#Steel cut wire shot

[ruchika-05]

Orient Industries Stainless Steel Cut Wire Shot offer an extra white finish, Zero dust and customizable forms for precision blasting and peening.

[suntecenterprisesblog]

Exploring the Different Grades of Stainless Steel Shot.

This adaptable material has a broad application scope, from industrial to consumer products. From shot blasting to burnishing and peening, stainless steel’s adaptability shines. There are distinct variations of stainless-steel shots, as it turns out. The correct grade of stainless-steel shot is crucial to ensuring optimal performance due to its distinct advantages and qualities.

[lokiswifeduh]

Doll, please

Pairings- Mob!Bucky x Fem!reader

Summary- Bucky is taken by the reader's ex-boyfriend. You go to save him, not knowing it was a trap.

Warnings- crime, violence, mention of drugs, angst, minor fluff, character being shot, cussing, torture, graphic violence.

WC- 2.6k

masterlist

James was taken, that was definite. The reason was still unknown. Of course, many people had motives. He runs the city. Being the head of organized crime. He had eyes and ears everywhere. He moved drugs and was the owner of most clubs, restaurants, and companies.

His only weakness is you.

However, Rumlow didn't take you. He took Bucky. You knew that for sure.

"Steve, please tell me you know a location. Something, anything?" The blonde looks down at the computer, wanting to give you some form of information. But comes up with nothing.

"I'm sorry, we still don't have anything."

You groan, putting your head in your hands and groaning.

"Boss' tracker went dark before he made it across the bridge into Brooklyn." Sam walks in, throwing the last known location that was printed down onto the table.

Your head perked up, running over to look over the information. "So let's go check it out." But Steve shakes his head, "No." "Why not?!"

He moves forward, getting slightly in your face. "Because that bridge has over five thousand people on it hourly." He throws the paper out of your hands and into the trash bin next to the door. "Buck may be missing but damn it I will not endanger you in any way in his absence." "But Steve-" "No!!" He shouts, making you flinch slightly. "You stay put where it's safe until we know why and or how he was taken." You let out a long breath, "Fuck this." Taking long strides you run out of the room and to your and Bucky's shared bedroom.

"Watch her." Steve mumbles, making Sam nod.

There was protocol, you knew that. If there was ever a reason why Bucky couldn't run things, Steve was the one who was appointed to take over. But just as Bucky would have it, Steve would never put you in danger. Which made it harder for you to help.

Or Steve would think.

You paced in your shared room, trying to think of ways you could leave, a way you could find your husband. You fiddled with the diamond ring on your finger when suddenly your phone pinged with a text.

You ran over to your bed, grabbing your phone with both hands.

CALL THIS NUMBER IF YOU WANT YOUR HUSBAND BACK ALIVE

You went to the dial pad, dialing in the number with shaky hands and pressing call. It rang four times before picking up. All you heard was silence before you spoke, "Hello, James?"

"Not James, sweetheart." Your heart stopped as you heard the voice of your ex. Brock.

"W-where is he? Is he okay? Is he safe?"

Brock chuckled, requesting to Facetime, to which you accepted; facing the camera up in an attempt to conceal your face.

He switched the camera around, revealing a dark and bloody room, focusing on some steel tools before he panned over to Bucky.

The state of your husband shocked you, making you almost drop the phone. "James?" His face was bloody, cuts and scratches tore his cheeks and jawbone.

His wrists were red, blood dripping from them as the wire that held him down cut into his skin. a knife was sticking out of his thigh, and his chest was adorned with deep lacerations that even you could tell needed stitches.

"Doll?" He lifted his head. His blue eyes had lost the sparkle they had not only a day ago as he looked into the camera.

"Hi love," Tears streamed down your face as you looked at how much damage and torture he had been put through. "I'm so sorry. I promise we're gonna come find you okay? I promise." You hiccuped, sobbing as you watched him grimace in pain.

"Baby don't come. Send Steve. Please, don't come-"

Your husband was silenced with a punch as you yelped. "Stop! Brock, please." The video was taken off of Bucky and went back to Brock. You could still hear him groaning in pain in the background as your ex-boyfriend smirked.

"I'll let him go. But I need you to do one thing for me princess." You gulped, hearing Bucky scream and protest as loud as he could in the back.

"What?" Brock punched Bucky one more time, silencing him.

That only brought more tears to your eyes as you gulped, seeing him give you an evil smile. "You, for him." "You want me?" "I will let Bucky go, as long as I have you in my possession."

You bit your lip, thinking it over. Wondering about how you would even get away. But in the back of your mind, the schematics didn't matter. All that mattered was Bucky being free, even if that meant sacrificing yourself for it.

"Where do I meet you?"

You once again could hear Bucky protesting in the back but tried to keep a straight face while looking at Brock. He smiled again, "At the corner of East 96th and Park." You gulped, realizing how close that was. Brock must've known where your and Bucky's shared home was.

"And you promise you'll let Bucky go right?"

Brock nodded, "For old times sake princess."

You thought it over for a moment, before wiping the still wet tears on your cheeks. "What time?" "You'll meet my men over there in an hour and they'll drive you to the location." "No," You shook your head. "My husband gets dropped off before I even think about going with you." "Ahhh," Brock sighs, turning the camera back to Bucky before landing yet another hit against his already bleeding cheek. "That's not how this is gonna work, sweetheart."

"Okay! Stop!" You screamed, "I'll be there in an hour. Just please don't hurt him anymore."

"Sounds like a deal." Brock sneered, ending the Facetime.

You broke down, falling to your knees on Bucky's side of the bed, clawing onto the covers. You could still smell the faint scent of your husband. The musky pine and balsam were almost gone as you laid on his side all night, crying yourself to sleep.

You had to do this. Steve and Sam were no closer to finding or retrieving him. And you knew they wouldn't let you go alone, or go at all. You just had to find a way to sneak out without anyone noticing.

Thankfully you still had an escape route from when the house was being targeted by HYDRA's men and you needed to get out for your own sanity.

You realized you had been crying, staring at the framed picture of you and Bucky on your wedding day. Looking over at the clock, it was almost time to meet Rumlow.

You slipped on some black leggings, putting on a long-sleeved black shirt and a jacket. Opening Bucky's nightstand drawer, you grabbed the Glock he kept in there and two hand knives.

Slipping one knife into the holster under your shirt and the other one in your boot. Finally hiding the Glock in the back of your pants under the jacket.

Now all you had to do was slip out without Sam, Steve, or any of Bucky's men seeing you. You knew Steve had for sure put you on lockdown.

You opened your door, seeing one guy turn the corner at the end of the hall. You stealthy moved, closing your door behind you, and walked to the other end of the hall, opening the usually locked door to the armory.

Thank god Steve had unlocked it earlier when they thought they had a location.

Moving to the computer in the corner, you disabled the cameras that were placed on your and Bucky's bedroom door. Shifting over you scooted one of the gun racks out of the way, trying not to make too much noise as it revealed a hidden door behind.

You silently thanked Bucky's mom for making an escape door in the brownstone.

Unhooking the latches from the door, you slipped inside the small space and closed it behind you, carefully descending down the ladder. You jumped to the bottom, opening a door to the alley.

The steam from the subway got in your face as you locked the door behind you, blocking your view. You felt a hard hit on the back of your head as you fell to the ground on your knees. You touched the back of your head, feeling the sticky blood on your fingers.

Another hit made you fall all the way down as you rolled over, looking at who your attacker was. "N-Natasha?"

"Night night...doll." One final hit to your skull and everything went black.

-----------------

The first thing you felt was restraints holding your wrists down. Pounding in your head made you not want to open your eyes. But you could swear you heard someone yelling your name.

Lifting your head with as much strength as you could muster you wearily did, squinting.

"Bucky?" You mumbled, still out of it.

"Doll? Wake up, honey. You gotta look at me."

You opened your eyes more, seeing a bloody, tied-up Bucky in front of you. "James!" You tried to stand up but as you did wire cut into your wrists and ankles. "Ah!" You screamed in agony as you looked down at your wrists which were starting to bleed.

"Doll, don't move, okay? It only makes it worse." Your eyes shot back up to Bucky.

"Are you okay? Where is Brock?"

Bucky shook his head, "He hasn't been in since they brought you in here." "Natasha. She hit me in the head." You remembered, wincing.

"I know," Bucky groaned, "I'm gonna fucking kill her for betraying me." You felt your head pound again, making you groan in pain once again.

"What hurts, baby?" Looking Bucky in his eyes, you saw the worry and guilt he held for this. "It's okay. I'm okay." But he could see the pain your body held. Blood dripped down your neck from the back of your head. An open wound was still bleeding on your forehead, and your chest heaved up and down as you tried not to cry. He vowed to protect you and here you were, tied down and bleeding.

"I swear, I will get us out of here, doll. I promise." Bucky gave you the best smile he could when suddenly the door opened. Revealing Brock, and the traitorous redhead behind him.

You kept your head high, not showing your distaste as Rumlow grabbed the front of your neck with his hand, bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear.

Bucky however did, pulling on his restraints which only made blood drip from his wrists more. "Touch her again and I'll have your fucking head, Rumlow."

Bucky's threat only made Brock laugh as he removed his hand from your flesh, allowing you to take a much-needed breath.

"This is how this is gonna go, Barnes." Rumlow walked over to a table, picked up a pair of pliers, and walked back over to Natasha, handing the rusty tool to her.

"You're gonna tell me the codes to that locked safe you have in Moscow. You know the one."

Bucky gritted his teeth, watching how Natasha pulled up a chair, playing with your hand which was still tightly wired down.

"Or what?"

Brock looks over to Natasha, giving her a nod. The redhead puts the head of the pliers on your index finger, pulling it backward, slowly ripping your fingernail back; eliciting a guttural scream from your throat.

"Stop!!" Bucky screamed, but the torture continued. Blood poured from your finger as you pulled and tried to twist away. "Okay! Stop! I'll tell you anything! Stop!!"

The rusty metal was released from your hand as tears streamed down your face.

Rumlow pulled another chair up, sitting in between you and Bucky. "Now that wasn't so hard was it?"

Bucky's brows furrowed in concern, looking only at you. "Doll, I'm so sorry."

You shook your head, "It's not your fault, Buck."

"So, what are the codes?" Rumlow looked over to your husband as Natasha slipped iron knuckles onto her hand. "Don't tell him." You groaned out, knowing Bucky would lose everything he'd built if he gave that information away.

"Shut up!!" Natasha screamed, slamming her fist into your face, the iron weapon hitting your cheekbone and nose, causing your head to whip to the side. You screamed, more tears coming to your eyes as blood started to pour from your nose.

"Stop!" Bucky screamed, "She doesn't know anything! She doesn't have anything to do with this!!" "Oh, but you do." Brock stood, walking behind you and maneuvering your face to look right at your husband. Your chest heaved as you couldn't breathe from your nose without blinding pain. Blood dripped into your mouth and your right hand trembled.

"And this lovely specimen is your only weakness."

Bucky shook his head, "I'll give you everything, just let her go."

But Brock tutted, also shaking his head in disappointment, "I need collateral, Barnes."

"You won't get anything out of me if you hurt her."

Rumlow laughed, "Oh, I bet I will." Moving out of the way, Natasha stroked your face three more times with the weapon, knocking you unconscious.

A tear slipped down Bucky's cheek, "Please, stop. You can have everything." He pleaded, not being able to take his eyes off your beaten and broken body. A sob escaped his chest. He hadn't cried since the day of your wedding, and this was breaking him to his core.

Rumlow moved the chair in front of Bucky. "What's the code."

Bucky gulped, "The code.." He sighed, closing his eyes, "It's her birthday." Opening his eyes, he glared at Rumlow. "It's her birthday." Brock grinned evilly, "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Standing up, he threw the chair to the side, moving over to you and cutting all your restraints off.

You fell to the floor, startling you awake. However you didn't move, your body not being able to gather the strength.

"I gave you the codes, Rumlow! Let her go!" Brock turned back, Natasha and him both standing at the door. "You really think I would let you both out of here alive?" His head pulled back as he laughed. "Not a chance, Barnes." Natasha opened the door, and ten men walked through all with guns, lining up in a row. "This city is mine now."

Closing the door behind him and Natasha, a loud speaker squeaked. "You have thirty seconds to say your goodbyes before the firing squad shoots you both to pieces."

Bucky gulped in fear, not noticing you lifting your boot to grab the knife that was inside.

"Doll, you gotta get up!" Bucky shouted, watching you struggle to pull yourself to stand. The ten men readied their weapons, aiming at you and Bucky. You were surrounded.

Finally, you pulled your body up, hobbling over to him with the knife as you tried to cut the wire from his wrists. "You gotta get out of here, doll." You shook your head, "I'm not leaving you." Tears streamed down your face, hearing Rumlow count down. "I won't"

"Doll, please." Looking up at Bucky finally, you let out a sob you had been holding. Ten seconds left.

"I vowed to stay by your side, Buck." Looking back, ten guns pointed at you. You knew what you had to do. "Doll?"

You dropped the knife, straddling Bucky's lap in the chair, wrapping your arms around his neck, and protecting his vital organs with your body. "NO! Doll, please!!"

The men cocked their guns. "Doll!! Stop!! Get up!!"

You shook your head. "I won't let you die!!"

Suddenly bullets rang through the air, but you kept your head down, your body shook into Bucky's as you felt two bullets hit. You screamed, still attempting to hold onto your husband. Bucky sobbed, "Don't do this to me." You looked up, shakily holding his face in your hands, "I love you, James Barnes." Blood dripped from your mouth, "Till forever and always." "Doll, please."

Everything went black.

Fin

part two

masterlist

[clockwayswrites]

Danny/Jason, Catharsis

@roanawayspoons cw: blood

Jason watched the floor of the gym from behind his helmet. It was mostly empty at this time of the morning: late enough that the night owls were in bed but early enough that the early birds were still asleep. The last two who have been using the treadmills were shoving each other, laughing as they headed out.

That just left Jason, who knew he wouldn’t sleep that night, and the new guy.

That was a little unfair. The guy had been here for a few months already and others had joined after him, but no one knew him. He went by Puck, threw a mean punch, was good with kids and prostitutes, and kept to himself.

Tonight he seemed determined to break a punching bag open.

Slam.

The bag swung back and Puck dodged, light on his feet— lighter than he should be with how sloppy his footwork was.

Slam.

Puck shook his head, sweat flying. He had come in with his head shaved to nothing, but it was growing back in now, coming in mostly white with a swath of black along the bottom.

Slam.

The smear of blood was bright on the cream of the bag. Puck’s hands were wrapped, but he’d long ago worn through them.

Jason locked the doors before he stepped up and stopped the heavy bag from swinging.

Puck took a step back, but didn’t drop his stance. Smart.

“In the ring,” Jason ordered, not trying to soften the way it came out through the modulation of the helmet.

Puck gave a jerky nod and did as he was told. He slipped easily between the ropes. He really was a small thing, but the muscles wrapped around him like steel wire now. Jason had to pull the ropes apart to move into the ring himself. He rolled his shoulders back, shifted his feet, and motioned for Puck to come at him.

He really was quick as a whip, but Jason had fought better and blocked easily. And kept blocking. And blocking. And blocking.

“Fight me!” Puck yelled.

Jason stayed quiet and kept blocking.

“Fight me!” Puck’s punches lost their form, the next swing went wild.

Jason caught the fist, fingers wrapping easily around Puck’s too thin wrist.

Puck snarled, sharp teeth bared with the feral sound. For a moment Jason was sure that Puck was going to try to bite him, but instead the snarl stuttered and faltered into a keening sound.

With a sharp tug, Jason pulled Puck off balance. Puck’s free hand shot out to catch himself against Jason’s chest. Jason twisted them, pinning Puck against him with an iron tight arm. And Puck howled. He kicked and screamed and thrashed and snarled.

Jason stroked his thumb along the inside line of Puck’s wrist, ignoring the way the blood from Puck’s abused knuckles smeared with the gentle motion.

The snarling turned to keening again turned to body shaking sobs. Puck stopped fighting. Slowly Jason brought them to the mat, cradling Puck carefully the whole way. Puck felt so fragile, so small, as Jason tucked him into a tight hold in his lap. He let the wrist go, running fingers through the short white hair.

Puck just cried and Jason let him, let him get it all— what ever ghosts haunted him— out in a wail that cut Jason to the bones.

“You’re safe,” Jason murmured. He didn’t know if that was true, not really, but in the moment it was, and Jason could make sure it stayed that way. “I have you, you’re safe.”

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ threads of patience; 

                    jamal musiala ────── 

when a footballer is sidelined due to an injury, the last thing he expects is to find solace in a fashion designer’s studio.

⭑  wordcount : three thousand one hundred seventy-eight.

⭑  notes : just a heads up the main character is of south asian descent !!

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

“Musiala, you need to sit this one out.” The words pierced his ears, yet his mind unable to grasp the meaning.

Jamal pouted, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes. He leaned against the cold steel of the bench, the texture digging into his back as if mocking his inactivity. The training pitch buzzed with the rhythmic thud of cleats on grass, but Jamal’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. His coach, Vincent Kompany, stood before him, unshaken by the young midfielder’s silent rebellion.

“We’ve talked about this Jamal…” Kompany’s voice was steady, a calm tide against Jamal’s turbulent sea. “Your ankle’s not ready, and if you keep trying to push yourself, you will make things worse.”

“I’m not.” Jamal shot back, his voice edged with defiance, though it trembled ever so slightly. “I just want to be part of the team.”

“You are part of the team,” Kompany replied, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “But right now, the best thing you can do is recover. We can’t afford to lose you long-term.”

Jamal muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl, barely audible but carrying the weight of his frustration. The coach’s eyes narrowed, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

“And for that to happen,” Kompany continued, his gaze sharpening, “you need to stay off the pitch during practice. You’re distracting the others.”

Jamal’s jaw tightened, his scowl deepening. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the strain of every muscle as if the tension could somehow mask the sting of his manager’s words. 

He didn’t argue, though. 

Deep down, he knew the coach was right. His irritation had spilled over onto his teammates all morning, sniping and snapping at every mistake. Even Manuel Neuer had joked about how Jamal seemed more intense on the sidelines than on the pitch. The laughs that followed the comment had only fueled the young boy’s anger.

Being benched wasn’t just a frustration—it was a simmering rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The UCL semi-finals loomed, and the Bundesliga points were precious, each one like a lifeline. Every second on the sidelines felt like an eternity, a punishment that gnawed at his resolve, whispering that he was letting everyone down.

“Why don’t you take the day to clear your head?” Kompany’s voice cut through Jamal’s thoughts. The head coach approached with a measured pace, a faint smile curling his lips. “Actually, scratch that—I have a job for you.”

Jamal’s eyes flicked up, suspicion shading his expression. “A job?”

“Yes.” Kompany’s smirk widened, as if savoring the surprise he was about to unveil. “You’re going to help review the kit designs for next season. The design team needs player feedback, and you’re not doing much else right now.”

Jamal blinked, his face a canvas of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jamal opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the glint in his manager’s eye silenced him. The words died on his lips, replaced by a muttered, half-hearted complaint about it being a waste of time. He turned away, limping toward the club offices, each step echoing with the dull thud of reluctance. His mind swirled with frustration, the sting of the coach’s directive gnawing at his pride.

-

The design studio was nothing like Jamal expected.

He had been here once before, years ago, when Bayern was unveiling a retro-inspired kit. Back then, the studio had an austere atmosphere, commanded by an older man whose stoic demeanor matched the cold, minimalist decor. Every surface had gleamed with an almost clinical precision, and Jamal had felt as though even a misplaced breath might disturb the fragile order. Now, as he stepped inside, he braced for a similar encounter, but the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast.

Colors danced across the room, a vivid array that immediately drew his eyes. Deep maroons and rich yellows blended seamlessly with earthy greens and serene blues, each hue carefully chosen to evoke a sense of warmth and creativity. The textures added another layer of depth—soft, flowing fabrics with intricate patterns that hinted at something more, their delicate weaves resembling motifs from distant, storied traditions.

Meanwhile your focus was intense as you studied sketches and swatches spread before you. The air around you was infused with an energy that felt both welcoming and vibrant. A faint scent of jasmine lingered across the room.

You were younger than Jamal had expected, and your presence exuded a natural warmth that softened the sharp edges of the room. The soft lighting caressed your rich, radiant brown skin, creating a subtle glow that harmonized with the gleaming gold jhumkas—traditional earrings—framing your face, their gentle swing punctuating each of your movements.

“Jamal Musiala, right?” you greeted him with a smile that was as genuine as it was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the lead designer for Bayern’s kits this season.”

The boy offered a curt nod, his expression guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

You could sense the tension simmering beneath his cool exterior, but it didn’t deter you. You’d navigated the emotional landscapes of many high-profile clients before—athletes, actors, politicians—and you understood the art of balancing egos with empathy.

“I’ve laid out the initial concepts for next season’s kits,” you said, motioning toward the table. Your voice was steady, a quiet assurance in your tone as you gestured toward the designs. “Home, away, and third. We’ll go through each, and I’d love your input on the colors, patterns, and overall feel.” As you extended your hand, the gold bangles on your wrist caught the light, their soft jingle adding a touch of elegance to the moment.

Jamal nodded stiffly, the weight of his discontent evident in his posture.

You picked up the first sketch—a sleek red jersey with various shades subtly layered to create depth without overwhelming the classic color. “For the home kit, we wanted something timeless yet modern. It’s bold but not overpowering.”

Jamal barely spared it a glance. “Looks fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. “‘Fine’ is not exactly helpful feedback.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. It looks… red.”

You refused to let his mood dampen your enthusiasm. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s Bayern’s home color.”

“I know that,” he retorted, his tone defensive.

“Then what do you think about the gradient? The collar style? The texture of the cloth?”

He shrugged, a reluctant surrender. “It’s good.”

Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself to stay patient. You sensed that his irritation wasn’t truly with the designs but stemmed from elsewhere—a storm cloud hanging over his day.

“Okay,” you said, your voice calm and steady as you set the sketch aside. “Let’s move on to the away kit.”

You presented the next design—a sleek black jersey accented with light green and dusty orange, a tribute to the statue of Bavaria. You handed him a fabric swatch, your fingers brushing lightly against the sample.

“This material is lightweight and moisture-wicking,” you explained, your voice taking on a soothing cadence. “It’s designed for optimal performance in hot weather.”

He took the swatch with the air of someone carrying a burden, barely glancing at it before setting it down. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” you repeated, your voice laced with a measured calm that barely concealed your waning patience. 

Your eyes locked on Jamal’s, searching for a flicker of engagement beyond the wall of frustration he had built. “Jamal, I need actual feedback. These kits represent the team. They’re not just about how they look; they’re about how they feel on the pitch, how they move with you, how they make you feel when you’re wearing them, leading the charge.”

For a brief moment, his hardened expression softened. His gaze met yours, and you could see the flicker of understanding—an acknowledgment of the care and passion you poured into every stitch, every thread of the kits. But it was fleeting. The weight of his frustration shadowed his features. He shook his head, the tension returning to his posture.

“Look, I get that this is important,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “But all I want is to get back to the pitch as soon as possible.”

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words pressing against your resolve as you gently set the fabric swatch down on the table. “I understand,” you said, your tone softening but holding firm. “But right now, this is part of your role. You’re still part of the team, even if you’re not playing. And this does matter—to the club, to the fans, to your teammates. What you wear represents who you are and what you stand for.”

He stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes reflecting the internal battle waging within him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Finally, he sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate the tension in his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of weariness, perhaps even apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… not in the best headspace.”

You softened, offering him a small smile, the kind that spoke of patience tempered with understanding. “Let’s go over the third kit,” you said, lifting a sleek sketch from the table. It was a collared beige jersey with dashes of red uniformed across the shirt, like an artist’s deliberate brushstrokes. The design was a departure from the traditional, and though it exuded a quiet elegance, you couldn’t shake the nagging worry that the players might resist something so unconventional.

“This one’s inspired by the club’s heritage, but with a modern twist,” you explained, holding the fabric swatch closer for Jamal to feel. “The beige is subtle, but the red is fierce.”

Jamal’s brow furrowed, not in frustration this time, but in concentration. He ran his fingers over the fabric, his touch lingering as though weighing its texture against his experiences on the pitch.

“I see what you mean,” he said, his tone softer, more reflective. “It’s different, but... it might grow on people.” He paused, glancing at you. “Maybe the collar could be a bit more structured?”

You nodded, appreciating the thoughtful critique. He was more engaged now, though you could tell he wasn’t entirely present—his mind likely still half on the field, half on his current situation. You sighed inwardly but maintained your composed demeanor. "Thank you, Jamal. I’ll take that into consideration."

This wasn’t the best day for either of you, but you held onto the hope that his next visit—or even his feedback later—would be more fruitful. Perhaps this was just an off day, a temporary fog clouding his usually sharp instincts.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but notice the little things about him—the way his brow knitted when he delved into thought, the almost imperceptible way his fingers tested the fabric’s resilience, as if searching for its strength. Despite his earlier reluctance, there was a latent attention to detail in Jamal, an unspoken connection to the subtleties of design, even if he didn’t yet see it himself.

-

Jamal entered the design studio again, but this time, there was no scowl on his face, no frustrated dragging of feet. Instead, a calm acceptance settled into his posture, though a trace of disappointment remained in his eyes—a reminder of the three-week recovery dictated by the gaffer.

He knew better now, knew that defiance wouldn’t hasten his return. The idleness still gnawed at him, but he was determined to channel his energy differently this time.

When he stepped into the studio, he found you at the same spot as last time, perched gracefully on a stool by one of the long drafting tables. Your head was bent over your tablet, fingers gliding over the screen with practiced ease. The sunlight streaming through the window caught your hair, thick the luscious intricate braid that fell over your shoulder, a few wisps escaping to frame your face.

You looked up briefly, your smile polite but genuine. “Jamal. Back again?”

“Yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Coach’s orders.”

Your smile tightened slightly, and you went back to your sketching, the awkwardness between you two still lingering from your first meeting. Jamal couldn’t blame you. He hadn’t exactly been easy to work with.

He wandered over to the table where you’d laid out an array of patches and test prints. They were vibrant and varied—bold reds, deep blues, intricate geometric patterns, and minimalist monochromes. For a moment, he forgot his frustration and found himself running his fingers over the fabrics, appreciating their textures.

You glanced up, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed… calmer this time. Less tense. Maybe even a little curious.

“What are you working on?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh, just some drafts.” you said vaguely.

He nodded, his gaze wandering to the device in your hand. “Can I see?”

You hesitated for a moment before turning the screen toward him. Instead of a jersey design, the sketch on the screen was of a stunning red lehenga—a traditional South Asian wedding outfit. The skirt was adorned with intricate gold embroidery, and the blouse featured delicate, hand-drawn floral motifs. It was breathtakingly detailed, a testament to your passion and skill.

Jamal tilted his head, intrigued by the vibrant sketch before him. “That’s not for Bayern, is it?”

You giggled softly, the sound light and melodic. “No, definitely not. It’s for my cousin’s wedding coming up. She asked me to design something special for her. Weddings are a huge deal in my culture. The outfits, the colors, the jewelry… everything has to be perfect. And red is the traditional color for brides.”

Jamal leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the richness of your explanation. “How long does it take to make something like this?”

“It depends,” you said, your enthusiasm evident as you spoke. “A custom piece like this can take weeks, even months, especially with all the fitting sessions. Every stitch has to be just right.”

He watched you closely, captivated by the way your eyes sparkled with passion. You weren’t just describing a task; you were sharing a part of yourself, bringing the design to life with each word. The vibrant reds and intricate gold details in the sketch seemed to glow under the soft lighting, mirroring the energy in your voice.

“And the details,” you continued, your fingers hovering over the screen to highlight different elements. “See this gold embroidery at the bottom? I’ve been experimenting with different floral patterns. And the red fabric is silk, which has this beautiful sheen under the light. It’s not just about how it looks—it’s about how it feels when you wear it.”

Jamal nodded slowly, though his attention was no longer entirely on the sketch. He was mesmerized by you—the way your brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the gentle curve of your lips forming a small smile as you spoke with such fervor. There was something endearing about your devotion, a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist.

“You’re really into this,” he said softly, his voice carrying a newfound respect.

You looked up, slightly startled by the sincerity in his tone. “Well… yeah. It’s what I love to do.”

A faint smile played on his lips, the tension between you two easing like the first warmth after a long winter. The weight of the morning’s frustrations seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet understanding.

And as the morning progressed, you shifted your focus back to the Bayern kit designs, presenting Jamal with updated concepts. This time, he was more engaged, offering thoughtful input as you refined the details together. His earlier hesitation had given way to a genuine interest.

At one point, you reached for a tape measure to take his measurements for a prototype jersey. “I’ll need you to try this on,” you said, holding up a tester design.

Jamal complied, slipping the jersey over his training top. You stepped closer, your hands moving with practiced precision as you adjusted the fit around his shoulders and arms. “Hold still,” you murmured, the gentle command softened by the proximity between you.

He froze, his breath catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his arm, smoothing out the fabric. He could feel the focus radiating from you, the way your kajal had framed your eyes as they darted over each adjustment with meticulous care.

“Does it feel too tight around the chest?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, though his voice was quieter than he intended, tinged with a subtle vulnerability.

Your eyes met, and for a brief moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with an unspoken connection. 

The silence stretched, delicate and electric.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly to regain composure. “Okay, let me just check the length.”

Jamal nodded, his ears turning red as he looked away.

As the session went on, the awkwardness from earlier seemed to dissolve entirely. You found yourselves chatting about everything from football to fashion, discovering that you had more in common than you expected.

“Do you ever get nervous before a big game?” you asked as you adjusted the hem of the jersey he was wearing.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s more like… excitement, you know? Once you’re on the pitch, it all kind of fades away.”

You nodded, understanding the feeling. “That’s how I feel before a big presentation. The nerves are there, but once I start talking, I forget about everything else.”

He smiled, his admiration for you growing with every passing minute.

As you finished up the adjustments, you stepped back to view your work. “Looks good,” you said, nodding in approval.

Jamal glanced down at the jersey, then back at you. “You’re really good at this,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks,” you said, fidgeting with your necklace.

Before he could hesitate, the words rolled out of his tongue. “So… uh… do you want to maybe, I don’t know… grab coffee sometime?”

You blinked, surprised by the question.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought—”

“I’d like that.” you said as your chocolate colored eyes looked up at him.

His face lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his features. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you said, feeling your own smile widen.

Later, as you packed up your materials for the day, a soft smile played on your lips. You couldn’t help but replay the moments shared, the quiet exchanges and the unspoken understanding that seemed to bloom between you and Jamal. The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by a comforting ease that felt special. Your thoughts wandered, anticipation bubbling up as you glanced at the time, looking forward to the future. It wasn’t just the designs that had you excited anymore.

© gul4bjamoons 

[atrocityobsession]

Palatal Porcine

Hannibal x M!Reader (can be read as GN tbh, very few gendered terms.)

cw: dead dove, do not eat. Cannibalism, manipulation, murder, catcalling, implied age gap...

no smut, proof read 1x.

His grip around your waist tightened inexorably. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he noticed the man ogling you a few seats down in the dim theater. Hannibal could hardly concentrate on the music; the swell of the orchestra might as well have been the discordant hum of frayed wires. Of course, you seemed utterly oblivious to the crude leers of the man, your eyes fixated on the spectacle upon the stage before you.  

You could feel Hannibal stiffen next to you, though his mask of reverence never slipped, his facial features remaining stoic and his posture flawless. You turned slightly to peer at him, unable to discern what had gotten him so on edge. But your attention was quickly recaptivated by the opera singer as the aria began. However, unbeknownst to you, the unknown man’s eyes never left yours, tracing the lines of your jaw, the contours of your face, dark and hungry– a brazen lack of subtlety. Undoubtedly, he was aiming for your attention, willing you, telepathically urging you to glance over and meet his dark eyes. Hannibal’s acute awareness of the situation never faltered, even as he forced himself to train his eyes upon the stage. 

When the opera ended, and after the waves of applause had subsided, Hannibal tried to steer you out of the opera hall as fast as possible, brushing off the familiar niceties of acquaintances also in the audience. You took notice of this; Hannibal was behaving uncharacteristically, shedding his usual restraint and commitment to civility as he bluntly pulled you through the crowd without so much as a second glance. But the man had other intentions for you, beelining to intercept where you were walking with Hannibal, stepping out before you. Hannibal steeled himself, attempting to pull you along, past him and out the doors, but halted when the prowler shot his arm out, preventing any recourse and effectively creating a barrier between you and Hannibal.  

“Ciao, bellissimo,” the man purred, his voice oily and deep, his breath hot on your cheek. You flinched at the closeness, instinctively stepping back and, in the process, unwittingly distancing yourself further from Hannibal.

“You’re as pretty as a dream,” the man cooed at you, his hand reaching up to stroke your arm through the fabric of your suit. “I would much rather stare at you all day than anything up on that stage.”

Your face flushed a cherry red, and you began to sputter, glancing up at Hannibal for aid, your eyes wide as saucers. As Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, the man quickly cut him off. The air was permeated by the scent of cheap cologne and stale smoke, and the sour cloud made Hannibal’s nose wrinkle in distaste. 

“Darling, you are simply beautiful, I must say, I’m quite enamored. Why don’t you ditch the old geezer and come with me? I’m certain I could make it worth your while,” The man said, licking his lips before he picked up your limp hand, kissing your knuckles. He left behind a smear of saliva. A wave of revulsion and panic flooded your senses, and you struggled to come up with a response besides a feeble attempt to tug your hand out from his grasp. The man simply chuckled and held you tighter, your knuckles turning white under his harsh hold. Hannibal’s hand shot out, a bruising grip on the man’s shoulder, forcing him back. 

“The gentleman is not interested,” Hannibal interjected, his voice steady but dripping with malice. “It would serve you well to kindly remove yourself.” He said with a predatory smile in an attempt to maintain his manners among his peers. The man sighed, a sleazy smile plastered on his lips. He rolled his eyes at Hannibal, shouldering off the older man’s hand. 

“Ah, but he can speak for himself, can’t he?” the question was directed to Hannibal, but his eyes were still fixated on you, raking you up and down, and again, he licked his lips.

“Surely, someone as exquisite as yourself would want to experience the passions of a real man, yes?” This question was directed at you. Your mouth opened and closed fast as you searched for words, your mouth suddenly dry.

Hannibal exhaled sharply at the comment. Hannibal’s demeanor was that of barely veiled rage, condensing the urge to rip the man apart with his teeth into a mere shove. The man laughed as he was forced back, releasing your hand in the process. 

Hannibal took the opening, slinging his arm around your waist and quickly guiding you out of the opera hall. His free hand reached around to grab the hand the man had offended with his touch, and Hannibal began to rub small circles into your hand soothingly. He leaned down, whispering into your ear. “Pay him no mind,” his voice low and smooth as velvet. His eyes flickered back, side-eyeing the man who stood behind you. “Swine such as him is quite clearly beneath your notice.”

The man chose this moment to wolf whistle, calling out to you. “I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go!” He called out. Hannibal urged you on faster, committing the man's face to his memory. Transgressions of this caliber hardly ever went unpunished, especially not one as egregious as the execrable display that had occurred tonight— and Hannibal would see to it personally that justice would be served.

⋅˚₊⊹₊˚‧︵‿‧ ୨୧ ‧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹⋅˚₊

Days passed, and you had long since forgotten the encounter at the opera house. You were a little more focused on the fact that Hannibal’s presence in your life over the past few weeks had been noticeably sparse. He had a habit of, every so often, disappearing from your life like this, but despite knowing this, you couldn’t shake the feeling this time; something else was up.

Hannibal finally reached out after one long week, with it, an invitation for dinner at his house. This was a common occurrence, as he absolutely adored cooking dinner for you. You accepted happily, relieved that he had finally made space in his busy schedule to see you. You arrived at the Lecter household fifteen minutes before eight. You knew Hannibal valued manners, and punctuality was one of the most important. In no time, you were situated at his dining room table. Soft piano filled the room, with the occasional clatter of cutlery in the background emanating from the kitchen. Transcendental Etude No. 6 in G minor. One of your favorites.

Hannibal didn’t make you wait long, setting down a covered platter before your seat. He halted, hovering over your sitting form before placing a small kiss on the top of your head. You smiled and let out a pleased exhale. Well, he was certainly feeling affectionate today. You waited for him to take his seat–the head of the table– before you moved to uncover the platter, staring down at the dish. It was foreign to you, as most of his dishes were. Hannibal took great pride in delineating each aspect of every meal he prepared, his words scrupulous. This evening was no different– as you began to take in the dish before, he started to speak with magniloquence almost immediately. 

“Today, I’ve prepared a treat especially for you, my little lamb. Langue de Porc. A French delicacy. Pork tongue. Prior to the time of you or I, langue de porc was considered a delicacy, reserved for the aristocracy and the upper echelons of society. It was a symbol of status, of refinement. A way to demonstrate one's sophistication and worldliness, often in elaborate presentations or terrines,” Hannibal explained as he began to cut into his own dish. You just stared down at the platter, your stomach inexplicably churning. For some unknown reason, you were a mix of anxiety, and as Hannibal spoke, with each word, your sense of unease grew stronger. “The meat itself was said to be infused with certain properties. Properties that served to heighten the senses.” 

You squirmed in your seat, hesitantly picking up your fork and knife. You cracked a smile, though your eyes were swimming with trepidation. Hannibal’s tone was darker, his demeanor clouded with something sinister. He watched with a sly smirk as you cut off a piece of the peculiarly shaped meat. You chewed slowly, savoring the taste. It was unique, with a mild and fatty flavor that melted into your mouth. Hannibal watched you, focusing on the way your jaw worked around the bite as if he were counting each time your mandible contracted.

Only when he watched your Adam’s apple bob, the indication that you had swallowed, did Hannibal relax, offering you a triumphant smile. You cracked a smile in an attempt to lighten the tension. “Kind of small for a pig,” You remarked. It was your lame attempt at small talk. 

Hannibal’s smile begins to stretch unnaturally at the corners. What had started as a harmless quirk of his lips had begun to transform into something sinister, his teeth bared in a grin more reminiscent of a predator; the warmth had drained away from his features, leaving behind a chilling sense of malice. 

Surely you had imagined it, right? The way his eyes seemed to glint with a predatory sharpness, dark and unyielding. The shadows that seemed to deepen around his features– his cheekbones sharpening, his lips curled up almost unnaturally. And then he began to speak, his voice slithering through the air. It was carried on an unnatural calm as if he reveled in the discomfort he was causing. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air. You dropped your fork onto the dining table, suddenly sick with the implication of his words.

“Ah, yes. An astute observation. When measured from the oropharynx, a typical length for a hog is roughly thirteen centimeters.” Hannibal casually began to cut off another tongue piece, savoring it. “This particular type of swine, however, usually measures around eight and a half centimeters.” His eyes were dark pools of onyx. Your breathing increased, knowing his following words. Willing them not to be said. 

Hannibal leaned forward so that his face was a hand’s breadth away. Your head was swimming. “Yes, my little lamb. This particular pig had a foul mouth and a tongue better suited for a butcher’s block than a human mouth.” 

As the words settled into the dimly lit dining room, your vision began to swim, your chest heaving. Undoubtedly, Hannibal had spent the days you had been apart hunting down the foul-mouthed man from the opera, slaughtering the offending profligate and, as some sick and twisted form of recompense, serving his tongue up to you on a salver--his mind diseased with perverted justice.

Hannibal cooed at you, trailing the back of his hand down your face, his fingers catching under your chin as he guided you to look up at him. 

“Oh, mon amour,” He crooned, his hand cool against your skin that was feverish with anxiety. “You look positively green. Is this idea of such delights too much for your delicate constitution?” 

Hannibal released your chin, tutting in disappointment. “Here I thought you might be a little more appreciative to my gift.” Hannibal resumed eating, his eyes never leaving yours. “A dish with a garnish of retribution. Don’t be afraid…” His voice trails lower as he lifts his own fork, a piece of the tongue skewered on the edge, putting it against your lips. The meat easily slides past your plump lips, landing on your tongue. Under his unyielding gaze, you find it impossible to deny him.

“There we go,” He says softly. “Can you hear the sound of your mind breaking when you deny yourself?” The meat settled like a brick in your stomach. “Surrender to the hunger,” he insisted, his breath ghosting over your cheek as he leaned in closer. 

You mechanically picked up your fork, slicing off a piece of the fatty pink meat, and bringing it to your mouth with much chagrin. And you realized… As you bit down and soft flesh gave way with a telltale wet squelch, your teeth coated in a greasy sheen, that this was your indoctrination. That this is what a soul’s slaughter could look like and that Hannibal was going to drag you down with him too, a substitute god for when you longed for devotion. The slimy texture lingered in your mouth, refusing to be swallowed easily. It was as if the dish itself had no intention of being forgotten, clinging to you in a way that made your stomach churn. You had become exactly what he had wanted you to be as you fell into disgrace.

⋅˚₊⊹₊˚‧︵‿‧ ୨୧ ‧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹⋅˚₊

thanks so much for reading. I had this idea swirling in the noggin for about a year now and finally decided to write it. It still isn't as fleshed out as I had hoped, but alas... hopefully, I get the fervor to write more. I swear something possessed me so I finished this entire thing in about two hours 。°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°。

[inbabylontheywept]

The Vengabus is Coming

Alakan pinched the bridge of his nose. On one hand, certain death. On the other hand, human bullshit.

He weighed the options carefully. His self-respect fought tooth and claw with his will to live.

The will to live won. It was a near thing, but internal battles were winner take all.

“Fuck it. We need armor. Send them in.”

---

The radio crackled. It was a quiet sound, but still a welcome reprieve to the blisteringing swarm of beams from the nearby laser gatling. Alakan fished it out of his front pocket, raising it near his ear eagerly.

“Callsign ‘Ape-Mode’, do you copy? What is your ETA? We’re pinned down bad up here, if they can get a second angle set up we’re toast. ”

The speaker crackled again. There was a sound like a horn on the other end. Maybe an alarm?

“Callsign Ape-Mode, is your vehicle intact?”

There was no verbal response back, but a faint chanting could be heard in the background, just beyond the range of his hearing. Alakan cranked the volume knob to max, desperate for any possible information about when the armor would arrive. Instead, he seemed to catch the opening part of some kind of human war ritual.

“We like to party! We like, we like to party! We like to party! We like, we like to party! We like to party! We like-”

Then the radio cut off abruptly.

He took several deep breaths before pinching his nose again.

Fucking humans.

---

The Vengabus is coming! And everybody's jumping! New York to-

The chanting was back, almost incomprehensibly loud. The gatlings were earsplitting on their own, but the human war chant made them seem like whispers in a library. The noise was so loud that identifying the source was almost impossible. It seemed to be coming from all sides at once, a hulking wall of sound. He reached down to shut off his comm only to find it was already off.

Oh. They must be here then. That would explain the unwarranted assault on his earholes. He took a peek over the edge of his foxhole and froze.

Even by the standards of human bullshit, this was egregious.

The tank itself was standard DFP issue. The bright yellow paint job and makeshift stop sign definitely were not. And the speakers looked borderline illegal. Strands of copper wire poked from each of the generator sized boxes strapped, welded, and glued to random points all over the chassis. The conductor feeding each of the abominations seemed to be repurposed twinkle lights, cutting zigzags between each box before drawing into the hatch.

The gatlings stopped, evidently as taken aback as everyone else on the battlefield. The moment of relative peace was replaced by insane furor as every gun on the opposite side of the canyon seemed to realize that there was a big juicy target barreling towards them.

The tank took the swarm of beams like a champion. Faint clouds of yellow smoke trailed behind the racing vehicle as its makeshift paint job was incinerated, but that was probably a blessing in disguise. The wall of noise fell down several notches as one of the gatlings made a point of targeting the ear splitting speakers.

The tank had been content enough to just absorb enemy ammo as it barreled its way to the middle of the battle, but this was a personal affront. The railgun on the top of the vehicle locked on to the offending turret and began dropping ferroslugs. The first was more than enough to obliterate its hated foe, the other three were just to desecrate the memory. Each shot had the unfortunate side effect of distorting the noise coming out of the speakers, the voices going up like chipmunks with every thump of the MAC.

The wheels of steel are turning! And traffic lights are burning! So if you like to party, get on and move your body! The Vengabus is coming!

A kinetic slug slammed into the road just behind it. If the tank had been going anything less than max speed, it would’ve been splattered. Any sane tank operator would’ve launched their smoke cover, changed course, and avoided the slugs by serpentining.

These were not sane tank operators. The hatches for the smoke cover opened, but instead of smoke grenades getting flung from the hydraulic catapult, out flew hundreds and hundreds of gleaming chemlights. The laser gatling atop the main cannon opened fire, not at any enemy, but simply while spinning in circles at maximum speed.

None of this should have done a damn thing, but the effect was amazing. The lights, the noise, and now the laser effects-the enemy had been trained for what to do in a warzone, but they had no fucking idea what to do at a disco. All it took was one of them to break ranks, and the rest followed suit. Alakan watched in awe as the troop of 80 enemy combatants bolted up the far side of the valley, casually pursued by the still smoldering Venga-Tank, chipperly screaming out its war cry as the recording device on the inside hit a well planned loop.

The Vengabus is coming! The Vengabus is coming! The Vengabus is coming! The Vengabus is coming! The Vengabus is coming! The Vengabus is coming!

The noise, blessedly, faded to black as both made it over the hill.

He climbed carefully out of his foxhole, wiping the dirt from his palms onto the front of his pants when he was done. One of the newer soldiers jogged up to him, as baffled as he’d ever been.

“What… What the hell just happened?”

Alakan shrugged.

“Trust me, they don’t know either. Fucking humans.”

[artyandink]

amoralism | fourteen

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Dean’s the mole, the Sucide Squad formation and it being a train wreck, a bit of family problems, angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Tears of Gold - Faouzia

chauvinism

The mission had been in the works for two long, grueling weeks, and it still felt like a long shot.

You, Sam, Bobby, and the so-called "Suicide Squad" had spent hours in the Bureau's underground briefing room, a place so buried under layers of concrete and steel that cell reception was a distant memory. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sweat, and stress—everyone had been pulling double shifts, and no one was more wired than you. The clock was ticking. Dean’s files were being held under lock and key by Raphael Deacon, the Director of the FBI, and a man with more power than the President on his worst days.

But the files—Dean's files—were the key to everything. They held the proof, the answers. The only way to clear Dean's name or understand why he had betrayed you all. You needed those files, and there was only one way to get them: a heist.

It sounded absurd, like something out of a bad spy movie, but it was the only plan anyone had that made sense. Bobby had been pacing the front of the room, whiteboard behind him filled with diagrams, maps, and hastily scribbled notes as the rest of the team crowded around.

“We go in quick, we go in quiet,” Bobby muttered, pulling the cap off a dry-erase marker with his teeth and slashing another line across the board. “We got exactly one window where Deacon’s gonna be out of his office, and that’s when we make our move.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest. You’d been part of risky ops before, but this? This was borderline suicide.

“You really think we can pull this off?” you asked, glancing at Sam next to you. His brow was furrowed, a hand running through his long hair as he scrutinized the plan for any weakness.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only way we find out what’s really going on with Dean.”

His words weighed heavily on you. It had been weeks since you last saw Dean, and the encounter had shaken you to your core. You hadn’t spoken to anyone about it—especially not Sam. You swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts of Dean to the back of your mind. Focus. You needed to focus.

Across the table, Charlie Bradbury was furiously typing away on her laptop, her fingers moving faster than you thought was humanly possible. “Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it,” she said, her voice cutting through the room. “I’ve hacked into the security system. We’ve got a thirty-second delay between when a breach happens and when it gets reported. That’s our window.”

John Winchester, his arms folded over his chest, grunted from his spot near the back of the room. He hadn’t said much throughout the planning—just his typical gruff one-liners about security, strategy, and how this was a fool’s errand. But when he spoke, everyone listened.

“And what happens if we miss that window?” John asked, his voice low, but enough to send a ripple of unease through the group.

“We don’t miss it,” Bobby snapped, glaring at John. “We can’t afford to miss it.”

Rufus Turner, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, gave a lazy grin. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Haven’t done a good ol' heist in years.”

Next to him, Agent Jack Kline, the youngest member of the team, looked more nervous than excited. He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, but he was trying to mask it with a look of determination.

Mick Davies, sharp as ever in his suit, spoke up next. “What’s our exit plan? We can’t just waltz out of the building with federal files in hand. Deacon’s got eyes everywhere.”

Bobby paused, pacing again, his boots heavy on the floor. “We’ll split up. Create enough chaos that no one knows what’s happening until we’re gone. Charlie, you’ll jam the internal comms, give us time to slip out without alerting the entire Bureau.”

Garth chimed in, tapping his chin. “And what about disguises? We can’t exactly stroll in looking like this.” He gestured down at his casual clothes.

“That’s where I come in,” Mick said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve got some connections. We’ll have uniforms. FBI suits, maintenance workers, delivery personnel. The whole nine yards.”

“Sounds like a damn circus,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your temples.

Bobby shot you a look. “We’re working with what we’ve got.”

The plan was as convoluted as they came—deceit, manipulation, distraction, and everything in between. There was no room for error. One slip, one wrong move, and the entire operation would be over before it even began. But you were in too deep now. Backing out wasn’t an option.

The day arrived sooner than any of you were ready for. You could feel the tension in the air as the team gathered in the Bureau's underground garage. Everyone was dressed to play their parts—uniforms, IDs, all fake but polished enough to pass a casual inspection.

You tugged at the stiff collar of your maintenance jumpsuit, feeling out of place but determined. Sam, standing next to you, adjusted the lapels on his fake FBI suit, his eyes scanning the group.

“Everyone know their role?” Bobby asked, his voice hard as he gave one final look at the team.

Charlie was the first to respond. “I’ll be in the van, controlling the security feed and hacking the system as we go. If anything goes wrong, you’ll know because all hell will break loose.”

John, dressed as a janitor, grunted his agreement. “I’ll make sure the halls are clear.”

Garth, in his delivery uniform, gave a thumbs up. “I’m your distraction. Trust me, I’ve got this.”

Mick and Jack were already in character, blending in seamlessly with the handful of actual Bureau agents milling about the garage. It was showtime.

The mission began like clockwork. Mick and Jack were the first inside, walking through the front entrance with forged IDs and briefcases in hand. They passed the metal detectors, nodding at the guards with an air of confidence that only agents from another division could pull off.

Meanwhile, you, Sam, John, and Garth entered through the back, where maintenance workers were busy hauling in cleaning supplies and equipment. John’s hard glare kept anyone from asking questions. The man had a presence that made you glad he was on your side.

Charlie’s voice came through the earpiece in your ear. “Alright, you’re clear for now. Thirty seconds until the first security sweep. Move fast.”

Your heart pounded as you made your way through the narrow back corridors, trying to keep your footsteps light despite the rush of adrenaline in your veins. Sam was right behind you, his eyes darting between you and the path ahead.

As you rounded a corner, you caught sight of Raphael Deacon’s office—a heavy wooden door guarded by two agents. Garth was already in place, wheeling a large cart of ‘deliveries’ toward the door. You watched as he fumbled with the boxes, pretending to lose his balance.

“Oh no, shoot! Sorry, fellas, can you give me a hand here?” Garth asked, flashing his best disarming smile.

The guards, caught off guard by the seemingly harmless delivery guy, bent down to help him, just as John slipped past them into the restricted hallway unnoticed.

“Ten seconds,” Charlie’s voice warned. “You better move fast.”

John reappeared moments later, his expression tense as he gave the signal.

The door to Deacon’s office clicked open.

Inside, Raphael Deacon’s office was as imposing as you expected. The walls were lined with bookshelves, legal documents, and awards, but the real prize was the locked cabinet at the back of the room. Dean’s files were inside. Somewhere.

You rushed to the cabinet with Sam while John kept watch. Time was ticking. You grabbed the small lock-picking kit Mick had given you, your fingers trembling as you worked the lock. The seconds felt like hours as you concentrated, sweat beading on your forehead.

“Come on,” Sam muttered beside you, glancing toward the door.

Click.

The lock gave way, and you swung the cabinet doors open. Inside, stacks of files lay neatly arranged, but it only took you a second to spot the one marked with Dean’s name. You grabbed it, stuffing it into your bag just as Charlie’s voice cut through the comms again.

“We’ve got a problem. Security’s onto us. They’re not buying Garth’s act anymore.”

“Time to go,” John grunted, pulling you and Sam toward the exit.

The building was already buzzing with movement as you slipped back into the maintenance hallways, but just as planned, the chaos was enough to keep most of the agents off your trail. Garth had done his job.

Back in the garage, Charlie was already in the van, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they realize what’s missing. Let’s go!”

Everyone piled into the van as it sped away, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. You sat back, heart racing, the weight of the stolen file heavy in your hands.

It was a victory. But as you caught Sam’s eye, you both knew this was just the beginning. The contents of the file would tell you everything—or nothing. Either way, there was no turning back now.

The mission was chaotic, convoluted, and dangerous. But somehow, against all odds, you had pulled it off.

Now came the hard part.

The adrenaline from the mission was still pumping through your veins as the van sped down the back roads, far away from the FBI headquarters. Charlie, behind the wheel, navigated the narrow streets with sharp precision, while the rest of the team sat in tense silence. The stolen file, Dean’s file, sat heavy in your lap, the weight of its contents unknown, but it was the key to everything.

You looked over at Sam. His eyes were fixed on the folder, a mix of worry and determination etched on his face. Bobby sat across from you, arms crossed, looking out the window. John was muttering to himself in the back corner, probably going over every tactical mistake you all might have made. Garth, still in his delivery uniform, was looking out the window with a goofy grin as if the whole operation had been some kind of field trip. Mick, ever the polished MI6 agent, looked almost too calm, while Jack sat quietly, fiddling nervously with his hands.

The van rattled as Charlie took a sharp turn, and you tightened your grip on the file.

“So, what now?” Charlie asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “We just crack open this bad boy and hope for the best?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a grunt, shifting in his seat. “But not here. Too many eyes around. We need a safe spot.”

Sam finally spoke up. “We can go to my place. Jess is out of town visiting family, and it’s secure.”

You nodded. “Sam’s right. Let’s go there. We can regroup, figure out what’s in this file, and plan our next move.”

The ride to Sam’s place felt longer than it should have, despite the fact that it was only about twenty minutes away. The tension in the van was thick, and you could tell everyone was on edge. After the chaos of the heist, it was hard to believe you’d actually pulled it off. But as much as you wanted to feel victorious, you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Dean was out there somewhere, possibly on the run, possibly still with the syndicate. Or worse, maybe he was exactly what the files would say he was. The thought sent a chill down your spine. After everything, after all the years you’d known him—had Dean really betrayed you all?

Charlie pulled up in front of Sam’s house, parking the van in the driveway. Everyone piled out, and you all made your way inside. Sam’s place was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of stillness that made the atmosphere feel heavier than it should’ve been.

Sam locked the door behind him, and the group settled in the living room. You sat down on the couch, the file still in your hands, and the rest of the team gathered around.

Bobby leaned forward, eyeing the file like it was some kind of dangerous artifact. “Well, kiddo,” he said, looking at you, “you gonna do the honors?”

You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of everyone’s anticipation. Your hands shook slightly as you undid the clasp on the folder, opening it to reveal the contents inside.

There were several thick documents, each stamped with confidential seals and the unmistakable insignia of the FBI. You sifted through them quickly, scanning for something, anything that would make sense of this madness. There were surveillance reports, witness statements, memos—all detailing Dean’s activities over the last year.

Your eyes caught on one page in particular, a detailed report from Raphael Deacon himself. You skimmed it, your pulse quickening as you read the words:

"Subject: Dean Winchester – Special Agent, suspected mole within the FBI, believed to be in contact with syndicate leader Lucifer. Operative is highly skilled, with extensive knowledge of Bureau protocol. Unclear how deeply involved he is with the organization, but intelligence suggests infiltration may have been premeditated…"

You swallowed hard, passing the page to Sam. His brow furrowed as he read it, a deep frown forming on his face.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sam muttered, flipping through the pages. “Dean wouldn’t do this.”

John scoffed from the back of the room. “You sure about that, Sam? People can change. And sometimes, they don’t turn out to be who you think they are.”

Sam shot him a glare. “Dean wouldn’t betray the Bureau. Not like this.”

You stayed silent, your mind reeling as you tried to make sense of everything. The reports, the surveillance footage, the classified memos—they all painted a picture of Dean as a double agent. But something wasn’t adding up. Dean was reckless sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“We need to dig deeper,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “There has to be something we’re missing.”

Charlie leaned over, scanning the files over your shoulder. “There’s a lot of redacted information here. They’re definitely hiding something.”

“Could be a cover-up,” Bobby mused. “Deacon ain’t exactly a trustworthy son of a bitch.”

“Then why’d Dean run?” Jack asked, his voice quiet. “If he’s innocent, why hasn’t he come back?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t believe for a second that Dean’s in on this. Not fully.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. “We need more information. Something solid. These files... they’re not enough.”

Mick spoke up for the first time in a while, his voice smooth but thoughtful. “Perhaps there’s a lead we can follow. If Dean’s gone dark, there must be a way to trace his movements. Off-the-books contacts, safe houses, something he would’ve used to stay hidden.”

Rufus, who had been oddly quiet until now, nodded. “Dean ain’t dumb. He’d know how to cover his tracks. But he might’ve left a trail for someone who knows how to look.”

You stood up, pacing the room as the ideas swirled in your mind. Every second that passed felt like you were running out of time, like Dean was slipping further away.

“Charlie, can you dig into these files, see what’s been redacted and maybe trace where this intel came from?” you asked, knowing full well that if anyone could break through encrypted data, it was her.

She gave you a thumbs-up. “Already on it.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident on his face. “We should keep looking for leads, but I agree with you. Something’s off about all of this. Dean wouldn’t just run unless he had no other choice.”

The thought of Dean being out there, alone, possibly in danger, made your heart ache. You hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that there was more to this story. But the mission wasn’t over yet.

The prison was cold. It always was. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. As you made your way down the long, sterile corridor, your footsteps echoed against the hard concrete floors, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic, lonely sound. The guard leading you said nothing, his face impassive as he swiped his keycard to open another set of heavy metal doors.

It wasn’t your first visit here. You’d been coming to see Eleanor, your mother, for weeks now. But no matter how many times you passed through the gates, through the searches and the checkpoints, it never got easier. You felt the weight of it all pressing down on your chest with every step you took.

And today, it felt even heavier.

Your mind was a whirlwind of questions, of uncertainties. The mission had been chaotic, the files had been convoluted, and worst of all, Dean was missing. A mole. An alleged traitor. But none of it made sense. None of it fit with the Dean you knew. You hoped that your mother, with her past connections to the criminal underworld, might be able to shed some light on the situation.

The guard finally stopped in front of a small, enclosed room—a visiting room. "Five minutes," he said gruffly, as though the kindness of a full hour was something prisoners rarely deserved. He unlocked the door, then gestured for you to enter. You nodded and stepped inside.

Eleanor was already sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression as calm and composed as ever. She had that air about her, even in prison. A woman who had lived through chaos and come out the other side unbroken. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, streaks of gray more prominent now than they had been the last time you saw her.

When she looked up and met your eyes, her face softened, just a little.

"Hey, kid," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that you hadn’t expected.

"Mom." You managed a small smile, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. You placed your hands on the table, feeling the cold surface beneath your fingers, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to figure out how to start.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it never had been with Eleanor. She was patient, observant. She had a way of waiting you out, of letting you come to her when you were ready.

You glanced up at her and took a deep breath. "I need to ask you something."

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly. She tilted her head, her hands still resting lightly on the table. "What is it?"

"It’s about Dean," you said, the words feeling heavy as they left your mouth.

Her expression didn’t change much, but you could see the flicker of concern behind her eyes. "Dean Winchester?" she asked slowly.

You nodded, your heart racing. "Yeah. There’s been… something’s happened, and I need to know if he’s involved with the syndicate."

Eleanor blinked, clearly taken aback. She leaned back in her chair slightly, her eyes scanning your face for answers that weren’t yet spoken. "Dean?" she repeated, almost incredulous. "Dean Winchester is involved with the syndicate? The same syndicate I used to run with?"

"That’s what I’m trying to figure out," you admitted, your voice quiet. "There’s a file, reports… all pointing to him being a mole inside the FBI, working with them."

Eleanor looked at you for a long moment, her gaze unblinking. And then, almost abruptly, she let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No, that doesn’t make any sense."

"I know it doesn’t," you replied, feeling a mixture of frustration and desperation rise up in your chest. "But it’s there. His name’s all over the files. They have surveillance, they have witness accounts—everything points to Dean."

Your mother’s brow furrowed, her fingers tapping lightly on the table as she considered your words. "I knew Dean," she said finally, her voice steady, as though she was sorting through facts in her mind. "I worked with a lot of people who were mixed up in some dark stuff, but Dean? He wasn’t one of them."

You leaned forward, pressing her. "But could he have been involved without you knowing? Maybe something happened after you were arrested. Something that pulled him in."

Eleanor shook her head firmly. "I don’t believe it. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not reckless. And he’s not stupid. Getting involved with the syndicate? That’s a death sentence. And it’s not something he could’ve hidden easily, even from me."

You stared at her, trying to make sense of it all. "But what if… what if they forced him? Or what if he’s been playing both sides, working undercover?"

She leaned forward, her gaze sharp now. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low but intense. "If Dean was involved in the syndicate, I’d know. They don’t operate in a vacuum. Everyone knows everyone. And if Dean was in that system, his name would’ve come up long before now. You said there’s a file on him? Well, I can tell you one thing: Dean’s name isn’t in any of their systems."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had been hoping, deep down, that she could give you some insight, some hidden piece of the puzzle that would make everything click into place. But instead, it only raised more questions.

"Then why are they saying it’s him?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Eleanor’s eyes softened slightly. "It sounds like someone’s setting him up. They’re using his name, his reputation, to cover their own tracks. And you need to figure out who’s behind it."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. Could it be true? Could someone really be framing Dean, manipulating the FBI into thinking he was the mole?

"But why?" you asked, more to yourself than to Eleanor. "Why would they choose Dean?"

"Because he’s good at what he does," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "And because they know that if you believe he’s guilty, no one will question it. Not even you."

The words stung, but you couldn’t deny the truth in them. If someone was framing Dean, they were doing a damn good job of it. And they knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you doubt everything you thought you knew.

You looked down at the table, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t know what to do," you admitted, your voice small and defeated.

Eleanor reached out, placing her hand on top of yours. "You do what you always do," she said gently. "You dig. You find the truth. And you don’t stop until you have it."

You nodded, the resolve slowly returning to your chest. She was right. There was still a lot you didn’t know, but you couldn’t stop now. Dean’s life—his reputation—was at stake, and you couldn’t let him go down without a fight.

"Thank you," you said, meeting her eyes. "I’m sorry to have dragged you into this."

She smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "You’re my kid. You don’t need to apologize for coming to me for help."

The guard knocked on the door then, signaling the end of your visit. You stood, feeling the weight of the conversation still heavy on your shoulders. As the guard escorted you out, you glanced back at Eleanor one last time. She gave you a nod, her eyes filled with the kind of strength you always admired in her.

As the doors closed behind you, the coldness of the prison faded, but the uncertainty lingered. Dean wasn’t in the syndicate. You were sure of it now. But that meant someone else was pulling the strings—someone powerful enough to frame him, to make you doubt him.

You stepped outside into the crisp air, your mind still racing. There was more to uncover, more pieces of the puzzle to find. And now, you had to figure out how to put them together before it was too late.

Because Dean’s life depended on it.

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[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 42)

The next few days were spent filling out paperwork, taking a few cognitive tests, and answering questions N was sure Khan already knew. Despite that, Khan had assured him multiple times that this was purely procedure, and he essentially had the job.

It was also spent worrying… each time he came home he'd been drawn to his girlfriend like a moth to a particularly purple flame, as soon as he was in range to hear her core, that warm haze would overtake him, and when he came back to his senses, he was already holding her no matter where she was, a chair, the couch, taking a nap, it did not matter.

It made sense… he loved her. He wanted to be close and it wasn't the closeness that worried him. It was the fact he wouldn't even remember how he ended up there that was the problem, he was walking through the doorway one moment, and curled up tightly against her the next.

He wasn't sure she remembered either, she would often seem to jolt “awake” around the same time as he did, then they'd look at each other, confused.

It was like a mandated cuddle session, and he didn't exactly mind, but some control over when and where would be great, thank you.

“So everything seems to be in order, last thing we need to do is put you through our basic training.” Khan’s voice finally cut through the TV static that was N's thoughts, all of his eyes suddenly focused on the man, which seemed to immediately trip Khan up, even if he wasn't consciously aware of the fact N had seven eyes.

“Basic Training?” He asked, quirking up an eyebrow, wasn't that reserved for stuff like the military?

“Yes! The WDF does more than watch over doors! We're the defacto police force for the colony, we keep an eye on everything! And we need to make sure you're in tip-top physical condition.”

Khan looked N up and down.

“And I tried to tell everyone it was functionally pointless… considering, but everyone wants to see you put through your paces, so thats what were going to do today!”

“Well, okay! I love doing anything?” N agreed, much like he did most of everything in his life, but he wasn't confident, wasn't this normally pretty hard?

“Great!”

Ten Minutes Later…

N was actually… kinda impressed at the obstacle course the WDF had for training, it had a climbing wall, a barbed wire crawl, tire steps, and a rope shimmy. Everything all about enhancing motor control and maneuverability, since strength and speed can't really be improved when you're made out of steel and hydraulic.

The room he'd been lead to was huge, the ceiling curving in a dome shape above them. A group of 20 or so people were on benches not too far away, all wearing WDF badges on different parts of their clothing. Khan led him to the starting line with a clipboard and a timer, looking excited himself.

“Alright! There is a benchmark of three minutes that you have to beat. But that should be no problem for you.”

“Ah… I have wings, should I…?”

“Oh! Yes it's probably best if you… refrain. Just to make it fair.”

Alright, no wings then.

He was nervous, genuinely. He'd never been through actual training before strangly enough. He'd just been… pre-programmed. Or re-programmed, with combat protocols innately.

While he was hunting, combat came naturally almost on autopilot, every sense heightened, reflex sharpened. He'd never enjoyed it, but he'd never had to think about it very hard either.

So, when it came to actually navigating through the course, he wasn't sure if he could without putting himself in ‘hunting mode’.

“Are you ready, son-in-law?”

He rolled his eyes before nodding, he got in a sprinters stance, surely this wouldn't be too hard right?

“Go!”

He shot off, legs beating underneath him as he came up to the tire steps, it felt strange, being bound to the ground instead of flying, and he felt way more clumsy this way then normal… oh well.

His systems charted the path for him, and his legs moved without putting in much conscious effort, then it was on to the barbed wire.

What once was a silent room seemed to fill with murmurs as he went, he threw himself onto his belly and scrambled underneath, he could feel the wire digging into the back of his coat, but he didn't slow down even as he started to sink into the mud.

He emerged out the other side filthy, but now came time to scale the wall, he had to will away the instinctual way his wings wanted to come out, he took a moment to pause, it was a sheer wooden wall, sanded down to remove any grooves or notches to climb up.

This was for workers.

How would a worker get over this?

How would Uzi get over this?

He took several steps backwards, taking a deep breath as his systems calculated his jump.

He got a running start as he pounced on the wall, and kept running, every servo in her legs keeping him upright as he ran up the wall and grabbed the top of it, before hoisting himself up. Murmurs turned to a few tentative cheers.

The final challenge, was a rope shimmy from the top of the wall to the finish line, he could jump down from this height no problem, but at this point, a part of him wanted to prove himself to both Khan and the rest of the WDF that he didn't need his “upgrades” to do this.

He wrapped himself around the rope, tail included, his weight had the rope sag and bend more then intended, which was an extra challenge as he climbed down, turned upside down.

At this point, he heard several whoops from the benches, making him smile despite the fact that his joints were getting a little sore from how quickly he'd been moving, he quickly shimmied down until he hit the final sprint to the finish line, where once again he put every once of power into his legs as he took off in a dead sprint, before he reached the finish line, where he had to dig his claws into the ground to slow down.

He panted, feeling his vents take in air so hard it was producing a low whine, his hands gripped his knees, he was muddy and gross and sweaty (why do robots sweat?!) And his breath was ragged, but he felt a hand slap his back.

“A minute fifteen! New record!” Khan said happily, looking like he had stars in his eyes, N smiled, his hair falling into his visor.

It was abundantly clear that his body had not been designed for anything but ambushing and flying, a more “death from above” then a persistence predator, because his joints were currently screaming “what the heck did you just do?!” at him. He wanted to sit down now…

“Great! U-uggh.” Khan led him over to a chair where he instantly collapsed in it, throwing his head back and not quite caring he was still covered in mud.

“Wow, that was kinda impressive.” A voice said, they were young whoever they were, a masculine voice that sounded like your typical dude-bro at the beach.

“Mm. Thanks.” N didn't have the energy to say anything else, thankfully he was quickly recovering.

Although he might recover faster if he could get a little bit of oil… he had brought it with him.

He put a hand in his pocket and fumbled with the container hidden there, the guy next to him continued speaking.

“N right? I'm Guy, I was the newest recruit before you. My time was 2:15.”

“Doesn't sound bad!” N replied, this guy was friendly at least, he could always get behind that.

He quickly took out his container and took a long gulp, the oil hitting his systems, immediately he felt better, his joints relaxing and his core settling, he sighed as he brought it away from his mouth, his long tongue coming to lick his lips from the access.

Huh… Guy had fallen real quiet all of the sudden

N looked back at the drone who'd been speaking to him, who's red eyes had gone hollow and his mouth slightly agape, N lifted an eyebrow before realizing why, he looked down at his container, slightly stained with oil, being quite obvious what was in it.

“Oh uh. Sorry… just started getting a little warm.” N tried to explain with a smile on his face, trying to be friendly but also succeeding in flashing his now oil-covered fangs.

Guy gulped.

“I-um yeah dude. N-no problem, guess you gotta kick the craving s-somehow.’

N looked confused for a moment.

“It's not really a craving, I just need it so I don't overheat.” He laughed nervously, sensing how tense the air had gotten. “Boiling in your own shell’s not fun.”

Guy was switching between curiosity and fear, tentatively, he seemed to choose between the two.

“What- what does it taste like?” He asked, still stammering but clearly not nearly as put off by it as before.

“The oil? Uh, sweet, this batch is a little earthy I guess, but that depends on where I get it from.”

The stuff in his container right now was actually from the nursery, it didn't taste nearly as metallic as oil from already living (or dead, he guessed) drones, instead having a more earthy, rounded taste.

He kinda preferred it honestly, plus, no one died for it.

“This is from the nursery, my girlfriend picked it up for me when she went for our daughter.”

Guy seemed to relax further.

“Oh, so it's not… you know?”

“N-no, I haven't killed anyone in… months.” He probably didn't need to add that last part, but he felt the need to defend himself, he really wished that people would stop looking at him and seeing… a monster. Even if he couldn't really blame them.

“Cool. Cool.” Guy replied awkwardly, before it seemed he had another question on his mind.

“How's that work?”

“How does what work?”

“You and a worker drone, is she like… pfft, okay?”

N… suddenly didn't like where this was going.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I mean, she's a worker drone right? Don't you have like… murdery instincts? Damn, if she can handle you, she's gotta be a freak in the sheets.”

N felt something white hot broil inside him until it's vitriol was bubbling in his throat, his hand twitched, and he just barely kept a feral growl from escaping his mouth.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about Uzi that way.” He said, dripping with politeness even as his tail was slowly coiling like a snake, ready to sting the nosy drone if he didn't leave soon.

“Oh shit! Doorman? Damn I knew she was a freak, just didn't know it went that deep!” Guy laughed, N's eye twitched.

Kill him!Kill him! He's a threat! Kill him!

No. No. Don't kill him, do not kill him, you don't like killing, he's not being threatening, he's just being gross.

You must protect them! He speaks of her like she is not yours, kill him! Before he becomes a threat to the kit, to Uzi!

He closed his eyes, clenching his fist before letting his anger roll out of his mouth. Even so he still vibrated with it, unable to truly let it all wash over him.

He'd never felt more angry in his life.

“Guy. Do not talk about her like that.” He was far more firm the second time, his tail was fully coiled, pointed directly at the drones jugular although he didn't seem to notice.

“Ah right. Sorry, sorry, shouldn't talk about another dude's girl like that. My bad.” Guy lifted both his hands, clearly trying to appease him, N would feel more appeased if the man left him alone, preferably on another planet it possible.

“Guy! Get your ass over here before the new guy snaps your neck!” Another member of the WDF called him over, before the man in a yellow hard hat and pink eyelights made his way over to him.

“Sorry, Guy doesn't know when to shut his servo. I'm Hal, what did he say to you that got you looking like murder?”

“I'd… rather not repeat it. He insulted my girlfriend.”

“Oooh, he's lucky it wasn't me, if he'da insulted Reida I woulda rung his scrawny neck.” The drone had a fake, but beautiful beard attached to his face, it was brown, along with is decently long hair.

“Reida?”

“My wife.”

“Ah.”

“Your names N right? or is that a nickname for something?” He asked, he was rather blunt, but nothing about the drone was threatening, he was a boxier, thicker worker model, betraying his age to be closer of that to Khan’s.

“It's Serial Designation N, technically, but just N please.”

“Righto! Glad to have ya! Khan’s talked a lot about you!” His hand came to slap roughly on N's back, it was strong enough to rock him forward slightly and send mud flying in all directions.

“Really?”

“Aye, er well, he's talked nonstop about his grandaughter, and you come up too.”

“That… makes more sense.”

“That means you're with his daughter right? Uzi?”

“That's her.”

“Guy better watch it then, if Khan hears that he's gonna blow a gasket. An so will I to be frank, that girl don't need anymore grief.”

N liked Hal more the longer he talked, he also sounded like a dwarf from one of those movies he and Uzi watched… Lord of the Rings?

“Thank you. I didn't actually want to hurt him.” N said, sighing, he wanted to cover his visor with his hands; but then he'd just get his visor smudgy.

“Yeah ya did.”

“Uh-”

“Don't sweat it kid. We've all been there. Though…”

“Hmm?”

“My Reida woulda kicked his ass first! Hah!”

Next ->

[joelsbloodyhands]

MANDALORIAN IMAGINE

Din didn’t realise you have piercings

DESCRIPTION: You tend to Din’s injuries caused by a weapon you didn’t know he was carrying. In the process of cleaning his wounds, he learns something new about you too.

WARNINGS: Din getting hurt, blood, discussion of injuries, open cuts, discussions involving medical equipment, references to shooting guns, Din being a big dumb dumb getting himself injured 😈 newly established relationship, bossy behaviour, basically Din getting injured and he’s not used to being taken care of, reader has seen Din’s face before, established clan/family, just fluff.

A/N: I actually stole this from a draft series I was writing and liked the little snippet on its own so here ya go 😊 Note: Din has the dark saber in this plot but it isn’t mentioned that it takes place in any particular time during the Mandalorian series.

READER does not have a specified gender, they/them pronouns used. Reader is in an established romantic relationship with Din. Reader has parent relationship with Grogu (no gendered title used). Specific to this fic - reader does not have a visible disability and has hair long enough to be tucked behind their ear.

"Dank farrik!" Din exclaims, shooting back at the overconfident rodian chasing the Razor Crest down from the sandy floors of Tatooine. He’s out of breath, sending erratic shots back, warding off the rodian and it’s array of gang members. They had chased him all the way from Beggar’s Canyon, attempting to steal the head of a bounty that Din had managed with great difficulty to acquire. The head that now hung over his shoulder, bleeding through the make shift sack he’d half-heartedly tied it in. Din groans, glancing down at his throbbing shin. He struggles to keep balance on his right leg before being thrown across the cargo hold into the opposite wall when the ship thrusts up harshly towards the airspace.

“Din!” You yell, sliding down the ladder and shooting the airlock closed, preventing any further blaster fire from striking him. You look down at Din’s collapsed form slumped against the wall, gloved hand releasing some wiring he had grabbed to stop himself from rolling down the ramp completely.

Din immediately puts all his strength into shoving his feet into the steel floor, climbing his way up the wall awkwardly and stumbling into a standing position. It’s then you notice his leg, horror reaching your features. Before you can grab his arm, he staggers past you, throwing the disgusting sack off his back and into the corner of the cargo hold before uncomfortably climbing the ladder with pained groans. You follow, scrambling up the ladder after him, your head popping out of the narrow entryway to watch Din collapse into his chair and pull the crest off into the stars.

Wanting nothing more than to tend to his injury, the sound of cries catch your attention, your head whipping around to lower deck. Din’s head arches back while he controls the ship but your body slides down the ladder hurriedly. Din listens, while checking the navigator as he hears you gather your son and murmur words of reassurance to calm him down. Din releases a heavy breath, his teeth gritting as he feels the clothing covering his lower leg to stain coldly with his seeping blood. When he finally manoeuvres the ship far from the desert planet, he hits it into hyperspace and drops his head back against the chair, head spinning.

“Din!” You call again, your arms dragging you achingly back up the ladders after laying Grogu back down, his upset momentarily subsiding. Din feels his eyes growing heavy until your hands find his shoulders urgently, turning the chair harshly to the side to allow more room for you to kneel before him. You yank his shin armor off and tear open the already gaping hole of his flight suit.

“Shit, Din,” you grasp his leg where the wound is causing Din’s eyes to burn, pain erupting around every nerve. You look up at him in worry as he breathes heavily and goes to stand but he collapses just as you hold out your arms. You hitch a breath, trying to gain air back into your lungs after he knocks it out of you when you realise he’s heavier than you realised covered in beskar.

“I’m okay,” Din barely manages, his voice strained.

“No you’re not,” you assert, eyebrows furrowing in your difficulty to maintain his weight. You attempt to manoeuvre him to the ground, causing you to fall back with him in the process until you eventually manage to set him upright against the control panel, legs flat out in front of him.

Meanwhile you turn your head to notice a pair of green ears and big eyes watching you from the entry. You smile weakly at your son who watches you both silently.

“What happened?” You ask, pulling your vibro-knife from your ankle strap and using it to cut through the rest of Din’s clothes to give you access to his sliced leg. You wince as you realise how deep it is, hand palming your temple in confusion as to why the skin surrounding appears burnt and smells charred.

“I…it’s my fault…” Din manages slowly.

You frown, “How?”

In the midst of you tearing at his clothes, he shakily pulls the saber from his waist and holds it out to you, breathing heavily with his head back. You look to it inquisitively before Din pulls it to the side and unsheathes the glowing blade.

Your eyes widen.

“What the kriff is that?”

Din pulls the blade back in and sets it down, his head cocking to the side to analyse you.

"Called the...huff…dark saber. I…huff…caught myself with…huff…it."

You shake your head, completely bewildered by this foreign object but more angry at it for causing your love so much harm. And at his own doing.

"Stop talking. Stay here. Don’t move. I mean it."

He watches you stand up uneasily, sliding back down the ladder and listening to you rummaging around while he tries to regain his breath. His hands go to his helmet but his arms ache so he drops them before he can remove it.

You’re in front of him again before he can call for you, shaking bacta spray when he says your name. You lift your head, frozen by his sudden flinch when you angle the nozzle over his wound.

“My helmet.”

Your face falls, giving him a knowing look which he takes as you asking him if he’s absolutely sure.

He nods in response and you place the bacta spray down, hesitantly placing your hands on either side of the cold beskar and lift it from his head. What greets you is his flushed, sweat-stained features. His dark curls plastered meticulously over his forehead, skin lightly blushed red from enduring the heat of the hot planet and marvellous brown eyes meeting yours.

“Thank you,” Din smiles meekly at you.

You evade his gaze immediately, cheeks growing hotter at his unmodulated voice and softening gaze. Din had only recently started removing his helmet around you and even then it was a rare occurrence. You nervously mutter a “sure” before turning your attention back to his wound.

Once again, you angle the nozzle and spray a generous amount of the fluid over the wide gash. You watch as it gently binds the skin together and closes the wound slightly while Din groans at the stinging, burning sensation, biting his lip harshly. You frown unhappily at his discomfort, placing a hand on his shoulder and massaging gently to ease him.

Knowing you need to prevent him from moving around and get him as comfortable as possible, you move your hands towards his beskar chest plate but hesitate.

Din’s eyes meet yours knowingly, “go ahead”.

You nod and start working to remove his armor piece by piece until he’s in nothing but his torn flight suit. You’re completely in awe at the pile of metal next to you, having never truly realised just how much weight he carries daily.

From a medical kit you had retrieved along with the bacta spray, you begin working to dab gauze and bind his leg with bandages.

Din watches you.

His eyes monitoring your facial expressions, wincing along with his pain. He finds himself starting to calm as he watches you work away. His hand trails subconsciously and tiredly across your shoulder. You notice but try not to seem alarmed by his sudden touches.

Din pushes a strand of your hair back behind your ear, revealing some shiny adornments he remembered noticing once before but never took the time to look at.

Most of the piercings look like parts, screws, and bolts that have been modified into jewellery. An array of colours from dolovite, steel, and gold. Some with attachments hanging down, tickling your neck. Din’s fingers running compellingly across small stones. Some of which he could only identify as Heart of Fire, a burnt orange-red that contrasted perfectly against your skin. He admires them, painting a picture of when you may have gotten such things done.

Had you done it yourself or gone to a vendor?

“Do you like them?” Your quiet voice breaks his trance.

“Hmm?” He hums, his finger smoothing across the arch of your ear thoughtfully, making a shiver run up your spine.

You dare look to him and it’s then he stops his movements having not realised how intimate it seemed.

“My earrings,” you murmur.

Rendering you speechless, he smiles but it’s the smile that’s so heart shattering, it has your knees shaking.

“I do,” he returns tenderly.

You lower your head, trying to hide your flustered expression as you cut the bandage away and rub at his leg gently.

“You’re all good. You need to stay off your feet for a while,” you instruct gently.

“I will. Thank you,” he responds, dropping his hand from your shoulder and assessing the bandage with a grimace.

“You better,” you playfully threaten, holding the scissors to him causing him to grin at you making you blush incredibly and turn away.

Din clears his throat, “We can lay low in Coruscant.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you agree, before getting up to turn your head towards a small green bean of an intruder eavesdropping on your conversation. Your sons little padded footsteps wander over, big brown orbs focused on his fathers injury and whining unhappily.

“It’s okay, bub,” you reassure when he gets close enough to place a small clawed hand on Din’s foot. Din watches you, heart fluttering as you lift your son into your arms and rock him gently. Grogu clings onto your shirt, looking up at you and then back to his father, clearly still distressed.

“Is he okay?” Din inquires, trying and failing to lean forward off the control panel behind him.

“Shaking but he’ll be okay,” your eyes run protectively over your son, fingers stroking light touches over his ear.

You walk over to Grogu’s chair, sitting him down while Din attempts standing up uneasily before limping over to the both of you. At the sound of his footsteps, you turn swiftly, eyes narrowing on him and arms folding disapprovingly.

“What did I say, Din?”

He sighs, “I know what you said.” He hobbles over and puts a hand on Grogu’s head, towering over you both. “I just want to check on the kid.”

“He’s okay,” you reassure gently but firmly.

“And you?” You feel so small compared to Din when he moves closer, his head just above yours with warm eyes fixating down at you with concern.

You nod and give him a small smile, “I’m okay.”

Din nods back slowly and you watch his eyes run over your features almost trying to gauge an understanding that you’re not lying to him. It seems what he finds there eases him and his shoulders finally relax.

“Good. I’m sorry about that. Thank you for having my back,” you close your eyes when he lets his forehead knock yours carefully. You smile nervously when you feel his other hand touch your waist ever so gently, arm curving around your lower back to pull you closer. You breathe him in, adoring this domestic side of him. Each hand protectively holding the two people most dear to him.

“Of course,” you lean into him, your nose gently nudging his. Din smiles.

Grogu cooes at you both.

“You should rest,” you open your eyes, meeting Din’s affectionate but tired gaze. He nods and gently sways your body contentedly in his hold.

“We all should,” he looks back to Grogu, his grabby hands flailing towards the Crests shifter knob. Din reaches for it and you watch him pass the small ball to the babbling child, “It’ll take some time to get to Coruscant.”

[ruchika-05]

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[stoutguts]

My own personal Hybrid AU??? (Also, Omegaverse). Chock full of my own personal headcanons and ideas. Unorganized/kind of rambling, really just trying to put all my thoughts to paper.

PART 1 CUZ ITS LONGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE 💀

German Shepherd and Border Collie mix/Shollie hybrid/alpha Soap, and gray wolf and Great Pyrenees mix/wolfdog hybrid/trans omega Ghost. Great Dane and Bloodhound mix hybrid/beta Yuri. (Weredogs, puppy Ghost, puppy Soap, and puppy Yuri teeheehee).

(Simon has their ears cropped and tail docked (and not by choice). It’s ears and tail were severely mutilated, when tortured and held captive by Roba. They had no choice but to crop and dock their ears and tail, as they were disfigured beyond repair. He has metal/silver canine teeth, black and white alternating/“domino” nails/claws, and a pink nose and paws pads. Scarred all over,—but more distinctive features include; a scar across it’s lips (that it got while being tortured and being held hostage by Roba). A large crooked and broken nose, (having never healed quite right and has been broken countless times). A nick/scar across the bridge of their already mangled nose, (if their punched or smacked from just the right angle when wearing their hardshell mask, it cuts into them, (the wound/scar often being reopened and never being allowed to heal). Johnny carries around a few extra masks or balaclavas and extra gauze in his med pack just for when this happens, as he knows they hate the smell of blood and the feeling of it soaking their mask, (it’s a sensory thing that drives them nuts). It has a scar that cuts across the side of it’s cheek, cutting down through the jawline, and stopping at the side of it’s neck, (it got it while being held at knifepoint, the jackass went as far as to flay a good patch of it’s skin off). As well as, a large, jagged scar that wraps around their neck, (they got this after they nearly had been choked to death with some barbed wire). (Which permanently fucked up it’s mating gland and it’s most important scent gland. Since then, their hormones have been out of wack, and their heats are almost always irregular. It’s scent has been forever tainted. Instead of their previously sweet smell,—a combination of vanilla, lavender, and chocolate.—It’s scent is now similar to a mixture of rotten flesh, blood, and gasoline. (Though it hasn’t deterred their boyfriend one bit 💖). Not to mention, the barb wire had dug so deeply into their throat at one point, that it severed a few of their vocal cords. They have a characteristically hoarse and raspy tone to their voice because of that). He wears a heavy steel chain collar, with a silver tag that states its name, callsign, task force, rank, and blood type. They’ve got an identical chain leash to match too. It's eyes are positively striking, one is a honeyed brown, while the other is an icy blue. It’s fur is long, and is fluffy and/or downy, but equally coarse and wiry. They have a pure snow white coat that requires a shit ton of regular grooming, as it easily gets matted or dirty. Ghost uses purple shampoo to maintain the color of his coat).

(Johnny has nicked ears, one ear is pointy, while the other never really perked up, and is half-floppy/flopped down. Although he’s littered with scars,—new pink ones and white old ones,—he’s got some particularly distinctive ones; a scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder (from when he’d been shot by Graves), his scarred temples (from when he had nearly been killed by Makarov). The scar on his chin (which he got when he was a teen, at his lowest, self-harming). He's got a ring-like scar that wraps around one section of his tail, with tufts of fur missing. The scar cutting through his eye, (which he got when his abusive mother threatened him with a kitchen knife, in the midst of a particularly heated and escalating verbal fight. An altercation ensued, and as he attempted to disarm her/snatch the knife away from her, she slashed him with it, and it just so happened catch his eye. The witch was hardly remorseful, even after he’d gone blind in that eye, (though it definitely could’ve gone way worse). As well as, past s/h scars all over his thighs, arms, and shoulders. His scent is a concoction of pine, tobacco, and whiskey, and weirdly more pleasant than the average alpha’s scent. He wears a rope collar with a gold tag that says his name, callsign, task force, rank, and blood type, with an identical rope leash to go along with it. He’s got long, soft, and silky fur, that requires a bit of upkeep. Regular brushing and bathing usually does the trick just fine. His coat is sabled and tricolor, dark brown, charcoal black, and off-white. One of his eyes is a beautiful ocean blue, deep, vibrant and full of life. The other is discolored, a baby blue, shallow, lifeless,—but will somehow stare into your soul. He’s also got one metal/gold tooth/canine, white claws/nails, and a marbled pink and black nose and paw pads).

(Yuri's ears are cropped (by choice,—when his large ears were floppy, they’d get in the way all the time). His tail remains natural. His ears are pierced, one ear has one gold earring, while the other has two that are silver. He's smooth-coated, with a black, white, and ash-brown harlequin coloration. He has black claws, and a black nose. His paws/paw pads are heavily scarred, (acid burns), with fur missing. He also has quite a few scars from bullet wounds. His scent is a faint smell, and is a blend of eucalyptus, old books, and blueberries. His eyes are a grayish-blue, a bit dull, but pretty. All of his teeth and fangs are made of metal/steel. He wears a white leather studded collar, with a studded white leather leash to match. His collar has a patch on it that states his name, task force, rank, and blood type).

Gaz and Roach are Werecats, (kitty Gaz and kitty Roach hehehe). Kyle is a Panther hybrid, and a omega. While Gary is a Lynx hybrid, and a beta.

(Gaz has two particularly nasty claw marks over the center of his back and chest, and a single knick in the tip of one of his ears. They got the claw marks on their back and chest when a sparring match between them and Roach went terribly wrong. While, he got the knick in his ear from a bullet just barely missing their target, and grazing him. They have gold and silver canine teeth, white nails and claws, as well as a black nose and beans. Kyle’s eyes change color between forms and when shifting. Hazel normally, but full-on amber when in feline form. He has a beautiful sleek and silky, waterproof, jet-black coat, (though their spots are more pronounced than that of the average Panther). He also has very tough claws that can shred through just about anything. Their scent is an amalgamation of citrus, peppermint, and freshly brewed coffee).

(Roach’s got a pretty unique scar that covers their nose and the tip of their muzzle, as well as, a diamond-shaped scar over their Adam’s apple. They got the scar on their muzzle from a grenade exploding dangerously close to their face and badly singeing them. While, the diamond shaped scar is something they got when they had been captured by enemy forces, and were tortured for information. Because they wouldn’t talk, the torturer removed their vocal cords. “If you won’t speak, you might as well never speak again”. They had always been a person of few words,—and were promptly stripped of the very few words they did have. One of Gary’s ears is tipped/cut (and not of their own volition). Before they joined the 1-4-1 and prior to climbing the ranks, they were bullied harshly by their superior officers and taken advantage of. They were beaten up, called names, etc. Their callsign "Roach" was even originally a way to mock them and degrade them further. Eventually, they had enough and decided to stand up for themselves, and that was when they held them down and tipped their ear. Not only physically harming them, but humilating them by marking them as a feral cat, as one last hoo-rah. Thankfully, they're much better off nowadays with their current squad. They feel at home in the 1-4-1. They've also begun to see that their name isn't something to be ashamed of, but rather proud of. As it shows that they're one tough sucker to kill,—a tricky bastard. They’re a bit snaggletoothed,—some of their teeth are chipped. One of their canines has the tip broken off of it, while another one of their canines is metal/silver. They have white nails/claws, and a marbled pink and black nose and paw pads. They have massive paws and strong legs. Their eyes are a gorgeous emerald green, and really stand out. Their coat is a mix of grey, brown, black, and off-white, spotted, soft and fluffy.—But long, and requires regular care and grooming. (Fortunately, Gaz and them groom each other 💖). Their scent is a faint smell, but a fusion between butterscotch, vinegar, and freshly done laundry).

TBC SOON—

[letmetakecare]

The undercity stretched beneath the sprawling metropolis like a forgotten labyrinth, its tunnels lit by flickering neon signs and the occasional hum of power lines sparking to life. It was a realm of shadows and rusted steel, where whispers carried secrets too dark for the surface world.

Amara, a scavenger, moved cautiously through the maze. Her boots echoed against the wet, corroded metal floor as she navigated the twisted pathways. She was searching for a rare part something valuable enough to buy her a week’s worth of food. Her lantern cast long, wavering shadows, and her breaths came shallow. The air was heavy here, laced with the faint scent of burning plastic.

Then, she heard it.

A rustling sound. Faint at first, like cables shifting under their own weight, but steadily growing louder. She froze, her fingers tightening around the wrench she carried for protection. She scanned the darkness behind her, the beam of her lantern trembling with every heartbeat.

"Just the pipes," she muttered under her breath, though her pulse quickened.

The sound came again, closer this time an eerie, mechanical chittering, like wires slithering over one another. Amara backed away, her lantern catching glimpses of exposed circuits and walls lined with conduit. It was as though the tunnel itself was alive, pulsating with unseen energy.

The rustling stopped.

She turned, only to find herself face-to-face with a mass of shifting wires emerging from the walls. They moved with purpose, snake-like tendrils that glinted with oil and sparks. Before she could react, they shot forward, wrapping around her wrists and pulling her deeper into the darkness.

“Let me go!” she screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the tunnel.

The wires slithered toward her neck, their cold, metallic touch sending shivers down her spine. She thrashed, but her movements only seemed to excite the tendrils. One curled around her throat, tilting her head back as another tendril pressed firmly against the base of her skull. For a moment, it paused, almost as if savoring its control, before driving into her flesh with surgical precision.

Amara cried out, but the sound was cut off as her body went rigid. Her vision exploded with a storm of light and static. She could feel the wires burrowing deeper, spreading through her spinal cord like roots, latching onto her nervous system. Her thoughts splintered, replaced by waves of crackling data and the rhythmic hum of machinery.

“Syncing complete,” a voice buzzed within her mind, sharp and metallic. It wasn’t soothing; it was absolute. Cold. Purposeful.

The static morphed into streams of symbols and patterns that etched themselves into her mind, burning away her memories. She tried to hold onto who she was, but the data was relentless, overriding everything.

Her limbs slackened as more wires coiled around her, lifting her off the ground like a puppet. They worked with meticulous precision, pulling her arms and legs taut as new tendrils connected to her temples and spine. A low, droning hum filled the air, vibrating in perfect sync with her heartbeat.

“You are a node. A vessel. A function of the system,” the voice intoned.

Amara’s mind wavered as the words embedded themselves in her psyche. Her thoughts became fragmented, distorted, drowned beneath the mechanical monotone. She could feel her body changing her muscles twitching in time with the rhythmic pulses surging through the wires. Her veins felt as though they were filled with circuits, her heartbeat replaced by the steady thrum of electrical power.

“You are essential,” the voice droned. “You will obey.”

Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling like clockwork. She was losing herself, her mind unravelling into streams of ones and zeroes. The wires guided her head forward, her gaze fixed on the darkness ahead as glowing shapes materialized in her vision. She wasn’t looking at the tunnel anymore she was staring into the vast, interconnected network of the machine. It pulsed and shifted with a life of its own, a monstrous intelligence that stretched endlessly in every direction.

Amara’s lips parted, her voice now tinged with static. “Command received,” she murmured.

Her irises flickered, transforming into glowing circuits of amber light. The wires released her, but she didn’t fall. She stood upright, her movements eerily precise as she took a step forward. Her lantern lay shattered behind her, but she didn’t need its light anymore.

Her body was no longer hers. Her mind no longer belonged to her. She was part of something infinite now an extension of the machine’s will.

As she disappeared into the shadows, the faint hum of the wires faded into silence, leaving only the empty tunnel behind.

Amara was gone. The machine had claimed her.

[desceros]

Running scared from enemy and bay Leo’s trying to get to you first

It's difficult, already, sprinting through the streets with some clown hot on your ass. Tougher still when you're trying to fish out your phone, mashing the blue-heart-emoji-turtle-emoji contact with shaking fingers.

"Come on, come on," you chant, whipping down an alley in the hopes of getting closer to the familiar streets you know the boys patrol. "Answer the phone, Leo—"

The line clicks, and he gets your name out in a questioning tone before you feel something snag tight around your ankles, sending you messily to the asphalt with a yelp. Pain flairs on your knees and hands, scraping hot and drawing blood.

Quickly, you roll and see that there's some kind of steel wire contraption tangled around your ankles where the stupid goon got a lucky shot. Delirious, with hands from adrenaline, you scramble to pull it off, breath coming faster and faster as he gets close enough that you can see the familiar mask of The Foot.

"Oh, you—you better hope my fucking boyfriend doesn't get here first," you hiss, cutting your eyes up to him every jagged breath, hoping to stall him long enough either to get free or to give Leo enough time to find you. "Holy shit. Holy shit. This is so not—fucking cool—"

Okay. So. Maybe you're going to stop dodging Raph when he nags you to join him for conditioning, you decide.

The Foot bozo gets close enough for you to see the glint of the knife as he draws it, your fingers bruising on the steel wire as you fight against your trap—

—only for your next breath to come out, half-sob, when the ground quakes beneath the weight of Leonardo landing from the rooftop before you, his shell trembling with rage even as his hands on his katana are steady as the rising of the moon.

"I'd reconsider, if I were you," he says, the cold fire of his tone making your hair stand on end—but probably in the opposite way that it should.

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Family matters; Peter Quill x teen reader

*Author's note*

Well this request had been sitting in my inbox for awhile and I hope the anon who requested it is out there somewhere in the deep space of tumblr because I finally came around to writing it. It took some time due to life, work and moving houses during the holiday season but finally I was able to sit down and write this oneshot.

So as with any marvel oneshot there are some warnings of swearing, violence, and alluding to SA and r*pe but not on reader but a side character. So if the last warning triggers anyone just know it's not physically named but it is mentioned so I wont be butthurt of you wish to leave the story and not continue reading. Other than that I hope you all enjoy my darlings :)

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@queen-paladin

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@queensdivas

@austynparksandpizza

_____________________________________________________________

“How is it that everytime I come up with a plan we always get what we want? But whenever it’s you who comes up with the plan, we get captured?!” Rocket exclaimed as he dangled upside down along with Peter.

“I already told you it was a face off!” argued Peter.

“And we’ve told you that a face off is a trap if you’re facing off against a stronger opponent!” Nebula snarled.

“It was a pretty convincing plan at first but now I agree with Rocket and Nebula, Peter.” Mantis said.

“You are a dumbass, Quill.” Said Drax.

The Guardians of the Galaxy had decided to help aid Thor in the case of the slaughtering of Gods.  Shortly after they had parted, they came across the Aztec God temples but were soon ambushed by the Knights of Huitzilopochtli.  Thinking he could go against the Aztec God of War, Peter decided to meet with the God himself in what he liked to call a ‘face off’, however Huitzilopochtli had no interest in making any sort of bargain or peace treaty, instead he now had Rocket and Peter dangling over a lava pit while Nebula, Mantis and Drax were bound in chains by their wrists and ankles on top of stone tables.

He would first sacrifice Rocket and Peter to lava pit, but not before cutting out their hearts and feeding them to his prized jaguars.

“Quill, if we get out of this alive I swear I’ll rip your face off!” Rocket snapped as he wriggled in the chains.

“Yeah, yeah and even if we die you’ll still rip my face off. Just-just—let me think.” Huitzilopochtli’s servants soon brought up three large cages that each contained a jaguar pacing aggressively in their cages.  Hungry for blood.

“Let the ritual begin!” Huitzilopochtli proclaimed.  The drums began pounding as the chanters did their ritual chant.  Soon the Jaguar Knight came forward with a five inch steel dagger in his hands.  Suddenly a metal wire shot out and knocked the dagger out of the jaguar knight’s hands.  He let out a jaguar-like hiss as he looked up only to be kicked in the face by a young woman in pure black and grey metal suit that fit her like a glove.  A metal knife suddenly extended out from the wrist gauntlets and she cut both Rocket and Peter free from their chains.

“Come with me if you want to live.” The mechanical voice from her helmet said.  It was all a blur to the Guardians, the rescue happened to fast they hardly knew that they were escaping.  Metal and rock had flew across the air and soon the jaguars had been released and were attacking anyone close by, devouring their flesh and feasting on their hearts.

When the Guardians finally got back to their ship and took off Mantis turned to the young woman and thanked her.

“We are grateful for your help in rescuing us.” The young woman touched the side of her helmet and it let out a hiss as it unhooked itself from it’s hinges and she removed her helmet to reveal a young teenage girl with what appeared to be a cybernetic gears infused around her left eye and across her forehead (almost like a circlet).

“No problem. Although I didn’t expect to go saving the Guardians of the Galaxy.”

“Okay first question, how much for the cybernetic circlet on your head?” asked Rocket.

“Rocket!” Mantis and Peter exclaimed.

“What?!”

“Hate to tell you this Rocket but this high-grade of metal is infused to my body.” She told them.

“Never stopped me before.” Shrugged Rocket.

“I am Groot!” Groot snapped.

“I think the main question is how did you know we were down at that ritual chamber?” asked Nebula suspiciously.

“Like I said before I didn’t. I originally went to Huitzilopochtli for a faulty deal on some priceless metal my mom had struck a deal with him. My aunt was originally going to take the job but I offered to go in her place. After all, no one suspects a young girl to do any harm, right?”

“That’s the ploy I’ve done in the past.” Said Nebula.

“After securing the right metal and making the point to never cross Zaofu again, that’s when I heard the drums and I saw you guys about to become his prized jaguar’s next meal. Lucky for us, those beasts don’t have any real loyalty to him.”  

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on just a second there kid. You said you came from Zaofu? As in the Zaofu?” asked Rocket in awe.

“The very same. Unless there’s another planet in the galaxy by that title.”

“What’s Zaofu?” asked Peter.

“Oh-ho! Next to Nidavellir, Zaofu is the second greatest planet to ever exist. It’s home to some of the strongest and rarest metal in the entire galaxy. I would very much like to go there.” Rocket boasted.

“He’s right.” Said Nebula.  “The metal from Zaofu is not only said to be the strongest but also the most durable. It’s where—Thanos gained some of my parts to make me better than Gamora.” She said looking down at her arm.

“I thought I had recognized that material. That’s our regenerative metal. Able to put itself back together no matter how extreme the damage. But we’ve only ever used that on people with birth defects or amputees. Had my mother known that it went to Thanos of all people, she’d never would’ve agreed. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’ve gotten used to it.” Nebula shrugged.

“I have to ask though, what is the Guardians of the Galaxy doing at the Temple of Huitzilopochtli? I mean I know you guys are willing to protect those throughout the galaxy but I didn’t think that included Gods of War.”

“It’s a long story.” Peter started off but Mantis said.

“We’re helping Thor with the God Killer.”

“Mantis!” hissed Nebula.

“What? She seems trustworthy.”

“God killer huh? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I would’ve thought nothing could touch those deities.”

“So we thought too, but then we received a message from one of golden boy’s friends and apparently someone is literally slaughtering gods left and right. Already over 300 of them have been killed.” Explained Rocket.  The girl let out a low whistle and said.

“Hog-monkeys. Well if you’re going up against an opponent like that, you’re gonna need something a lot stronger to fight and protect yourselves with. Cause if you though old Huitzilopochtli was bad, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

“You saying you’re allowing us to come to Zaofu?” asked Rocket.

“If you’re still up for it.”

“Well let me ask the captain about that, oh yeah it’s me. Yes we’ll go!”

“Rocket how many times do I have to say it I’m the Captain.” Hissed Peter under his breath.

“You know you really shouldn’t talk that way about your Captain, Quill. By the way, you never told us your name girlie.”

“Oh right how silly of my. The name’s (Y/n) Beifong. Daughter of High Lady Suyin Beifong of Zaofu.” She introduced herself.

“Wait, Beifong? You mean the richest family in the galaxy Beifong?” asked Rocket.  “Say, do you think once we get you home and return the metal you’re people have been swindled out of, we could probably get a little reward for our part in the trade?” (Y/n) chuckled and said to him.

“Slow down there Captain, let’s just get back to Zaofu and talk to my mother about this. She’s the one in charge of the economy.” And with that the Guardians set course for the planet Zaofu.

It was a beautiful planet of green and earth all over the landscape.  Lakes and rivers so crystal clear, they reflected the very sky itself and it’s two suns gave plenty of light but no heat to the land.  As the Guardians soared over the land they soon came across an advanced city entirely made of metal.

“Agent to tower; this is Agent Beifong Badge #349876 requesting clearance to land. Tower guard this is Agent Beifong Badge #349876 requesting clearance to land.” (Y/n) said after punching in a few codes on the holographic pad in front of her.

‘Tower to Agent Beifong, your request is granted. Welcome home Princess.’ A male voice soon came up over the intercoms.

“Just take us West of the palace and land 50 degrees West heading 0-3-0.” She advised Rocket and Peter who nodded and together they followed her instructions and safely landed their ship on top of a large landing platform that stood just feet from a large skyscraper tower of the palace.  (Y/n) grabbed the metal from her ship (that had been piggy-backed in the Guardian’s ship’s lower decks).  Their ship opened up and they walked down the stairway and there stood to their right about ten guards all wearing the same metal tight uniform (Y/n) had on.

And just ahead of them stood two women.  One wore the exact same armor but over her left breast plate was a silver badge in the shape of a star while the other woman beside her wore dark green tunic that rested over her green pants and sleeveless shirt.  The tunic cover had a metal collar going around it with each plate slowly increasing in size before decreasing again as it came back around. 

Much like (Y/n) a circlet rested over her head and she also wore gauntlets with metal plates in the shape of pentagons overlapping each other.  Both women looked fairly similar to each other in that both had greying hair but were fair looking, although the woman in the armor had a more gruff appearance to her while the other woman had a more gentle facial expression.

The guards all slammed their fists together, the metal from their armors sounding out a loud clank as they greeted the Princess on her safe return.  As (Y/n) and the Guardians stood before the two women, (Y/n) greeted them with a head bow.

“Chief, Mother. I have successfully secured the real metal we were promised and gave our message loud and clear to the War god Huitzilopochtli.”

“I never doubted you wouldn’t. You’re one of the best soldiers on the squad, and I’m not just saying that.” the woman in the black armor said.

“I’m just glad you’ve come home safely. And with some new friends I see.” The woman in the green tunic said.

“Yes, Mother, Chief Beifong, I’d like to introduce the Guardians of the Galaxy. They were prisoners of Huitzilopochtli when I went to secure the metal. About to be sacrificed to his prized jaguars. Guardians this is my mother and ruler of Zaofu Suyin Beifong, and my aunt and Chief of police, Lin Beifong.”

“That man knows nothing about diplomacy. Always kills first and asks questions later.” Suyin rolled her eyes.

“He is the God of War for a reason Suy.” Lin told her sister and she came up to (Y/n) and took the chess from her hands.  “I’ll take this down to our research facility.”

“Yes Chief.” (Y/n) bowed to her and both her aunt and the police force walked off towards the lab.

“Now I had asked this to your daughter earlier that since we helped your daughter recover some prized and rare metal that was promised to you, don’t you think we should be given a little compensation for helping her return what was rightfully meant to be yours?” asked Rocket as he rubbed his thumb, index and tall fingers together.

“Rocket!” exclaimed Mantis.

“How about this, we’ll talk about payment if you all stay for dinner and take some rest here tonight.” Suyin offered.

“As much as we appreciate that Lady Beifong…..” Peter started off only to be politely interrupted by Suyin.

“Please call me Suyin. Lady Beifong was my grandmother.”

“Suyin. We’re kinda in a tight schedule. Apparently someone’s killing gods and we promised not-very good looking Thor that we’d try and figure out who’s behind the killings.”

“Actually I might have some information in regards to that. But in order to go up against him, you’re gonna need some of our weapons and armor. Come, join me and my family for dinner and we’ll discuss everything.” With that suggestion and offer, the Guardians accepted Suyin’s offer and joined the Beifong family for dinner.

After coming to a negotiation, Suyin had her engineers and scientists build and forge the Guardians new weapons and tech to take down any gods like Huitzilopochtli’s forces and powers.  While observing the engineers add some new parts to their ship, Peter soon heard the sound of rocks being thrown around and crashing into a wall.

He went to investigate when he saw (Y/n) bending not only the rocks but metal as well.  Shooting out a metal wire to cut apart some trees and pull their branches off, or successfully transform the large boulders into various shapes before firing them at various targets.

“I thought I was going crazy at first seeing you do all that back at Jaguar-man’s palace.” She jumped and fired one of her metal wires which wrapped around Peter in a tight cocoon sending him on his back.

“Oh Star-lord, forgive me I tend to strike whenever someone surprises me like that.” She released her wires and they zipped back into her gauntlets while Peter assured her.

“No worries, I’ve had worse done to me before.” She helped him up and he asked her.  “So I’m guessing this is a normal after dinner activity for you?”

“I like to come out here to get away from it all. Don’t get me wrong I love my family to death but—sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Promise you won’t go blabbing to my mom about this?”

“Cross my heart.” Peter said as he crossed his heart for emphasis.  (Y/n) extended her hand and two small rocks slowly rose up from the ground over her palm and as she slowly wriggled her fingers, the rocks spun in a gentle circle around each other in a dance over her palm.

“Believe it or not, this ability I’m doing right now. I’m the only person in my family that can do this.”

“But don’t the Beifong family have the ability to control metal?”

“It’s true to a degree. The suit of armor that both me and my aunt Lin wear, it helps them control metal but without it, they’re powerless. Ever since I was a young girl and discovered I could bend earth to my will, my mother said it was because of my father’s gift. But the thing is, my father doesn’t have this ability, nor does anyone in his bloodline. I’ve tried to ask my mother for the truth but she always tells me that it’d be too much for me to bear.”

“So you think that your mom—”

“Cheated on her real husband? I doubt it, cause whenever I did ask about him in the past, there’s always this—pure hatred in her eyes. But she always told me that who he was didn’t matter. Baatar is my real father and my real brothers and sister are here. Aunt Lin is my real aunt and I am a Beifong through and through. But deep down I get this feeling that maybe I should make that decision for myself. On whether or not I should have the chance to meet him or not.”

“I get it. Sorta. I mean I thought that when I met my dad, he’d be everything I thought I’d ever longed for. Only to turn out that he killed my mother and tried to use me to conquer the entire galaxy. He may have been my father, but he wasn’t my daddy. I learned that from my real father after he had sacrificed himself to save me.”

“That’s heavy.” Whistled (Y/n).

“Yeah, it was. But Yondu was a good dad to me.” He said as he took out his Zune player.  “So your uhh—earth bending powers, how did you discover them?” Peter then tried to change the subject before he started to cry over his memories of Yondu.  (Y/n) smiled knowing this type of maneuver (her brothers did this all the time whenever they’d try to be strong and hardcore).

“Like I said, I was a young when it happened. I was just playing with my sister Opal out by the lake skipping rocks when suddenly as I reached out for one, my hands glew this bright blue light and the rock just shot up into my palm. We were both so scared that we ran to my mother crying in fear. I honestly don’t remember much after that but my mother had my aunt teach me how to control it. Got me my first metal-bending suit and I’ve been training with her ever since.”

Hearing her mention the blue light it perked Peter’s curiosity and he asked her.

“This blue light, can you describe it in anyway? Like what it made you feel when it came to you?”

“I—I don’t know how to explain it but….I do remember it being almost like my palms were on fire, yet they didn’t burn me. It felt like—like when you touch warm sand on a beach. Yet there was this feeling of—power to it. Like I could do anything with it.” Peter’s eyes widened.

He did remember that feeling when Ego told him about his Celestial heritage and taught him how to summon the light to his hands.  No but it—it couldn’t be? Could it? Could she really be his…….

“(Y/N)! Aunt Lin says she needs to speak to you about your armor! Says she’s got an upgrade for you!” one of her brothers called out to her.  She turned and exclaimed back.

“I’ll be there in a sec Wei!” she turned to Peter and said, “Better not keep Aunt Lin waiting. She hates it when people keep her waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah I better go and talk to the team about our next game plan. Also tell your aunt thanks for letting us use some of her police weapons.”

“She may not be happy about lending our weapons to non-Zaofuians but she’ll get over it, especially since it’s going to the Guardians of the Galaxy. But I’ll give her your regards anyways.” They went their separate ways and once Peter saw that no one was around, he took off sprinting towards Mantis’ room and rapidly knocked on her door.

“Could you be any louder at knocking Peter? I don’t think the others from Knowhere heard you.” Mantis whined with a groan.

“We need to talk.” Peter said urgently.  Sensing the urgency in his tone and knowing that this was a serious matter, Mantis allowed her brother inside and she shut the door behind her as well as locked it.  “You will not believe the conversation that I just had with (Y/n).”

“Are we being taken prisoners again?” asked Mantis worriedly.

“What no! No! Look, I know this may seem out of nowhere, but I want you to tell me first about when Ego found you and tried to make you feel a connection to the Celestial light.”

“Why would you want to know about that?”

“Just trust me Mantis. Please.” She looked into her brother’s eyes and saw the desperation but also some inkling of knowledge that he was going to fill her in on the details later.

“I had lied when I had told Drax and Gamora that Ego found me in my larva stage. He had actually came for me shortly after my mother had passed. Much like when Yondu came for you, he brought me to his planet and trained me just like he did you. But when I tried to make a connection to the light, all that awakened within me was my empathic abilities. Ego then told me that even though I’d never be able to help him with the Expansion, he still could find a purpose for me. And I had been forced to convince various of our other siblings to go along with us, before he said that I would only be used to help him sleep.”

“Wow, he really was a jackass.”

“Now will you tell me why you asked me about that?”

“(Y/n)’s ability to move earth, you know how she could bend those rocks back at Jaguar dude’s temple, turns out she has a connection to the Celestial light.”

“Are you saying that……(Y/n) is our—”

“Sister? I think she might be.”

“But how? When Ego died, you lost your connection to the Celestial light.”

“I don’t know. But the way she described the Light within her hands was exactly the same way it felt with me when I made my connection to it.”

“Did you tell her the truth?”

“Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaa—no.” stretched Peter.

“Peter we must tell her the truth. She deserves to know!” Peter stepped in front of her and said.

“I know she deserves to know but at the same time we can’t cause any family drama amongst the Beifongs. (Y/n) told me how everytime she brought up about her real dad, Suyin got this burning anger in her eyes and told her that they were her family, not him. And after seeing the way (Y/n) fights against Aztec Gods I’d hate to fight against her own mother and aunt.”

“So what are we going to do?” she asked him.

“I’ll think of something. Until I do, this stays between us okay? I mean it don’t tell anyone about this conversation to anyone else, especially Drax. You know he can’t keep a secret to save his own skin.”

“I promise.” She held out her pinkie and Peter wrapped his pinkie around hers.  “Sister’s promise.”

“Brother’s oath.” Peter replied back as they shook pinkies.

After about 3 days, the Guardians were finally ready to take off to find more Gods to save and check up on.

“We can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for us Suyin.” Peter thanked her.

“It was our pleasure to help in aiding the Guardians of the Galaxy. And if you’re ever passing by this way again, our doors will always be open to you.” Said Suyin with a respectable bow.  The Guardians bowed back to her before heading back to their ship, but it was then Peter stopped midway up the ramp when he said.

“Actually, there is something else we’d like to ask for.” The rest of the Guardians paused and turned to Peter.

“And just what would that be?” asked Chief Lin suspiciously.

“We’d like to extend an invitation to (Y/n) in joining us.” Everyone but Mantis became wide-eyed.  “After our experience with the Aztec god of war, we realized that we are heavily out-manned and she managed to take down all his forces single-handedly while also saving our asses. And if ever we need a tune-up she would know more about how to fix your special enhanced metal material.”

“Quill, I only had to be with Zaofu’s engineers for only 2 minutes and I can get the hang of it.” Proclaimed Rocket.

“Still it couldn’t hurt to have an expert who actually came from the place of its origins be with us should we ever need it. Two heads are better than one right?” Suyin was stunned as she turned to her youngest child and asked her.

“This is up to you (Y/n). Do you wish to go with the Guardians?” (Y/n) looked between both her family and the Guardians with a heavy heart.  She then walked up to her mother and spoke from the heart.

“My heart will always belong to Zaofu. But from the days that I would be with Aunt Lin on missions, I have seen great suffering. Some of which has been at the hands of our own metal smuggled by black marketers. I feel like Zaofu can do more for the galaxy than we already have.” Suyin sighed as she closed her eyes.

“You are my youngest child (Y/n). And I had hoped to have you remain at my side for a few more years. But now I see that you are no longer a child anymore. And at some point, I must learn to let go. If you should ever wish to return home, we’ll be here waiting for you.” (Y/n) smiled and embraced her mother.

“I love you mom.”

“I love you too.” After embracing her mother, she stood before her aunt and prepared to surrender her badge but Lin held out her hand to stop her.

“Keep it. I didn’t make you an officer of Zaofu for nothing.” She bowed before her aunt before hugging her.  Lin smiled softly down at her and embraced her back.  (Y/n) then bid goodbye to all her brothers and sister as well as her dad before turning to the Guardians and joining alongside them.

As they entered and the ramp slid back up, (Y/n) took one last look at her family as they bid her goodbye and she wiped her hidden tears away and waved to them in return before the Guardian’s ship left Zaofu.

Now heading to their next destination to answer the next signal from some Light elves on Álfheimr (Y/n) soon spotted Peter on the upper main decks looking out into the endless starry sky.

“So what was the real reason?” she asked him.

“Huh?” Peter turned to her.

“The real reason you offered me a spot on the Guardians.”

“What are you talking about kid? What I said was 100% true. Rocket may think he’s smart but no one can really understand Zaofu metal than someone who was raised there. And…..”

“Peter, I know you’re lying.”

“What so you can detect when people are lying?”

“In a sense. My grandmother was born blind, so one day she ran off and found herself lost in a cave until she came across some badger-moles. They were blind just like her, but they used the earth as an extension of their senses. She learned out to see the world through the earth around her. Feeling seismic energy of people’s footsteps and even hearing their heartbeats through the earth. And when my mom and aunt were born, she taught it to them, and then Aunt Lin taught it to me. And last night, your heartrate was beating rapidly when I told you about my powers. So come on, out with it.” Peter sighed and confessed.

“Okay, so obviously you know how I found out my dad was a real douchebag and tried to destroy the galaxy. But before that, he taught me that being a Celestial he had a connection to the Light, and he taught it to me as well as Mantis. Even though Mantis didn’t have a connection to it, she still proved a purpose by awakening her empathic powers. As for me, I did have a connection to the Light. And it was that same connection that you said you felt when you first discovered your powers.”

“So you can earth-bend too?”

“No. I mean I did when I fought Ego, but after we had killed him to stop the Expansion, I lost my connection to the Light. Yet somehow, you still have it.” (Y/n) stared at him and slowly her harsh expression turned to shock as she cautiously said.

“Wait…….so, you’re suggesting that I—”

“Ego told me he spent eons trying to find a second Celestial to bring forth the expansion but each of his children failed him. So he had them killed. Millions of children slaughtered all because they couldn’t live up to his expectations, except me. And in a way, you. But your mom and the rest of Zaofu refused to surrender you to him. That’s probably why she never talked about your real father.”

(Y/n) was stunned silent as she fell to her knees.  She looked down at her shaky hands and Peter slowly knelt down in front of her.

“But he’s gone. He’s gone for good. We blew up his core and there’s absolutely no chance of him ever coming back. And if by some insane, unexplainable reason that he ever does come back, he won’t get to you. Because you’ve not only got your family on Zaofu on yourself, but you’ve also got us, Especially Mantis and I.” (Y/n) looked up at him and asked.

“You and Mantis are……”

“As surprising as it seems, yeah. She’s my sister. Half-sister but my sister nonetheless. And so are you.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and gently shook it which got her to smile.

“At least now I can say I’ve got another sister to add to the ranks.”

“Oh come on, having another big brother can’t be that bad. Especially if that brother is me. C’mon at least admit that I’m the coolest out of all your brothers.” She stood back up laughing as she walked away. “(Y/n)? C’mon (Y/n) admit it! I know you want to say it but you’re just too stubborn to admit it. Not every girl can say their big brother is a member of the Guardians, right? Right? (Y/n)! (Y/N)!!!!”