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bevioletskies · 6 years

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Your fics on starmora is my favourite thing. You respected their characters and relationship. Just like how James Gunn treated their unspoken thing. He is such a protector and respectful of starmora that he tease their dynamics and treated gamora more than just a sexual interest character. I hope IW4 treat her better although i don't have high expectation. So thank you. A quick prompt: jealous peter quill + gamora soothe him out and strengthen their love.

(you are too kind to me, anon, thank you so much! i hope you enjoy this fill :D)takes place at some point in time between guardians of the galaxy vol. 2 and avengers: infinity war.word count: 2.8k | ao3

Gamora had never been one to express herself openly, held her emotions close to her chest and her thoughts confined to her head. Still, as time with the Guardians went on, she often smiled more, cried more, laughed more, and she honestly couldn’t find a reason not to. There was little she found more comforting than a night in with the team when they were warm, safe, and happy on the Milano during their days off, or the small moments she shared with her sister, where Nebula would smile just the tiniest bit as they reminisced about their childhood memories together that didn’t result in insult or injury.

And, of course, Peter, who played one of the biggest roles in her newfound emotional journey, who wore his heart on his sleeve, who had good intentions, but a bit of a temper. Stubborn, sweet, bull-headed, kind-hearted Peter. She loved him, of course, every last bit of him, but his maturity levels weren’t exactly always where they needed to be.

It all started - or perhaps, escalated would be a more apt description - on their latest mission, to protect Prince Xavi of the Shi’ar Empire. “How old d’you think this dude is?” Peter asked, looking away from the navigation display to glance briefly at the others. “He’s gotta be loaded, right?”

“With the amount we’re getting paid? Hell yes,” Rocket said gleefully, rubbing his paws together. “And the Shi’ar are almost as old as the galaxy itself. I bet their prince ain’t no different.”

Upon landing on Chandilar, the throneworld of the Shi’ar Empire, they were quickly escorted to the palace, a behemoth of a building seemingly constructed entirely out of translucent crystal, where they were received by -

“Ah, Guardians. It’s an honor.” The prince got to his feet, bowing deeply. As he straightened up, it was then that the Guardians got a better look at his visage - tall but not overly so, with a lean, yet muscular build and rich olive complexion. He had a shock of dark hair and warm brown eyes, and bore a deep red cape over his dark, tight-fitting formal attire. Prince Xavi, it seemed, was no older than Peter. “I’ve heard many things about you. All good, of course.”

“Really? That’s a first,” Rocket snorted. Gamora shot him a warning look before bowing in return.

“Your highness, thank you for hiring us. We promise to serve you and your empire well,” she said politely.

“You must be Gamora.” Xavi extended a hand for her to take. “The deadliest woman in the galaxy.”

“A moniker with negative connotations,” Gamora replied, her smile tightening, though she accepted his hand. He brushed a kiss into her knuckles before withdrawing. “With all due respect, I would rather be remembered for saving lives instead of taking them.”

“Understood. My apologies,” Xavi nodded, smiling remorsefully. He turned towards the other Guardians. “You look troubled, Mister Quill. Is something wrong?”

Gamora glanced over at Peter, alarmed at the wrinkle between his brow and the rigidness of his mouth. “No, not at all, your highness. Probably just my face.”

“Uh, you sure about that?” Rocket squinted up at him. “Your normal face is usually pretty dopey-looking.”

“It’s just my face,” Peter repeated through gritted teeth. “So tell us about this event of yours, Prince Xavi. We’ve only heard the brief, didn’t get much detail.”

“Ah, yes.” Xavi brightened. “You see, it’s my time to ascend the throne and become king. But before that, I must choose my life partner, the one to rule by my side. This event is intended for me to meet all my potential suitors from across the galaxy and seek alliances. Of course, there may be the spurned ex-lover or unwelcome guest here or there, if you catch my meaning. I don’t just need a security team, I need people who can ensure the night goes smoothly for everyone. As frequent diplomatic collaborators with the Nova Corps - ”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Peter interrupted.

“ - I found you, Guardians, to be the best fit for the job,” Xavi finished, looking at Peter curiously. “It’s just for one night, and I assume the compensation was agreeable enough to bring you here in the first place. I doubt you’ll encounter more than a stray fist at the very most.”

“That sounds easy enough,” Mantis said with a warm smile. “May we see where the event will be held?”

After Xavi had given them a brief tour of the castle’s first floor, one of his servants led them to the guest quarters upstairs (“Please, I couldn’t possibly leave you to sleep on that ship of yours!” he had insisted) and left them to their devices until evening came around. Gamora lingered in the doorframe to the ensuite of her and Peter’s shared bathroom, watching him as he brushed his teeth. “You seem much more irritated than you were a few hours ago. Is something wrong?”

“I swear, if I had five units for every single time someone brought up our criminal pasts - ” Peter spat his toothpaste into the sink aggressively. “ - we’d be rich enough to quit.”

She frowned. “I’m sure to other people, my reputation sounds more exhilarating than offensive. Prince Xavi seems kind, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sure, but did he really have to kiss your hand?” He wiped his face down, staring at himself inquisitively in the mirror.

“So that’s what this is about.” Gamora straightened up, folding her arms across her chest. “You may be my boyfriend, Peter, but my body belongs to no one but me. If I had a problem with it, I would have stopped him myself. I didn’t, because he seemed well-intentioned. There was nothing more meant by it, so if you’re going to act like this all evening - ”

“Then what?” he snapped, a little louder than he meant. Peter recoiled at his own words, holding his hand out to stop her before she could leave. “Wait - Gamora, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. And you’re right, it wasn’t cool of me.”

She sighed, unfolding her arms. “Okay. Just…please don’t be rash. I know that’s a lot to ask of you sometimes, but…really, there’s nothing you have to worry about. And if there is, then I’ll handle it. You just make sure everything goes well tonight.”

He exhaled slowly too, squeezing her shoulders in apology. “Yeah, well, easier said than done.”

The Guardians made their way downstairs an hour later, with Peter and Gamora briefly meeting with the head of Xavi’s security detail, dictating where all the guards were to be placed and the procedures for guests coming and going. “I think it would be best if Nebula and I remain stationed with you, your highness,” Gamora suggested when Prince Xavi briefly returned to see how they were doing. “We both use close-range weapons. With any luck, it will never come to close combat, but just in case. The others use guns; they’d be best positioned from a distance.”

Peter looked at her incredulously before turning back to look at the prince. “Well, I guess that makes sense,” he mumbled under his breath. “Drax, you with me on the balustrade?” Drax nodded sharply in agreement. “Rocket and Groot, you got the floor. And Mantis…”

“I will be at the door, greeting guests,” Mantis said cheerfully. “That way I can feel out for harmful intentions.”

“Excellent,” Prince Xavi said, clapping his hands together. “I can see I made the right decision in hiring you, Guardians. The guests will start arriving in half an hour, so I must return to my quarters to get ready, but I’ll see you all later.”

Gamora sent Peter one last warning glance before leading Nebula elsewhere, causing the other Guardians to look at him with varying degrees of concern. “What’d you do, Quill?” Rocket said, half-snickering.

“Nothing,” Peter insisted. “C’mon, Drax.”

The group dispersed, taking their positions among the palace guards. The room rapidly became filled with bodies and noise, the galaxy’s elite circling each other like sharks as they chatted politely over the gentle classical music. Peter had a good vantage point from the balustrade, but he could only just see the tops of people’s heads at times, especially that of Prince Xavi directly below, while Gamora and Nebula were almost always just a few steps behind. Women and men of varying degrees of cosmic influence would approach, wanting to prove their worth to the prince, while the sisters, for the most part, looked alert, but bored.

Peter relaxed a little bit. He was being silly, wasn’t he? They were working, he couldn’t afford to be this unprofessional. Back when they first started, he’d been a bit callous, overly emotional, but by now, he had learned how to keep himself in check. People weren’t going to hire the Guardians if he couldn’t be a good, rational leader. He had to set an example.

“Something’s troubling you, Quill,” Drax commented, eyeing him intently. “Is it Gamora? Are you having relationship problems?”

“No, I’m just being paranoid,” Peter said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, Drax.”

“You worry me regardless,” Drax replied airily. “If this about Prince Xavi’s physical contact with Gamora earlier - ”

“God, am I that obvious?” Peter muttered, mostly to himself.

“ - he is, of course, quite handsome. Strong cheekbones, and that masculine jawline,” Drax said wistfully. “Very rich, good-mannered, well-educated - ”

“Yes, I got it, thank you,” Peter interrupted loudly. Some of the nearby guests turned to look at him oddly.

“He may be leagues above you in many categories, Quill, but you have nothing to be concerned about,” Drax said, clapping Peter on the back a little too hard. “Over our years together, we’ve encountered many a superior mate for Gamora. If she wanted to leave you for another, she would have done it by now.”

Peter looked at Drax incredulously. “Dude.”

“I speak the truth,” Drax shrugged. “I see no reason to protect you from it.”

Sighing, Peter leaned against the railing, watching as Xavi whispered something briefly to Gamora, who nodded and politely, but firmly escorted the hysterical youth in front of them away from the crowd. “Fine. You want some truth? Sometimes, I don’t know why she ever liked me in the first place. You’re right, we have run into people who seem like a better match for her. Guys who are more, I dunno, ambitious. Level-headed. Guys who don’t get crazy jealous or super mad on a whim, who don’t go around makin’ dumb jokes and bad choices.”

Drax nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds like a conversation better suited for you and Gamora, I think,” he suggested. “But if it makes you feel better, Quill…”

“It probably won’t,” Peter snorted.

“…I may have had my doubts about your romantic compatibility when we first became a team, but no longer.” Drax smiled. “She loves you for a reason, so you must tell her what you have told me. I’m sure she will cast away all your doubts. And you know how much she values honesty.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks, Drax. That actually did make me feel better. Who woulda guessed it?”

Meanwhile, Gamora returned to Prince Xavi’s side, nodding at him briefly before retreating behind him once more with her sister. “Can you at least pretend to be enthused?” Gamora scolded, gently prodding Nebula’s side. “Our primary directive might not be helping him find a spouse, but scowling at everyone who approaches the prince isn’t going to get us paid, either.”

“Why does Quill agree to inane jobs like this?” Nebula grouched. “And he clearly isn’t enjoying himself either.”

Gamora shrugged. “Money,” she said simply. “Sustaining the lifestyles of seven people isn’t easy. This job is nothing more than glorified bodyguard work, but we’ll have enough units to carry us through for months. It was the right decision.”

“Yes, because Quill is such a rational being,” Nebula muttered, folding her arms across her chest.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Gamora frowned.

“You think his tantrum from earlier was acceptable, then?”

“Growing up with you and our siblings, I’ve gotten very used to anger,” Gamora retorted. “He may have a temper, but so do I. And he means well. He isn’t possessive or spiteful. He has no intention to harm anyone involved. Besides, I’ve done the very same to him.”

Nebula’s smirk deepened. “High Priestess Ayesha?”

“One encounter of many,” Gamora admitted with a laugh. “I’ve had my moments of jealousy. Peter’s charismatic, he’s good with people. It’s easy for them to be charmed by him in a matter of minutes.” She softened, squeezing Nebula’s elbow. “Believe me, if I thought his behavior was unacceptable, I would have made it clear. You don’t have to worry about me, Nebula.”

“Worry?” Nebula blanched at the very word. “I do not - ”

“You were never a very good liar, sister,” Gamora said teasingly, looping their arms together, guiding her as they followed the prince across the floor. “But I’ll let it go for now.”

To the Guardians’ relief (and Rocket’s disappointment), the night closed out with barely a peep. A few excessively-indulgent drunkards here and there, a couple rambunctious young ones who caused a bit of a stir and accidentally broke a priceless statue in the foyer, but otherwise, Prince Xavi’s worries were unfounded, and he found himself being courted by another handsome prince to boot. He thanked them profusely before insisting they get a good night’s rest in their guest quarters instead of taking off in the dead of night, promising that a hearty breakfast and their generous payment would be waiting for them in the morning.

Gamora, once again, found Peter as he was brushing his teeth. She made quick work of changing into her sleepclothes before joining him at the other sink, toothbrush in hand. Their eyes met in the mirror. “Rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?” she commented lightly. “I think Rocket was secretly hoping for something exciting to happen. He’s been wanting to use that new gun of his for ages.”

“Y’know, sometimes, these ‘boring’ jobs ain’t so bad.” Peter smiled. “I don’t always wanna be panicking every five seconds that someone’s about to die.”

“Agreed,” she chuckled. Once they were both done, she led him back into the bedroom, both of them collapsing with a satisfied sigh onto the enormous mattress and its silky sheets. They laid on top of the duvet in silence for a moment, enjoying the quiet, before she spoke again. “I…was a bit hypocritical earlier. I’ve been just as upset whenever we ran into a woman showing active interest in you. We’re both alike in that sense.”

“Still, I could’ve been less of a dick about it. I can’t promise it’s never gonna happen again, but I am sorry for treatin’ him - and you - like that.” Peter slowly turned his head to look at her. “So I was talkin’ to Drax about what happened, and I said a couple of things he thought would be better for you to hear.”

She returned his gaze, looking at him curiously. “What is it?”

“I guess…the reason that I get weirded out whenever someone seems interested in you is ‘cos I don’t really get why you’re interested in me.” Peter swallowed, breaking their eye contact in favor of staring up at the ceiling. “And like, this isn’t a self-esteem issue or anything. It’s more like…the girls I’ve been with before…they know me as the fun guy. Impulsive, fun, adventure-lovin’ Peter. And then there’s you, and you’re so…confident, and powerful, and badass, and those are all reasons why I fell for you crazy fast. But it doesn’t really explain the other way around, y’know?”

“You think we’re incompatible?” Gamora guessed. Peter nodded, still refusing to meet her eyes. “I don’t see it that way at all. I think of us as opposites who complement each other. Not perfectly, of course. But we work as partners and significant others.”

“But don’t you want someone who’s got their head on straight? Someone who doesn’t let stuff like this bother him?” Peter turned onto his side, tempted to bury his face into the pillows and never come out.

“I don’t want that. I want you,” Gamora insisted, tugging on his shoulder to roll him back over and resting her hand against his cheek. “You’re passionate, and kind, and more clever than you look.” Peter let out a soft noise of protest, but allowed her to snuggle in closer, anyway. “You make for a good leader, friend, and boyfriend. You make me happy, Peter, and really, isn’t that all that matters?”

He smiled, his eyes finally coming back to hers, and they sparkled with something so mischievous and yet so gentle, and though it had been years since he’d first looked at her like that, Gamora’s heart still beat a little faster like it was the very first time. “You’re right. As always.”

“Not always, just most of the time,” she corrected with an impish grin. She leaned in, brushing a barely-there kiss against his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Peter wrapped his arms around her middle, burying his face into her neck with a relieved sigh. “And you make me happier than anyone else. You really, really do.”

#ask #Anonymous #starmora #starmora fic #myfic #marvel #i just flew right through this one #jealous!peter is a thing i'm well-versed in #looking at you 20q!peter

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samwpmarleau · 7 years

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If it pleased your muses, would a Rhaella Doran fic be possible? With maybe Aunt Rhaelle, Uncle Ormund, and Granma Beth's to the charge.

It had been Grandmother’s idea in the beginning, but it had taken Auntie and Uncle Ormund to turn it from an idea into a plan. Father’s proclamation to marry her to Aerys and Grandfather’s failure to stop it had resulted in a rift between him and Grandmother, she knows, and so Black Betha had taken things into her own hands.

Aegon may be king, she had whispered as she shuffled Rhaella onto a ship, but I am queen and a Blackwood besides. We do not suffer our women to be playthings, and nor will I.

Where am I going? Rhaella had asked, equal parts terrified and excited. She’d never traveled before, but if it meant she wouldn’t marry her brother, she would agree to anything.

Far away. Your aunt is making the arrangements. The people dislike me enough without hearing that I orchestrated your escape, but Rhaelle is protected by her marriage, and Ormund is supplying the coin. You needn’t worry anymore, my darling.

That had been a week ago. Now, Rhaella looks around her at her new room in a Volantene manse, still unable to believe this is real, that she’ll wake up back in King’s Landing betrothed to Aerys. Her caretaker is a knight in service to House Baratheon, someone she doesn’t know but has been assured is as loyal as a brother to Uncle Ormund. Both Grandmother and Auntie had promised to send regular letters, and to visit when they could. Her ladies had had to be kept in the dark, and Rhaella doesn’t know what they’ve been told as an excuse, what anyone has been told.

Well, most of her ladies.

Loreza had been apprised of the situation, for Rhaella knows she would have hounded anyone in the Keep she could get her hands on for information, and she will forever cherish the look of triumph on the princess’s face.

Make your life what you will, she had said. It is yours. Yours and yours alone. You are stronger than you know, dear Ella.

Loree had told her she would help in any way she could, should Rhaella require it, that she would not suffer Rhaella to lack for anything. She had agreed to secrecy, too, though they both regretted not being able to bring Joanna in on it all. Rhaella had considered it, but with Joanna would come Tywin, and Rhaella doesn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. She can’t risk this. She can’t risk herself, and she can’t risk Grandmother or Auntie; they would face enough censure as it is, once the news got out. She wonders what Father had done about the news; he couldn’t do much, surely, what with the perpetrators being his own family.

And Aerys!

He’s the one who will have to marry elsewhere. For as much as Father droned on about the witch’s prophecy, Aerys is the heir to the throne, and he would have to secure it–secure it with someone who is not her. The thought makes her giddy, and she flops down on the featherbed with a girlish giggle.

You are stronger than you know, dear Ella, Loree had said.

Yes, I am.

Volantis had taken some getting used to, in the beginning, its oppressive wet heat tangling her hair and the slavery making her fume, but even so, she is happy. No Aerys, no forced marriage, no “you are a princess, Rhaella, you must act like one,” no obsequious courtiers to appease. Oh, there are customs here she has to conform to, but they are not so chafing.

The sun has only just risen as she wanders the docks and passes the merchants selling their wares, like she has taken to doing every day since she arrived. It’s peaceful, despite the yelling of prices and the sailors’ cursing in a dozen different languages, and most recognize her by now.

She had been warned at first about setting off alone–men are men no matter where you go, she had been told–but she has made enough friends amongst these men, primarily through the coin she gives them, that she knows if someone were to approach her with nefarious intentions, they would mysteriously vanish within the hour. No one even glances at what she looks like, either; they are accustomed to the purple eyes and silver-gold hair of Valyria, and so she is nothing special. It is yet another freedom that she treasures.

She does miss her family, especially Grandmother and Auntie, but every time she considers whether she wants to go back–whether she even could go back–she remembers what Father had wanted and the way Aerys would yank on her hair, and that fleeting consideration disappears. Father is dead now, and though she’d heard something about Grandfather trying to hatch dragon eggs, but Grandmother had assured her it was a mere fancy.

She had received a letter from Mother once through Auntie, after Father had passed. It had begged her to leave Volantis, that she regretted every day she hadn’t dissuaded Father from his obsessions, but Rhaella was unmoved. Maybe it was sincere, maybe she does regret it, but Rhaella can’t forget how Mother would have been perfectly content to see her wed to Aerys at only three-and-ten, simply because of a riddle from Aunt Jenny’s witch.

No, Rhaella would not abide. She is no longer bound to Mother’s whims. Not Mother’s, not anyone’s, no one’s except her own.

Almost none of the ships does she recognize in the docks. Volantis sees more vessels in one day than Rhaella had seen in a lifetime back in King’s Landing, ships of all kinds, sizes, and crews. She doesn’t stop at any of them, until she gets to one near the end. It’s unremarkable on the outside, but what catches her attention is that she overhears its occupants speaking the Common Tongue. Though she’s learned several languages during her time here, none had quite felt so familiar as her native one, and it is pleasant to hear it again.

Smiling, she approaches the tie-off and calls out, “From where do you hail, sers?”

“Dorne,” calls back the man nearest the platform. He’s carrying only a single bag, and her intrigue deepens when he turns around. She’s seen that coloring before.

He says something to another crew member she can’t hear, and then disembarks. He’s taller than her, though is certainly no Ser Duncan, and although she wouldn’t say he’s handsome necessarily, she knows all too well that beauty often masks the ugliness within.

“I have a friend from there,” she says excitedly. “What is your name?”

He hesitates, though she can’t fathom why. “What is yours?”

It is her turn to pause. She has a different name here, the better to conceal her identity, but something about this man’s gentle dark eyes has her telling the truth. “Rhaella.”

Instantly his wariness turns to incredulity. “Rhaella Targaryen? The lost princess?”

Lost princess? “What do you mean by that?”

“No one knows where you went,” he answers. “Rumors abound, but Volantis has never been one of them. To think I’ve met you by accident, of all things.”

It occurs to her only then that perhaps this man would not have her best interests in mind. “Please, won’t you tell me who you are?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in it now. Doran Martell, my lady, son of Princess Loreza. She was your lady-in-waiting many years ago.”

“Loree!” she exclaims. “Oh, what fortune! Is she well, I hope?”

“Quite. She and His Grace have been putting together plans for better irrigation across all of Dorne. The other lords may take ill to his reforms, but Dorne has prospered for it.”

“It pleases me to hear it,” she says. She glances up at his ship and apologizes, “I should let you tend to your affairs. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“It’s no interruption, princess. I am here to tour the Free Cities, and as it happens this is one of them.”

“I can show you around,” she offers, “if you’d like.”

He smiles. “If it’s no trouble.”

Doran had told her he only meant to stay in Volantis for a fortnight, but two moons have waxed and waned and yet still he joins her every morning for her walk along the harbor. He is quiet, preferring to listen rather than to talk, but every now and then he has a quip or a comment that makes her sides ache with laughter, and she’s discovered that she likes it most when he smiles, for it lights up his face and shows that for all his intelligence is that of a man far older, he still very much has his youth.

She’s also noticed that sometimes when she looks at him her stomach swoops, a strange feeling that is at once terrifying, confounding, and exhilarating. She’s too scared to put a name to it—she hardly knows him!—but nevertheless the thought of him leaving disappoints her much more than she know it ought.

He tells her of his family and of hers, and in turn she tells him of the Free Cities and teaches him as much as she can of the bastard Valyrian spoken here. He picks it up quickly, and she’s grateful for it; she likes the way his voice deepens as he trips over the harsh syllables, how he watches her to get the intonations right.

She gets up the courage one day to ask him why he hadn’t wed, why Loreza hadn’t forced him to the way Rhaella’s parents had intended.

“I think she hoped Lord Gargalen’s daughter would catch my eye,” he says, “but when that didn’t happen, she focused on Elia and Oberyn instead,” he’d answered. “And you? Not marrying your brother, that I understand, but after all this time you’ve still not found anyone?”

“There was someone, once.” She has never forgotten him, a man scarcely older than her who had lightened her heart and even taken her maidenhead, but then his father had ordered him to undertake a voyage to Slaver’s Bay–for what, Rhaella hadn’t asked–and he’d never returned. She doesn’t know if he’d been killed or if he had made a home there, but he had been years ago and ever since, she’s never felt any particular desire for another man.

At least, not until…

No. She won’t go there. What would the heir to Dorne want with a disgraced princess in exile? He is a friend, nothing more.

She knows it’s all too good to last, though, and indeed one day he receives a letter from his mother. With a grin, he explains, “My sister is to be wed.”

“To whom?” He had told her of the abortive betrothal trip that both of his siblings had taken not long ago, and that Joanna’s death had severed any hopes of a match being made.

“A boy my uncle squired,” he answers. “Ser Arthur of House Dayne. I can’t imagine Mother is too happy about it–she’s always had high ambitions for Elia–but it seems she has been convinced. His being named the Sword of the Morning probably helped. I am glad of it. Elia’s life has not been easy.”

She is glad as well, for she knows better than most the freedom that comes with not marrying against your will, but she also knows what this means. “I suppose you shall be leaving soon, then. It would not due to miss your sister’s wedding.”

Doran looks up at her with a frown. “Oh…yes, I should find a ship.”

“There should be plenty willing to take you to Dorne, but if you should have any troubles, I know my way around these men,” she says. She feels guilty for being upset at the prospect of no longer having his company, and so plasters on an extra-bright smile. “You’ll give my best to your mother, won’t you? I miss her so.”

“Of course.” He opens his mouth to say more, but then decides against it. “Take care, princess.”

He’s at her door the next morning looking a way she hasn’t seen before: nervous. “My prince? Has something happened?”

“Come with me,” he says in a rush. “Mother will shelter you, you’ll have nothing to fear. You shouldn’t have to waste away your whole life here in Volantis.”

“I can’t,” she says. “It’s too dangerous. For me, and for your family. And I don’t want to cast a pall on your sister’s day.”

“It would be no pall.”

“Doran, I…I don’t know.”

“Think about it, at least,” he says. “The ship’s captain will not set out until the morrow. Meet me at the furthest pier at sunrise.”

That night, she packs and unpacks a dozen times, going over the ramifications in her head until she doesn’t know one thought from another. She can’t sleep a wink, and it’s only when she sees the sky begin to lighten that her head clears.

Home.

Does she even know what that is? She’s been here since she was only a girl, and now she is long since a woman. What does she know of Westeros anymore? Grandmother and Auntie are always with her in spirit, yet she does long to see them. They’d visited less than a handful of times apiece, and though their letters have been wonders to receive, she yearns to once again hear her aunt’s sharp tongue and feel her grandmother’s warm embrace. And if it means all of that and seeing Loree again?

If it means seeing Doran every day?

With a spontaneity she’s never known, she hastily scrawls a note to the caretaker, shoves whatever she can reach into a bag and races out the door. Habit has her calling to the merchants she passes, and she all but skids to a stop at the end of the pier.

“Doran!” At first she thinks somehow she’d missed him, that he’d already left, but then she sees him emerge from the hold, just as he’d done that first day, and she feels a rush of something new, something she can’t describe.

Make your life what you will. It is yours.

#rhaella targaryen #doran martell #rhaella x doran #asoiaf #gotfic #my fic #compliance: canon au #anonymous

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zeddraws · 7 years

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Brown People Have Feelings Too. The title is one I've contemplated for a few days. This is because I wasn't entirely sure how to pitch my views of the experiences of brown people. Yet, after a collection of experiences during my recent holiday to Croatia, I decided that the phrase from my title was necessary. As a brown person, and others with my complexion(feel free not to) they would agree that being brown isn't easy. Many of us are blessed to grow up in a cosmopolitan society where differences are celebrated with a plethora of skin tones, languages and cultures, let alone the modern movement twitter hashtags such as #UnfairAndLovely and #PraisinTheAsian and so on. However, I couldn't feel any of that pride once I went abroad. At first when I went to Athens, Greece earlier this year. I felt the stares of the locals the entire time I was there. Once were entered touristy areas we (I was accompanied by another brown person) felt more comfortable because we managed to see other people that looked like us. Thus making us more comfortable. It's a standard game we play, 'Spot the Brown Person'. Seems ridiculous I know but it happens! But what struck me the most was my recent experience on a tourist 3 island boat trip in Croatia on a pirate style boat (which was totally freakin' awesome and we took a gazillion selfies on it!). When we first boarded my mother instantly befriended a friendly Bulgarian man who agreed that he has noticed a different treatment to certain people. He told my mother about how he witnessed a Lebanese family being treated unkindly by a bus driver on a recent trip. By this point my family and I hadn't received any unkind treatment by any of the staff or locals, but we couldn't help but noticing receiving less smiles than other families. Later on in the trip was when we experienced unpleasant behaviour. On the trip we would return to the boat after each island. The second time we returned to the boat, our seats were moved to make way for the lunch buffet that was provided. We noticed a number of people had changed seats, and luckily we found some seats on the corner in the shade; ideal for my mother with sensitive skin and a problematic foot. Ten minutes after we sat down an older couple sat on the chair next to us, picking up makeup wipes that were left on one of the chairs. Now, for the life of me, I KNEW I wasn't being paranoid, I could just feel this woman's dirty looks. After a few huffs and dirty glances, the woman with attitude and her husband waddled off and left us be without saying a word. So I thought nothing of it.. THEN, what came next could only be described as a toddler tantrum from two parents, as a man with a strong American accent, came bustling towards us barking 'I can't believe this! I reserved this for my family! We reserved these 5 seats for us to sit together!' Now, my mum being the QUEEN that she is, she didn't move an inch. She very calmly stated 'There was nothing on these seats and our seats were moved, everyone has moved seats'. The man continued to bitch and moan 'what am I supposed to do? I have to swarm my family yknow!?' Now from where were sitting, we were bemused. This man was bitching, and I stick by my choice of 'bitching', at my family taking us 3 chairs when there were 4 chairs free and a spare chair behind the 4th right next to him. My sister even said 'there's a spare chair there' but was ignored. The wife came along and too started to complain openly to her husband 'where is my mask!? I need my mask! I left it and I need it' but never directly asked us. IF she had, she would've understood that there was no mask when we sat down and clearly it was loved by either the boat's staff or by their elder relatives that had sat there previously during dirty looks beforehand. I stood from my chair and said 'you can sit here I don't mind standing' and the husband said 'No no you don't have to stand' to which I thought to myself...'so why are you complaining? Why are you emphasising the issue if you don't want a solution?' So I sat and didn't budge. The son was the sweetest, roughly aged 7-9 who innocently said to his mum 'can't we just sit here' referring to the empty seats that were directly behind them. They begrudgingly listened. This trip to the final island of the those was the most uncomfortable 20-30 minutes of my life. We were made to feel so isolated and rejected when not too long ago we were enjoying ourselves and mixing with people from different countries. Nothing was overtly spoken to suggest it was a race issue, or wether it was sexism. But it was an argument that didn't need to happen. After the final island we climbed aboard the pirate ship, more cautious than previously so. We found seats away from the apparently 'claimed' corner and sat in the middle of the deck. We noticed a group of young men had sat in the corner and I knew exactly what my mother was going to say. 'Let's see if they receive the same treatment' to which we already knew the answer. When the rude people returned we heard their irritated voices sing 'not again!' as they witnessed the catastrophically unmentionable incident that their 'rightfully owned' seats had been taken. I'm telling you now, if my mum had popcorn in her hand it would've suited the look on her face. The big eyes emoji would've best suited the look on all my family's faces! The husband bitched, the wife bitched, and one gentleman moved to let them sit. However the rest didn't give a shit and it was glorious. They begrudgingly moved elsewhere, accepting the defeat hey deserved. And again the young boy with his pure innocence was the only one I felt sorry for, but he didn't complain once. The only thing I could hear was my mother's sarcastic 'oh dear' as they walked past, embarrassed of their failed conquest for those golden, sacred chairs. It was a small but satisfying victory. But looking back I couldn't help but be bothered by the experience. Why didn't I stand up to the husband's horrible attitude? Why did the men in the chairs receive less of an argument than we 3 brown women did? Why did my family receive less smiles from staff during the whole trip than other families? To be clear, the men who sat in the seats after us were all young, well built, white men. They also didn't receive nowhere near as much confrontation and complaint as my family did. So maybe the issue at hand is more to do with gender as opposed to race. But it was that incident that highlighted every interaction that happened afterwards. I noticed we got less 'service with a smile' as others. I noticed less staff wouldn't ask us questions about our day. Was it indifference or fear? These are experiences felt by my friends of colour too. Black friends stared at and even taken pictures of abroad without their permission. Sometimes the look of fear. Am I being ignorant because I've lived in London too long? Heck, even when I attended the University of Portsmouth I couldn't help but feel like the token brownie during my English Literature lectures. Is this something I should just accept? Has London spoilt me in terms of believing that diversity is accepted outside of the major cities? These questions plague me because I can't help but feel that asking them is redundant. Not everyone is equal in everyone's eyes. There is an underlying prejudice I can't help but feel the burn of when I'm looked at by certain people. I know this isn't as bad as being spat at called 'paki' (which did happen to me walking home after school aged 15), or having letters on fire pushed through your letterbox (this happened to my grandparents' close friends not far from where we grew up) but it still bothers me. What is the solution for this issue? I'd like to know. Am I supposed to not travel to certain places because of this? Is it safer to keep quiet and accept these incident rather than speak up? I'm not sure. It's a shame because on the outside I'm sure it seems like I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill. An insignificant blip in what was an amazing trip abroad for 7 days. But, when you notice these 'looks' all your life, and hear sometimes your closest loved ones whispering ignorant comments about your religion, culture or race, you can't help but build up a feeling of resentment inside. You can't help but feel marginalised by the society you want to be an active part in. I shouldn't have to say it but it's true. Brown people have feelings too.

#brownpeoplehavefeelingstoo

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