3.) Eventual Starmora. As much as I'd love to take Peter and Gamora and be like, "Now kiss!", I can't because my stupid logical brain says, "Ella, no. Write it so it makes sense." So, I'll do my best to keep them in character AND write them so they eventually fall head over heels because that's the way I am.
4.) Gamora is basically assassin!Gam except in a dress.
5.) Aaand I apparently have this headcanon that Peter always feels better when he's in the cockpit.
6.) It's 11: 01 here and I know, there are spelling errors. Please forgive me as I've got no beta. :s
He grips the side of the bunk with bruising strength. The muscles in his neck tighten as he strains, shutting his eyes against the waves of agony licking through his veins with every beat of his heart. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and the world swims before his eyes. Before he can so much as wonder what the hell is happening to him, the room suddenly feels far too hot. He tears at his clothes-heavy leather coat, jet boots, shirt, all of it-and removes them all, save for his pants. Exhausted and not entirely sure why, he collapses on the bed, to remain wondering when the hell life had gotten so difficult. He becomes acutely aware of the stinging pain up high in his left arm, right below the junction of his neck and shoulder. Some thanks I get for thinking altruistically, he thinks grudgingly.
In any other situation, (namely had his vision not been impaired by this mysterious illness), Peter Quill may have noticed the unnatural greenish tinge of the skin around the cut. His arm drops to his side, and he winces at the noticeable discomfort caused by the movement. He chalks it up as another stroke of bad luck, too delirious to think otherwise. All he can think of is the fire searing his veins and the possibility that he's running a fever (given that his body fluctuates between periods of far too hot and freezing cold). Not to mention the fact that his head is throbbing, and his heart with all its frantic pounding feels as if someone's taken a jackhammer to his sternum. He stretches over with his good hand to rub the smooth plate of bone as if to alleviate the sensation, and when it provides no respite, reaches over his head to grab at the metal rod above and uses it as leverage to pull himself stiffly to his feet. (He figures lying in his bunk can only worsen his situation.) He slumps against the bunk for a moment as nausea overtakes him and blinks several times. (He decides the world spinning does not help the nausea.)
Swaying as he struggles to put one foot in front of the other, he barely manages to cross the small space he calls a room and sags against the threshold. Pain blossoms in his shoulder, and he's fairly sure it's blood he tastes in his mouth from the effort of holding back a cry. Had he bitten his tongue? The pulsating hurt on the tip of his tongue confirms its answer, and he lets out a string of slurred curses. He stumbles out of the room; slowly, painfully, he makes his way to the cockpit in hopes of clearing his head. He passes her on his way and throws her a glance as he walks by. She meets him with an even gaze, her dark eyes unflinching. She had been sitting on a crate, but now stands with a hand at her side-ready if need by. His shoulders droop. His day could get worse, he tells himself. If it involved any confrontation with the less-than-pleased Zehoberi standing before him. He doesn't so much as wave a hand in the girl's direction when he finally moves again, continuing on his way. Her gaze follows him; he can almost feel it. He brushes the thought away once he reaches the nearest chair and flops down into it with an exhausted grunt. He tilts his head back and lets his eyes slip closed in hopes that some semblance of sleep might come. In the murky depths of semi-consciousness, dreams have yet to come to him but memories manage to serve the same purpose.
"You want me to what?" He snaps at the screen. The blue-skinned Ravager on the other end of the line shouts something about a big score and can't Peter just go with it and something suspiciously close to 'bounty hunt'. "No, I got that part. Yandu, I don't do that anymore. Not after the incident with the Kree girl," he adds, raising his voice over Yondu to get his point across.
The Centaurian, practically hopping with upset, will have none of it. "Godsdamnit, son. You don't wanna know what this'll involve. I'll tell ya now so we're square, boy, and then you gonna do it without question. Got me, Quill? Zehoberis - nasty people, I'll tell you right now. King's lost his darlin' daughter and he asked fer you specifically to 'unt her down. You have to-"
"Zehoberi? Intergalactic avocado species, right?" Peter yawns, reaching up to scratch the top of his head. It's days because of days like these that Peter Quill hates taking video calls from the Centaurian. The blue Ravager pulls his hand down his face in a done expression.
"Boy, you're doing it and we're splitting the riches. You got me?"
"Fine, fine. If she kills me, I'll haunt your ass for the rest of eternity," Peter mopes, waving his hand to end the transmission. With the yammering Centaurian gone, he falls back into his chair and props his feet up on a stack of crates. Zehoberi princess, huh? Shouldn't be too hard, he muses, letting his tired eyes slip closed as his thoughts drifted to beautiful women with emerald skin and long dark tresses. Operative word: shouldn't.
A/N: Uh oh! What happened to Peter? Anyone want to guess? *evil snicker* Poor, poor, Peter!
Sooo, here's the prologue of my new story, In His Veins. If you came to this after reading Barely Alive or Nearly Dead, then thank you and I hope you like it. If you've just stumbled across it, then I hope you've enjoyed it and will continue reading. On another note - Okay, I'll admit. This was abit rocky. I had to set the stage, though. So everything else will follow. Also, is it Zen-Whoberi or Zehoberi? I've seen both, so fans of the GotG comics, please do correct me if I'm wrong.
p.s. Expect some daddy!Yandu in the next chapter or two. I've always wanted to write that, honestly, and he and Peter are sort of a brotp for me. Is that weird?
p.p.s. It's me, Ella (in case some of you didn't recognize the penname change). I was myowntimelord, but am now petersgamora.
Lastly...Thoughts? Tell me whatever's on your mind in a review? More reviews = faster updates + more chapters.