the stars will not be in your favor
By the time Peter is fifteen years old, there is not a mission that he isn’t flirting on. He’s insisted that he’s good for other stuff, but no one ever listens.
Because Peter can fight, shoot, and fly. He spends hours training daily to ensure that he’s proficient. Yondu just doesn’t care. Yondu says that Peter is a good distraction, so Peter doesn’t get to infiltrate Nova Corp prison cells. Peter gets to flirt with the guard until he’s shoved against a wall with a hand down his pants.
It doesn’t feel so good anymore when Yondu clasps his shoulder or ruffles his hair. It feels dirty.
But it’s been seven years since Peter was abducted from Terra, and he knows better than to question or disobey Yondu. So, he doesn’t. Peter smiles and sways and giggles. It’s what he’s good for.
Haxon whistles at him, and Peter is brought back to the present. It’s time for him to do what he does best: distract.
So, Peter saunters out from behind the alley that he and the rest of the Ravager team are hiding in and makes it way over to the street vendor selling vibrant swatches of cloth. All he has to do is get the vendor, a man by the name of Nowsai, back to the alley. Then the Ravagers will get him ready for transport.
“Nuh uh, pretty boy. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Peter glares at Tulk, knowing arguing is futile. He’s being benched, again, because the Ravagers don’t trust him not to get kidnapped while they’re all drunk. They’re celebrating the latest mission, which Peter heavily facilitated, but Peter isn’t allowed on seedy, backwater planets when the Ravagers are getting drunk now. He’s a risk.
“I can take care of myself. You can’t just keep me locked up in here!” Peter protests, resisting the urge to childishly stomp his foot.
“Cap’n says yous stayin’ inside, so yous stayin’ inside,” Tulk answered, not even sparing him a glance.
“Oh, fuck you,” Peter exclaims, thundering off down the hall to his bunk.
He can’t wait to get the hell away from these people.
Peter kicks a pile of bolts and screws, listening spitefully as it clatters off in the distance. He’s been pacing around the Eclector for an hour now, too restless to sit down and too tired to practice with his blasters.
His Walkman sits familiarly over his ears, the gentle cooing of “Ooh Child” bouncing around his skull. Peter has tried to eat, but all he can think about is all of the other Ravagers out at some bar getting drunk off their asses. He doesn’t care about the drunk part; he cares about the getting off the ship part.
The only times Peter is ever out and about anymore, he seems to be wearing tight pants and an even tighter shirt. He’s tired of it. And quite frankly, it’s fucking humiliating.
Peter doesn’t understand the point of being trained to do anything else if all Yondu is going to let him do is shake his ass and bat his eyelashes. It’s all fucking pointless.
Not only is it pointless , Peter thinks, finding another pile of scrap metal to kick, but it’s stupid.
So, he knows it’s a bad idea, okay? But sneaking out of the Eclector was the only idea that soothed his burning soul.
Peter is racing toward the city before the loading hatch that he slipped out of even has a chance to close. He has his blasters, his knives, his Walkman, and his coat. Peter has totally got this.
He quickly takes note of where the nearest bar is and makes sure to steer clear of it. If anyone catches him, they’ll send him straight to Yondu, and Yondu is unpredictable.
Instead, he saunters into an area that is brightly lit with street signs. It doesn’t seem shady, so Peter lets his hand drop away from its spot hovering over his blaster. He takes in the people walking past and decides to join in with their activity: window shopping.
Peter doesn’t have any money to spend. He’s saving up all of his units for when he can get the hell away from the Ravagers. But it’s fun to look. He imagines buying this stuff when he’s on his own.
Peter exhales and a body collides with his, two arms gripping on his right one. Immediately, he pivots and reaches for his blasters, but it’s just Rashel.
Rashel is a pink-red, four armed mechanic on the Eclector . And apparently she just caught Peter.
“The hell you doing out here, kid?” She hisses, voicebox clicking in a way that his translator struggles to pick up.
“Get offa me, ‘Shel,” Peter rips his arm out of her grasp.
“Yer s’ppossed to be on tha ship.”
“Yes, I’m aware. You’re supposed to be at the bar.”
Rashel sighs. “Don’t turn this interrogation around on me. I’m not the one disobeying Cap’n’s orders.”
“C’mon, don’t tell Yondu! Please?” Peter begs, hands pressed together for maximum effect.
Rashel shakes her head at him, exhaling noisily and clicking a few times. “Get yer ass back on the ship now, and it stays between us.”
“Yes!” Peter cheers, “Thank you.”
“Run like yer ass is on fire , kid.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Peter salutes, starting to backwards pedal before switching around to run forwards.
He’s disappointed that he was caught so soon, but he’s glad that it was Rashel of all people who found him. Ha, Peter knew she had a soft spot for him.
And see? Peter can go out and about without being kidnapped or raped or whatever the hell Yondu thinks is gonna happen. Take that, you blue-faced bastard.
When Peter gets back to the ship, in the comfort of his bunk, he wipes himself down with cleansing towelettes, and adorns some sleep clothes. Then, he places his Walkman over his ears and settles in for the night.
“I’m an alligator
I’m a mama-papa coming for you”