#Atta Packing Machine​

[munkyin]

Automatic Packing Machine | Munky Packaging Machine

Streamline Your Production with a High-Efficiency Automatic Packing Machine from Munky Packaging Machine. Designed for Minimal Manual Input and Maximum Output, Our Machines Support Various Formats Like Pouches, Sachets, and Pillow Packs. Ideal for Food, Chemical, and Industrial Products, They Offer Precise Filling, Tight Sealing, and Fast Operation all in a Compact, Easy-To-Maintain Design. with Quick Installation, Advanced Features, and Long-Term Durability, Munky’s Automatic Packing Machines Are a Smart Investment for Packaging Success. Get in Touch with Us to Simplify Your Packaging Process Today.

Learn More:-

Call Now:- 9599919442

[nichromeafricapackagingmachine]

Ensure no more wastage of Atta with Nichrome’s wheat flour packaging.

In the agricultural industry, wastage of wheat flour can have significant economic and environmental implications. To address this concern, Nichrome Africa offers innovative wheat flour packaging solutions that ensure minimal wastage and maximum value for your precious crop. In this interactive blog, we will explore how Nichrome's state-of-the-art packaging machines, such as the flour packing machine, wheat flour packing machine, and Atta packaging machine, revolutionize the packaging process.

How is Nichrome helping you preserve your wheat flour packaging:

Efficient Wheat Flour Packaging Machines

Nichrome’s wide range of flour packaging machines are designed to optimize efficiency and accuracy. The flour packing machine utilizes advanced technology to ensure precise filling, sealing, and labeling of wheat products. With high-speed capabilities, these machines can

 large volumes of wheat, minimizing processing time and reducing the risk of wastage.

Versatile Powder Packaging Solutions

Atta is often processed into flour or other powdered forms, making powder packaging machines crucial in maintaining its quality. Nichrome's powder packaging machines, including the powder filling machine, powder sachet packing machine, powder pouch filling machine, and auger filler packing machine, offer versatility and precision. These machines are designed to handle various forms of wheat powder, providing accurate dosing, sealing, and packaging for different product sizes and packaging materials.

Enhanced Product Preservation

Preserving the freshness and quality of wheat is paramount. Nichrome's wheat flour packaging solutions are equipped with advanced sealing technology and control systems to ensure hermetic seals and prevent any leakage or spoilage. By creating an airtight environment, these machines protect the wheat flour from moisture, pests, and external contaminants, extending its shelf life and reducing potential wastage.

Nichrome’s most reliable Atta packaging machines:

Excel 400 Plus Auger Filler: With automation as its plus advantage, the Excel Plus series offers a cutting-edge packaging solution, complete with a CE marked PLC Controller and touch screen HMI. This advanced packaging machine boasts key features such as print mark scanners, a static charge eliminator, a servo motor driven bag length control system, and adjustable stroke of cross sealing jaws, ensuring optimal performance and efficiency. Designed in accordance with stringent quality standards, it seamlessly integrates with upstream or downstream machines/systems, facilitating smooth production processes.

What sets the Excel Plus series apart is its versatility, thanks to a range of fillers that cater to various packaging needs. Whether it's powders, granules, grains, snacks, or other products, this series provides a truly adaptable packaging solution, meeting diverse industry requirements.

Sprint 250 Plus Auger Filler: Nichrome presents the Sprint 250 Plus series, an exceptional solution for flexible packaging of snacks, grains, powders, and more, with pouch quantities up to 2 kgs. This automated packaging machine showcases speed, accuracy, and efficiency, ensuring top-notch packaging results for a wide range of products.

Equipped with a CE marked PLC and touch screen HMI, the Sprint 250 Plus guarantees seamless operation and user-friendly controls. Its servo motor driven sealing system effectively maintains pressure levels for secure seals, assuring product integrity. With intelligent programming, this machine precisely pulls the required length of film, minimizing material waste and optimizing packaging efficiency. Additionally, it incorporates a perforation system, enabling the production of a chain of small pouches for added convenience.

In conclusion, With Nichrome’s innovative flour packaging solutions in Africa, wastage of this valuable crop becomes a thing of the past. From flour packing machines to powder packaging machines, Nichrome's range of versatile and efficient packaging equipment ensures precise dosing, accurate sealing, and enhanced product preservation. By customizing packaging solutions and promoting sustainability, Nichrome empowers farmers and businesses to protect their wheat and maximize its value.

To explore how Nichrome Africa's wheat flour packaging machines can transform your packaging process and reduce wastage, contact our expert team today. Let us help you secure your wheat flour’s quality, optimize efficiency, and make a positive impact on your bottom line.

Remember, with Nichrome, your atta is in safe hands—packaged with precision, protected with care.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Ink & Oath (tattoo artist!Mafiaso!Dean W.)

Summary: Reader comes to a quaint tattoo shop to get some much needed work done to her back piece... little does she know that her entire life will change in just a few short moments.

WC: 13.5K

Warnings: mafia au,tattoo artist dean nongraphic smut, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

A/N: i wasn't going to put this piece on tumblr, because of it being so long. Plus i'm honestly so tired of the blank blogs giving empty notes and not really giving much else. So i'm *probably* not going to keep this posted if it receives nothing but likes w/ little to no reblogs. I worked extremely hard on this piece a few days ago and it's honestly so discouraging to not get /something/ in return. Anyway, whatever.

--

You’re standing at the counter of Winchester Ink, half-annoyed and half-desperate. The sleek, industrial-style tattoo parlor is packed, and the receptionist informs you that due to their packed schedule, only 40 minutes of work can be squeezed in today. You’d planned to finally finish the intricate back piece you’d started with another artist—one who bailed on you last minute.

Agreeing to the partial session, you put down the deposit and prepare for a follow-up. The artist does incredible work, but it’s not enough to bring your tattoo to completion. When you return for your second appointment, you’re shocked to find the shop’s owner himself—Dean Winchester—waiting for you. His broad shoulders and sharp green eyes hold a glare that’s almost as intimidating as his reputation.

He explains that your rushed appointment cost him money and time—and now you owe him. But when he notices your determination and sees your unfinished ink, a mischievous smirk creeps across his face.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, leaning on his desk, “I’ve got an offer. You want your back piece done? You’re gonna work it off. Be my shop assistant for a few weeks, cover some shifts. And maybe… I’ll finish the job myself.”

The lines between professionalism and something much darker start to blur as Dean’s attention becomes far more personal than just your tattoo.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious or just messing with you. The way his smirk deepens when you hesitate tells you he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Dean shrugs, completely unbothered. “My shop, my rules.”

You glance around the parlor, the buzzing of tattoo machines filling the space, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air. The place is busy, artists hunched over their clients, lost in concentration. Winchester Ink has a reputation for being one of the best, and Dean Winchester himself is practically a legend. It’s an opportunity, but it also feels like a trap.

Still, you want this tattoo finished. It’s been sitting on your back like an incomplete story, haunting you every time you catch your reflection. You can’t let it stay unfinished.

With a deep breath, you square your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean grins like you just handed him the keys to your soul. “Atta girl.”

The next day, you show up, not sure what to expect. Turns out, working at a tattoo shop is nothing like you’d imagined. It’s long hours of cleaning stations, refilling ink wells, running the front desk, and dealing with clients who can’t decide on a design to save their lives.

Dean watches you like a hawk, making sure you don’t slack off, but there’s something else in his gaze too—something that makes your stomach flip. And when he finally gets you in his chair, stretching your skin taut beneath his gloved hands, the air between you shifts. His touch is precise, his focus unwavering, but every now and then, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You sure you can handle working here, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in, the tattoo machine whirring softly.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see how much he affects you. “I can handle a lot more than you think, Winchester.”

His smirk returns, this time laced with something darker, something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Good,” he says, dragging the needle across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Let’s see just how much."

--

The next morning, you step into Winchester Ink, now seeing it from the other side of the counter. The usual buzz of tattoo guns fills the air, along with the scent of antiseptic and ink. Dean, already working on a client, jerks his head toward the reception desk.

“You’re on desk duty today,” he calls over his shoulder. “Phones, appointments, clean-up. Try not to scare off the customers.”

You roll your eyes but take your place, answering the phone as a biker-looking guy strolls in, flipping through the portfolio. It’s an adjustment, sure, but you settle in fast. You’re almost enjoying it—until Dean appears behind you, close enough that his breath warms your skin.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. “But don’t think I won’t put you to work scrubbing floors if you slack off.”

You turn to retort, only to find yourself inches from his sharp green gaze. The tension crackles between you like a live wire, and from the slow smirk spreading across his lips, he knows it too.

Maybe this deal isn’t as simple as it seemed.

The shop closes late, and you’re still sweeping up stray paper towels and discarded ink caps when Dean finally locks the front door. Most of the other artists have already left, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. The buzzing neon "Winchester Ink" sign outside casts a soft blue glow through the glass, flickering faintly like it’s seen too many late nights.

“You survived day one,” Dean says, leaning against the front desk with an amused smirk. “I was half-expecting you to run out crying after dealing with that Karen who wanted a ‘spiritual wolf’ tattoo on her lower back.”

You snort. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah?” He watches you for a beat, arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt stretching just enough to be distracting. “Guess we’ll see if you can handle tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it—low, laced with something unreadable—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

“You really that desperate for free labor?” you tease, tilting your head.

Dean’s smirk deepens. He steps closer, just enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and aftershave beneath the lingering ink and antiseptic.

“Nah,” he says, voice dropping a little. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Your pulse kicks up, and you hate that he can probably tell. But before you can come up with a sharp response, Dean straightens, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Go home, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He nods toward the back. “Your tattoo’s not getting finished if you pass out on me halfway through.”

You don’t move right away. The reminder of why you’re here—why you agreed to this in the first place—grounds you, just enough to shake off the heat in your chest.

“Goodnight, boss,” you say, deliberately casual as you set the broom aside and grab your bag.

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

And damn him, you swear you can still feel his gaze on your back long after you’ve stepped outside.

--

Working at Winchester Ink is no joke. The shop is always packed, and between scheduling appointments, sterilizing equipment, and dealing with customers who either can’t commit or want the worst design ideas imaginable, you barely have time to breathe.

Dean? He’s a menace.

He pushes you, makes you run errands, hands you the mop at the end of every shift like it’s some kind of personal game. But the worst part? The way he watches you.

It’s not outright—nothing you could call him out on—but it’s there. A glance that lingers too long. A smirk when he brushes past you, his hand skimming your lower back like it’s an accident. And the way he says things.

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

"Bet you’d look even better covered in more ink."

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep biting that lip, and I might start thinking you’re doing it for me."

It’s infuriating. Mostly because part of you likes it.

--

By the time your shift ends, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure you have ink on your cheek. Everyone else has already left, and it’s just you and Dean—again.

“C’mere,” he says from his station. His voice is softer than usual, but there’s still that teasing edge to it.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He taps the leather tattoo chair. “You wanna get that back piece finished or what?”

Your stomach flips. “I thought we were waiting—”

Dean raises a brow. “You put in the work, didn’t you? I think you’ve earned a little progress.”

You swallow hard. This was the deal. Your tattoo. That’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

Right?

You climb into the chair, heart hammering as Dean snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers ghost over your skin as he carefully peels back your shirt, exposing your unfinished tattoo. The cool air sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean’s touch lingers, his fingertips dragging just a second longer than necessary.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

The tattoo gun hums to life, but the only thing you can focus on is him—his breath against your neck, the steady grip of his hand on your waist.

And when he starts tattooing?

You swear it has nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the way his touch sinks under your skin.

The sharp sting of the needle drags across your skin, but it’s not the pain that makes your breath hitch—it’s him. Dean’s touch is firm, his other hand resting against your waist, grounding you. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin as he leans in closer, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something unmistakably him flooding your senses.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart.”

The words send a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach. You grip the edges of the chair, trying to focus on the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun, but it’s impossible when Dean is right there, his presence overwhelming.

He works slow, deliberate, the pressure of his hand steadying you with every pass of the needle. His fingers, clad in latex, slide against your skin, adjusting your position with a touch that’s almost too gentle. And maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but there’s something in the way his thumb sweeps over your side—something that feels less like a professional touch and more like a test.

A challenge.

“You okay?” he asks, but there’s something smug in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is breathier than you’d like.

Dean chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you. “Yeah? You sure?” His voice dips lower, teasing, and then—fuck. His hand moves, sliding just a fraction higher, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine in a way that has nothing to do with the tattoo.

Your pulse hammers. You should say something, should shift away, should stop this before it goes somewhere dangerous.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, pressing just slightly into his touch. It’s barely anything, just a shift of your body, but Dean notices.

Of course, he does.

His grip tightens—not rough, but possessive. The needle lifts from your skin, and suddenly, he’s not working anymore.

You hear the quiet click of the tattoo gun shutting off, the eerie silence of the shop settling between you. Your heart pounds as Dean pulls his gloves off with a slow, deliberate snap.

Then, he leans in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“I think we both know this ain’t just about the tattoo anymore.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “Dean—”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice nothing but a growl now. “Tell me to back off, and I will.”

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

Instead, you turn your head just enough that your lips are a whisper away from his. The air between you crackles, electric, and then—

He kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all that tension, all those unspoken words, poured into one desperate, claiming kiss. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, his other arm sliding around your waist and pulling you against him, hard.

You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and sinful. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he sucks it between his own, and you swear you feel the heat of it all the way down to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, your lips swollen, breath ragged.

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, his voice pure sin. “We’re just getting started.”

--

The air in the shop is thick with heat, the scent of ink and sweat lingering between you. Your back is still tingling—not just from the fresh tattoo, but from the way Dean had held you, touched you, ruined you right there in his chair.

You’re still catching your breath, your body limp against the leather, when you feel him shift behind you. His fingers trace over your spine, a ghost of a touch that sends another shiver down your already overstimulated body.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, rough with something smug and satisfied.

You manage a breathy laugh. “You really have to ask?”

Dean chuckles, and you feel the warmth of it against your bare shoulder before he presses a slow, lingering kiss there. “Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re too spent to come up with a sharp retort. Instead, you sigh, shifting slightly as you feel the ache settling into your muscles.

Dean moves away, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he tugs his jeans back on. You should probably do the same, but right now, your body feels like it’s made of liquid, melted into the chair that still smells like him.

A moment later, something soft lands on your back—a towel, warm and slightly damp.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, rough around the edges in a way that sends another ripple of warmth through you. “I’ll grab you some water.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as he moves across the shop. His shoulders are broad, his movements lazy, like he’s entirely at ease, but there’s something else there too—something in the way he glances at you over his shoulder like he’s still thinking about what just happened.

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

By the time he returns, you’ve pulled your clothes back on, though your skin still hums from his touch. He hands you a bottle of water, watching as you take a few slow sips.

“So,” you say finally, breaking the silence. “This part of the standard Winchester Ink experience?”

Dean smirks, leaning against the counter, his green eyes flicking over you like he’s already plotting his next move. “Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just the VIP package.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The weight of what just happened still lingers between you, heavy and unspoken. And maybe this should be awkward—maybe you should be freaking out, wondering what the hell this means for the deal you made, for the tattoo, for anything.

But you’re not.

Instead, you watch Dean, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way he looks at you like he’s still hungry, and you realize something.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And judging by the way Dean grins at you, slow and wicked, he knows it too.

You knew something was off about Dean Winchester. No man carries himself with that much confidence—that much authority—without having something to back it up.

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

You’re sitting in his apartment, a loft-style space above Winchester Ink, still tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. The tattoo on your back is finally finished, but that’s the least of your thoughts right now. Because Dean just told you something that should have made you run.

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

Dean Winchester owns this city. Or at least, the parts that matter.

He’s the leader of something much bigger, much darker. The kind of operation that people whisper about in hushed tones, the kind that law enforcement pretends doesn’t exist because even they’re too scared to take him on.

And yet… you’re still here.

“You’re not saying anything,” Dean murmurs, watching you from across the room. His back is to the window, the neon glow of the city framing him in pale blues and reds. His green eyes are unreadable, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself—like he’s waiting for you to get up and walk away.

You take a deep breath, considering your words. “You just told me you run a criminal empire, Dean.”

He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean studies you for a moment, then looks away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Figured you’d freak out. Maybe tell me I’m a monster.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s bracing himself for something inevitable. “Most people would.”

You take a moment, looking at him. Really looking.

And what you see isn’t just power, or danger, or the weight of everything he’s done. You see a man who has lost too much, who carries the weight of his past like a chain around his throat.

“You’re not a monster,” you say softly.

Dean’s eyes snap to yours like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You don’t know the shit I’ve done.”

You exhale, pulling your knees to your chest. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“My dad built this empire,” he says, staring out at the city. “He wasn’t a good man. He did a lot of bad things hurt a lot of people. But he kept us safe—me and my little brother, Sam. When he died, I took over. Thought I could do better, clean things up.”

You already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Dean swallows, his jaw tightening. “I tried. But this life? It doesn’t let go. Sam didn’t want any part of it. Got himself a real job, a real life.” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Thought I could keep him safe if he stayed away. But they still found him.”

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I buried him six years ago.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, you see it—the real Dean Winchester. The man who lost everything, who built his own empire on the bones of his past.

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

You slide out of bed, crossing the room before he can stop you. When you reach him, you press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

Dean’s breath catches. His hands, rough and calloused, come up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and when he speaks, his voice is almost pleading.

“You should be scared of me.”

You smile, just a little. “Maybe.” You lean up, brushing your lips against his. “But I’m not.”

Dean groans softly, his grip tightening, and when he kisses you, it’s different this time. Not just hunger, not just claiming.

It’s desperation.

Like he’s been drowning for years, and you’re the first breath of air he’s had in a long, long time.

Dean kisses you like he’s unravelling—like everything he’s kept buried for years is clawing its way to the surface. His fingers grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like if he holds you tight enough, he can stop the ghosts from creeping back in.

You let him.

You let him take what he needs, because you’re still here. You don’t flinch when his hands slide lower, gripping you with a kind of desperation that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that he’s terrified. Terrified that now that you know the truth, you’ll vanish like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

But you don’t.

Instead, you press closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring you, like he’s memorising the way you feel against him.

His hands roam, calloused palms skating over your skin, slipping beneath the flannel you’re still wearing. When his fingers find bare skin, he exhales against your lips, his breath uneven.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost like a warning.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m still here, Dean.”

Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, before he fists the back of your shirt and tugs you toward him. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, and your jaw. His breath is warm and ragged.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

“I don’t care.”

Dean stills. His grip on you tightens for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You should care,” he says, voice rough. “People in my world don’t get happy endings.”

You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. “I don’t need a happy ending.” You tilt your head, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “I just need you.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a groan and a curse, before his mouth crashes back onto yours.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.

Dean takes—his lips moving against yours with purpose, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you with ease as he carries you back to the bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he lowers you onto it, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night.

“You sure about this?” he mutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Shut up and kiss me, Winchester.”

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

And when he claims you this time, it’s not just need—it’s something deeper, something neither of you are ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

Dean doesn’t just kiss you—he devours you like he’s been starving for something real and only just realised you’re the thing he’s been craving. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the flannel you stole, gripping your thighs, tracing over the fresh ink on your back like he’s memorising the way his work looks on your skin.

The sheets are tangled around you both, the air thick with heat and the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something dark and utterly intoxicating. His mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters, voice dark and full of something dangerous. “Make sure no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “You already have.”

Dean groans against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a bruise there—one that’ll be impossible to hide. “Damn right, I have.”

His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with them, but the way he touches you? Reverent. Like you’re something precious, something breakable—but only if you want to be.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you, those sharp green eyes blown wide with hunger. “I want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

And when he finally gives you what you want, it’s not just sex.

It’s a claim. A promise that he is yours and yours alone.

The city hums beyond the window, but inside Dean’s apartment, everything is quiet except for the sound of your slowed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as he pulls you against his chest.

You’re spent, muscles aching in the best way, his warmth sinking into your skin. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your stomach like he’s not ready to let you go.

“Still not scared of me?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but when you glance up, his expression is unreadable—something guarded, something uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he says after a moment. “This life isn’t clean. It’s not safe. Being with me? It means something. You don’t just walk away from it.”

You tilt your head, searching his face. “Are you asking me to?”

Dean’s fingers tighten against your waist. “No.” He exhales, something shifting in his gaze—something like vulnerability. “I’m asking if you can handle it.”

You reach up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar on his shoulder, one of many marks that tell a story you’re only just starting to understand.

“I think,” you murmur against his skin, “I can handle you just fine.”

Dean makes a sound—something between a groan and a chuckle—before flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him once more.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his smirk slow and wicked, “you have no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but this time, the sound isn’t the only thing making your pulse race.

You’re back at Winchester Ink, straddling the tattoo chair, your shirt discarded, leaving only your black lace bra as Dean hovers behind you. His fingers graze your skin—not with the same desperate need as last night, but with something just as intense.

Possession.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, teasing, but you can feel the weight behind it. This isn’t just any tattoo—this is his mark, something new, something permanent.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes—dark, intense, hungry—and smirk. “You gonna keep asking me that, or are you actually gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s something sharper behind his amusement. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”

Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly, but you don’t break eye contact. “Maybe I like the burn.”

Dean mutters a curse under his breath before snapping on his gloves. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills your lungs as he dips the needle, and then—

The first sting.

Your body tenses for half a second, but Dean’s free hand finds your waist, grounding you. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his tone softer now, intimate. “You know the drill.”

You exhale slowly, sinking into the sensation. The pain is sharp, but it fades into something almost hypnotic, especially with the way Dean’s fingers press into your hip, steadying you.

The shop is closed—Dean made sure of that—but the thought of anyone walking in, seeing you half-dressed, stretched out beneath his hands, sends a thrill through you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask after a while, voice laced with curiosity. You hadn’t asked for a design, just told Dean you wanted something from him.

Dean hums, his tone smug. “Something to remind everyone who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Minutes pass, the pain blending into pleasure, and when Dean finally leans back, wiping the fresh ink clean, you swear you feel his lips brush your shoulder.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You twist to look at his work, and your stomach flips when you see it.

A small, intricate sigil—subtle, but unmistakably his. Right along your ribs, where only he would ever truly see it.

You glance up at him, your heart pounding. “That what you wanted?”

Dean peels off his gloves, tossing them aside before gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze dark.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His smirk is slow, dangerous. “We both know this is just the beginning.”

The tattoo still burns, a dull ache that lingers under your skin—but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean is looking at you right now.

You’re still straddling the chair, breath unsteady, your skin warm under the shop’s low lighting. The ink along your ribs feels like a brand, like a claim, and Dean? He’s drinking you in like he’s memorizing every single second of this moment.

His fingers brush over the fresh ink—featherlight, barely a touch—but it still makes you shiver.

“You like it?” His voice is rough, low, laced with something possessive.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the tattoo gun, the scent of ink and antiseptic, the tension coiled thick in the air.

“I love it,” you admit, and it’s not just about the tattoo.

Dean's smirk flickers, something darker lurking beneath it. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because it means you’re mine now.”

A shiver runs through you, but it’s not fear. It’s need.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, baring your throat just slightly—an unspoken challenge. “Oh yeah?” you tease, your voice softer now, breathless. “That what this means?”

Dean huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers trail lower, over the ink, then down to your waist, pulling you forward until your chest brushes against his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been mine since the second you walked into this shop.”

You should push him away. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that a tattoo doesn’t mean ownership. That he doesn’t own you.

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

So instead, you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. “Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should remind me.”

Dean’s grin turns wicked, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth already crashing onto yours.

And as he presses you back into the chair, the unfinished tattoos and the world outside forgotten, you realize something:

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

Winchester Ink should’ve been locked up an hour ago, but Dean insisted on keeping the doors closed while he finished some business in the back. You were wiping down the front desk, waiting for him, when the first gunshot shattered the silence.

Pop-pop-pop!

The windows explode inward, glass raining down as you instinctively duck behind the counter. Your heart slams against your ribs as tires screech outside, bullets peppering the front of the shop like a damn war zone.

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

He bursts in from the back, gun already drawn, his sharp green eyes scanning the chaos before landing on you. In a second, he’s in front of you, crouching low, shielding your body with his own. His breath is rough, his muscles tense, but his voice? Steady as hell.

“You okay?” he demands, his fingers curling around your wrist, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you manage, swallowing back the adrenaline climbing up your throat. “Dean, what the hell—”

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He peeks over the counter, eyes narrowing as he counts heads outside. You follow his gaze—black SUVs, men with weapons, their faces hidden under masks.

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “They are.”

He turns back to you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—not just anger, not just control, but fear. Not for himself. For you.

“We gotta move, sweetheart,” he says, shifting so his body shields you completely. “Stay behind me. No arguments.”

You nod, your fingers curling around his jacket as he pulls you toward the back exit. His gun stays up, movements sharp, calculated. The Dean Winchester you know—the inked-up, cocky-as-hell tattoo artist—is gone. This Dean? This is the real one.

The leader. The fighter. The man who kills for the people he loves.

A shadow moves near the doorway, and Dean reacts instantly. Bang! One shot—dead center. The masked man drops without a sound.

Your breath catches. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen death come so easily to him.

Dean turns back, his hand finding yours. “You still with me?”

You meet his eyes. Despite the gunfire, the danger, the fact that he just killed someone—you're not scared. Not of him.

“I’m with you.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but there’s no time to dwell on it.

More men are coming.

Dean tightens his grip, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead before he exhales sharply. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

And as the two of you disappear into the night, chased by bullets and fire, you realize something.

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

The shop smells like antiseptic and fresh ink, but beneath it lingers something metallic. Gunpowder. Blood.

Dean’s grip on your wrist is tight, dragging you through the back hallway of Winchester Ink, his jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The shootout from earlier still echoes in your ears, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

You should be questioning everything—how many people Dean just killed, how easily he moved, how ruthlessly he handled the ambush.

But all you can think about is the way he shielded you, how his first instinct was to grab you, tuck you against his chest, his own body between yours and the bullets.

Now, inside the safe room of the shop, he’s pacing like a caged animal, gun still clutched in his fist, blood splattered across his knuckles.

“Dean.” Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He stops, his sharp green eyes snapping to yours, wild and dark.

“I told you this would happen,” he growls, voice low, ragged. “Told you my life isn’t safe.”

You take a step toward him. “And I told you I could handle it.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I kill people. Not just assholes who deserve it—anyone who’s a threat. Anyone who crosses me.”

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

You take another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the blood drying on his skin. He’s still Dean—the man who tattooed you with steady hands, the man who kisses like he’s trying to brand you, the man who just tore through enemies to keep you alive.

Your fingers graze his wrist, just above the gun. “You could’ve let me go,” you whisper. “Could’ve left me behind.”

Dean lets out a breath, harsh and uneven. “Not an option.”

You press your palm against his chest, right over his heart. “Then stop trying to scare me away.”

His control snaps.

One second, he’s standing there, tense, on edge—then his hands are on you, everywhere. Gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him, his mouth crushing against yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

Like he needs to feel you alive, solid, beneath his hands.

“Mine,” he mutters against your lips, his voice raw. “You’re mine.”

You nod, gasping against his mouth. “Yours.”

Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Then from now on, sweetheart? You stay glued to my side.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “You just want an excuse to keep your hands on me.”

Dean huffs a laugh, his grip tightening. “Damn right I do.”

And just like that, Winchester Ink isn’t just a tattoo shop anymore.

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

The aftermath of the shootout settles into a strange, electric silence. The back room of Winchester Ink feels too small, too charged. Outside, Dean’s men are cleaning up the mess—disposing of bodies, wiping down shell casings—but inside, it’s just you and him.

Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment the bullets started flying. You should be shaken, but instead, you’re standing in front of Dean, watching the way his chest still rises and falls too fast, his gun hanging loosely in his grip.

His knuckles are raw. Blood smears across his inked skin, a dark contrast against the swirling black designs crawling up his forearm.

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

But the only thing you feel when you step closer is heat.

Dean watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His fingers twitch, like he’s deciding between pulling you closer or pushing you away.

“You’re not scared,” he finally mutters, almost accusingly.

You raise a brow. “No.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You should be.”

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

His jaw clenches. “Because I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m the kind of guy people run from.”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him—the blood, the bruises forming along his jaw, the way he’s still standing between you and the door, as if another threat could come at any moment.

“You think I don’t see who you are?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t get it?”

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

“I know what you do. I know what this shop really is,” you continue, stepping closer until your fingers ghost over his forearm, tracing the ink there. “And I know you didn’t hesitate to put yourself between me and those bullets.”

Dean swallows hard. “That’s the problem.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean. That’s the part that tells me everything I need to know.”

His eyes search yours, something flickering behind them—uncertainty. Vulnerability. Maybe even something darker, something deeper.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he finally says, quieter now.

“No.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you. Then, before you can say anything else, his hands are on you again—tugging, gripping, claiming. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to consume you.

You don’t resist.

You meet him with the same fire, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. You can taste blood on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters when you press your body against his.

Dean breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands flexing against your waist.

“I kill for you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if it means keeping you safe.”

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

It’s been months since that night—since the shootout, since Dean pulled you close, breath ragged and raw, demanding you stay with him. Since you allowed yourself to slip deeper into his world, where danger was an ever-present shadow and the line between love and possession was blurred beyond recognition.

Now, you're sitting in the back of Winchester Ink, the familiar scent of fresh ink and leather comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Your shirt is tight, stretched over the curve of your stomach. Your fingers rest lightly on it, tracing the tiny life growing inside of you.

Dean’s son.

The weight of that realization still sometimes hits you like a freight train—his blood runs through you, through the baby you’re carrying.

You’re not just his lover anymore. You’re the mother of his son.

And, God, does he make sure everyone knows it.

Everywhere you go now, there’s the unmistakable, possessive edge in the way Dean looks at you. His hands never leave you, whether he’s holding your waist or brushing his thumb over your wrist. The people in the shop, his men, they all treat you with reverence—like you’re untouchable.

Because you are. To him, anyway.

You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the weight of your growing belly makes everything feel… off. You smile softly, your hand resting again on your stomach.

“Is it kicking again?” Dean’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft but commanding, as always.

You glance up to see him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes already on you, softened by something that could almost be called gentleness—a rare sight from the mafia king. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s still intimidating as hell, the muscles of his arms straining under the black shirt he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rub your stomach. “It’s starting to feel real now, you know?”

Dean crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving you. He kneels beside you, hands instantly reaching for your stomach like they always do when he’s near. His fingers are warm, rough against your skin.

“Damn right it’s real,” he mutters, a soft grin curling his lips. “You’re carrying my heir.”

His words, so heavy with ownership, almost make you laugh, but then you feel a flutter under your palm. The baby kicks again, strong enough to make you gasp.

Dean’s face softens, his hand pressing gently against your stomach, as if he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside of you.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“I do.” You smile up at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a brief second, you see something in him that no one else gets to see: vulnerability.

“You’re not just mine now, you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

He meets your eyes, his expression fierce and possessive. “You’re carrying my son. That’s not something I take lightly.”

You know he means it. You know Dean doesn’t do lightly. He owns everything he touches, and now, he’s made you his queen.

You reach out, cupping his jaw with your hand, pulling him closer. “I know, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a breath of relief, but there’s something darker, something more primal in the way he kisses you—his lips urgent against yours, demanding.

His hand moves lower, caressing the side of your belly, the other pressing against the back of your neck to pull you even closer. You melt into him, feeling his warmth, his power, and the weight of his love—of his claim—surrounding you.

You are his, and you always will be.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I’ll protect you. And the baby. No one will ever hurt either of you.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

His hand slides up to your neck, cupping your jaw, his gaze darkening. “Good.” Then, with a soft but insistent pull, he presses his lips to yours again. His kiss is rougher this time, more demanding, as though trying to make you feel the depth of his promise.

As you melt into him, you know one thing for sure:

You are his. Completely.

And no one, not even the world outside these walls, can take that from you.

--

The sterile scent of the hospital is sharp in the air, mingling with the soft beeps of machines around you. You’re propped up in a bed, your body sore from the grueling hours of labor. Your arms are still aching from where the IVs had been placed, but there’s a weight on your chest now—the kind of weight that makes everything worth it.

The small bundle in your arms—your baby, Dean’s baby—softly coos, the tiny body swaddled in a pale blue blanket. You stare down at the little face, marveling at the miracle you just created, your heart swelling with something fierce and protective.

Dean’s sitting beside you, his rough fingers lightly brushing the side of your hand, his gaze never leaving you or the baby. He hasn’t moved since the moment the baby was placed in your arms, his body radiating tension as if the world outside could suddenly break in and take everything from him. From you.

His eyes are dark, intense—like a man who’s seen too much blood to believe in peace. But the way he looks at the baby in your arms? There’s something almost gentle there, something protective and soft, like this tiny being is the only thing that could make him show any weakness at all.

It’s a weakness you know he’ll do anything to protect.

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

Your heart skips, your hand instinctively tightening around the baby. Dean is on his feet in a second, moving so fast you barely register the movement. His body is between you and the door before the intruder has even fully entered the room.

A man—dark hair, tense shoulders—stands in the doorway, his eyes flickering quickly over Dean, then to you. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the cold metallic glint catching your eye.

Dean’s expression is pure stone, his hands already reaching for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

“I told you,” the man says, his voice low but sharp, “the baby's the next target.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. “Get out.” His voice is thick with menace, each word weighted with the danger of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man says, taking one step forward, the gun clearly visible now. His hand rests on it, like he's daring Dean to move. “We’ve got orders. The baby’s a liability.”

You flinch at the words, the weight of the situation settling in. You’re not just the mother of Dean’s offspring anymore. You’re a target.

Dean’s movements are so fast, you don’t even have time to react. He pulls the gun from his waistband, smooth as a snake, and in one fluid motion, he’s pointing it at the intruder’s head.

“Leave. Now.” His voice is ice-cold, every syllable laced with authority and the threat of violence. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air is thick with the promise of danger.

The man’s hand hovers over his gun, but Dean’s eyes never waver, never falter.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man warns, a tremor of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“Last warning,” Dean growls, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

The man stares at Dean for a moment longer, before his gaze flickers to you—the mother of his enemy’s spawn—and then he seems to make a decision. Slowly, he backs out of the room, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

When the door clicks shut, the tension in the room snaps. Dean holsters his gun, but his body remains rigid, every muscle in his frame still coiled tight, as if he’s waiting for the next attack.

You can’t breathe.

It’s almost too much—the rush of emotions, the exhaustion from labor, the fear that still clings to you. You want to scream, but you only manage to whisper. “What was that, Dean? What the hell was that?”

Dean turns toward you, his eyes filled with something primal, his hand going straight to your side, pulling you against him. His arms envelop you like a fortress, protective and warm.

“They’ll never stop coming,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with the weight of the life he’s pulled you into. “But I’ll never let them touch you. Never let them take what’s mine.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on his chest. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. Not right now.” His hands cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “You’re not just carrying our baby anymore. You’re my queen. And anyone who thinks they can take either of you, they’ll be facing a war they don’t want.”

A chill runs through you, but it’s not just from fear. There’s something else in his voice—something deep, something dangerous.

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the soft breathing of the baby in your arms, a new life and a new threat, forever intertwined with Dean’s world of shadows and blood.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The buzz of the tattoo machines fills the air in Winchester Ink, the low hum a familiar soundtrack to your day. Your hands are busy, one on the counter, the other moving skillfully to help a new client pick out their design. The shop is quieter than usual, but it’s still early, the door just having closed behind the last customer who left for the day. The steady rhythm of your work is a welcome distraction—until you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

You glance over your shoulder, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the shop, is Dean. But he’s not alone.

In his arms, swaddled snugly in a soft gray blanket, is your baby. The little one is asleep, content and peaceful—completely unaware of the chaos that swirled around its birth. Dean’s eyes meet yours, the same possessive look in them, but now, there’s something softer, something tender beneath the hard edge.

He takes a few steps toward the wall, his gaze never leaving you.

“I’m teaching them the family business,” Dean says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

Dean doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls a small padded wall-mounted bassinet from beside one of the stations, carefully setting it down against the tattoo wall. He adjusts a few straps, making sure the baby is securely tucked inside.

You watch, your heart skipping a beat. There’s something about the way Dean handles the baby—so careful, so deliberate—that takes you by surprise. He’s never showed much patience with anything in his life… except for this.

“Dean…” You take a step forward, a small frown creasing your brow. “What are you doing?”

He shoots you that smug grin of his, the one that drives you crazy in all the best ways. “I’m teaching them how to survive in this world. It’s not enough you’re carrying our blood. I need them to know how to handle this.”

You blink again, unsure if you’re about to laugh or scold him. "You’re setting the baby down against the tattoo wall?"

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze flickering to the little bundle. “It’s not just any wall. It's our wall.” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing with that dangerous glint you know too well. “You’re not the only one around here that needs to be toughened up, sweetheart.”

Before you can reply, a soft cry rings through the air, and you turn to see the baby stirring, fingers curled, lips pursed as it starts to wake.

You rush over without thinking, your heart pounding, instinct driving you as you scoop the baby into your arms.

Dean watches you for a moment, his posture still tall, like he owns the room. When your eyes meet his, there’s something in the way he looks at you—a hint of pride, mixed with something dark, something almost possessive.

The baby settles into your arms, its tiny face scrunched in that adorable way babies do when they’re just waking up. You smile softly, the weight of your love for this little one threatening to break you. But Dean’s presence beside you is like a shield, strong and unwavering, giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, his voice softer now, his arms crossing over his chest. “Just need to toughen up a bit more, kid.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gently rock the baby. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe. But in this world, we need to be.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, a customer enters the shop—an old friend of Dean’s, someone who’s clearly seen their fair share of tattoos, judging by the sleeve of ink already visible on their arms. They’re a regular, and you’re used to handling them on your own, but today, Dean stands beside you, just a step behind, his protective aura nearly suffocating.

The client sits down in one of the chairs, and you turn your attention back to them, pulling out a design sketch from the folder. “So, you wanted something custom, right?”

Dean moves to stand just behind you, his gaze flickering from you to the client, eyes hard. His presence is imposing, like a lion lurking nearby. His fingers brush against the top of your shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s still there.

“You’re getting the best I’ve got,” Dean mutters, his voice low enough only the client can hear. “Don’t waste my time.”

The client hesitates, looking up at him and then at you. There’s a moment of tension in the air, as if Dean’s mere presence commands their respect. They nod quickly, understanding that there’s more than just ink on the line here.

You work on the design, laying out the details, explaining the placement as you always do. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Dean—watching, waiting, always so protective.

And when your eyes flick to the bassinet against the wall, you see Dean’s gaze fixed on the baby, the softness in his eyes evident, even if he’s trying to hide it.

The family business, he’d called it.

And as you glance at the client, then back at Dean, you realize the full extent of what that means.

You and your son are the center of Dean’s world. His empire. His everything.

And no one, not even in this room, would dare to touch you or the life you’ve built.

Dean would see to that.

---

The sun is warm on your skin, a soft breeze rustling the trees around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not in Winchester Ink, you’re not in the chaos of Dean’s world. You’re outside, in the real world, with your baby tucked safely in your arms. It’s a rare moment of peace, and you’re soaking it in.

Dean walks beside you, his presence still larger than life, but today, it feels different. The weight of his usual dominance is softer, almost protective in a way that makes you feel safe—not just from the world outside, but from him.

You glance over at him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing the tattoos that run the length of his arms, his posture still straight, but his eyes are warm as he watches the baby in your arms. Every step he takes, every glance he throws your way, speaks volumes. He’s here—truly here. No business meetings, no threats, no blood spilled. Just him—Dean, your partner, and the father of your child.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly, his voice always so gruff but softened by the moment.

You look down at your baby, whose tiny hand has wrapped around your finger, a soft coo escaping from them. You smile, looking back at Dean. "Like everything’s perfect."

Dean’s lips curl into a rare smile, one that’s softer than you’ve seen in a long time. It’s a smile that feels more genuine than any of the cold, calculated grins he gives in the tattoo shop or when he’s dealing with business.

You walk through the park, the sound of children laughing and playing around you, birds chirping overhead. It’s almost too perfect—like you’ve stepped into a moment that isn’t meant for people like Dean. People like you.

But here you are.

Dean takes a step closer, his body brushing against yours, his hand brushing against your waist protectively. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the baby in your arms, and you feel a shiver of warmth run through you.

"I can’t believe how small they are," Dean murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s in awe.

You smile down at the little one. "They’re only going to get bigger, you know."

Dean’s eyes meet yours, a flash of something fierce flickering in his gaze. "I’ll protect them, sweetheart. No one’s taking what’s mine. Not now. Not ever."

You chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to your voice when you reply, "I think we’re safe here. We’re just… family today."

Dean’s smile deepens, but there’s still that ever-present glint in his eyes—the reminder that no matter where you are, he’s still the king of his world. And that’s a world that’s made of blood, ink, and power.

"Family," he echoes, the word heavy on his tongue. He looks down at the baby again, his expression softening. "Yeah. This is all I care about now."

You lean into him slightly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You’re good at this, you know. Being a dad."

Dean’s eyebrow raises, a small, teasing smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it, but I guess I’m figuring it out." His gaze softens as he looks at the baby. "I’d kill anyone who thought otherwise."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. "You really do make everything sound like a threat."

Dean chuckles, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life like this—simple, quiet, full of moments that are just about you and him and your baby. A family.

But even as that thought swirls in your mind, you know that this peace, this quiet moment, is fleeting. Dean’s world doesn’t just let you walk away from it. It pulls you back in, no matter how hard you try to resist. And you’ve come to accept that. Because as dangerous as that world is, it’s the one where your heart beats the strongest.

And as long as Dean’s by your side, you’re ready to face it. Together.

Dean’s hand slips into yours as you both stop at a bench, the baby still in your arms, nestled comfortably against your chest. He sits down first, and you follow, sitting next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting on your leg, grounding you in this rare moment of normalcy.

The world around you continues—kids laughing, families strolling by—but for you, in this moment, time stands still.

This is your family. And Dean’s right. This is all that matters.

"You’re my everything, sweetheart," Dean says softly, his lips brushing your temple. "You and the baby. I’ll never let anyone come between us."

You nod against him, breathing in the scent of him—leather, ink, and something uniquely Dean. "I know."

And for once, you allow yourself to believe it completely.

--

The sun is low in the sky now, casting a warm, golden glow over the park. You and Dean are sitting on the same bench, your toddler nestled comfortably on your lap, their small hands wrapped around a stuffed toy. The baby—who’s growing bigger by the day—rests in the stroller beside you, peacefully asleep.

It’s a rare moment of tranquility, and for once, you feel the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. The tension from the past months, from the dangers that come with being with Dean and the world he inhabits, seems to dissipate when you’re here, in this bubble of calm.

Dean’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over your skin. His eyes are on you, but it’s not the usual hard stare. There’s something softer there—a vulnerability that you don’t see often. He’s been different ever since the baby arrived, a side of him you’ve been learning to understand.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something nervous about it. “Just… you, sweetheart. You and the kids. And what I want to do next.”

Before you can ask what he means, you feel a small hand tug at your sleeve. Your toddler, wide-eyed and eager, pulls on your arm to get your attention.

“Mommy!” they say, their voice high-pitched with excitement. “Look!”

You look down, your heart melting at the sight of your toddler, holding out a small box, the velvet lining peeking through.

“Mommy,” they repeat, clearly serious. “This is for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You glance up at Dean, whose gaze has softened into something that makes your heart race. He’s watching you with that same intensity, but now it’s mixed with something else—something raw and honest.

You take the box from your kid, your fingers trembling slightly as you open it. Inside, nestled carefully, is a simple yet stunning ring. A diamond, elegant but not flashy, set in white gold with delicate engraving along the band. The ring that could change everything.

“Dean…” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the glint of the ring. You glance back at him, your heart pounding. “What is this?”

Dean stands up, slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out for yours. He drops to one knee in front of you, his movements deliberate, measured.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ve never been good with words. Never been good at this… stuff.” His gaze flicks to the toddler, who’s watching intently, their small face beaming with pride. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, your hand instinctively going to your chest. You know exactly where this is going.

“I don’t need the world, not anymore.” Dean’s voice drops even lower, his eyes never leaving yours. “All I need is you. And I want to make sure you and the kids are mine. For good. So, what do you say?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look at him—really look at him. The man who’s seen things that would make most men break. The man who’s shown you what it means to truly care. The man who’s protected you, fought for you, and built a family with you.

“I—” You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “Yes. Yes, Dean, I’ll marry you.”

Dean smiles—a rare, genuine smile—and slides the ring onto your finger. The weight of it, the finality, makes your heart swell. You’ve never been more sure of anything yourself. This moment, this family, this life—it’s all yours. Together.

He stands up, pulling you into his arms, the ring sparkling between you. Your toddler jumps into your arms, eager to be a part of the hug, and Dean chuckles, holding you both close.

“We’re a family,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “And we’re never going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, the world around you disappearing for a moment as you let the warmth of the moment settle in. The past, the dangers, the blood—it doesn’t matter anymore.

This is your family. And Dean’s made it clear that he will fight for it. Fight for you.

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

It’s been years since that day in the park. Since the proposal, the wedding, the birth of your son. Time has passed, and with it, your family has only grown stronger. Your little one, once a tiny bundle, is now a teenager—tall and lean, with that same fire in their eyes that Dean has. They’ve spent their years in the tattoo shop, learning the business, the art of ink, and more importantly, the way of the Winchester world.

The shop is bustling as usual, a steady stream of clients coming in and out, getting their tattoos, chatting, and sharing their stories. But today, something feels different. You can feel the shift, the weight of the next generation taking shape. Your child—your teenager—stands at the counter, just like you once did. Their gaze flicks to Dean, who’s overseeing everything as usual, arms crossed, his intense green eyes never missing a beat.

Dean’s been watching them grow, guiding them, teaching them. Not just the art of tattoos, but the code that runs deeper than ink—that’s part of the Winchester legacy.

You’re sitting at the back, flipping through some paperwork, but your eyes can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you. Your son is sitting with one of the artists, learning the flow of a new design, a quiet determination in their posture. They’re like a mirror of Dean in so many ways—calm, collected, and with a sharpness that hints at something darker, something deeper.

Dean’s voice breaks through the hum of the shop, a low rumble that commands attention. “Kid,” he calls, his gaze sharp but approving. “You’re not just here to learn how to make art. You’re here to learn how to run this place. And when the time comes, it’ll be your job to make sure it stays running.”

Your son looks up at him, nodding with that same serious expression that’s so much like Dean’s. “I know, Dad.” They’re not scared. They’re not hesitant. It’s like they were born for this.

Dean nods approvingly and walks over to where your son is working. He places a hand on their shoulder—a gesture of both authority and affection. The weight of that touch is something you know all too well. It’s the same touch he’s given you, the same reassurance that says you’re mine, and I’ll make sure you know it.

You stand up from the back and move toward them, quietly observing. Your heart swells with pride, mixed with the heavy weight of the life they’re stepping into.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft but steady.

Dean glances up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re learning. Got a good head on their shoulders.”

You look at your teenager, who’s now carefully sketching out a new design, their movements swift and precise. Their concentration is unnerving, even more so than Dean’s at their age.

“You’re teaching them the ropes?” you ask, your gaze flicking to Dean.

“I’m teaching them everything,” Dean replies, his voice low and controlled. “Business, loyalty, the family code.” His eyes flicker back to your son, watching them work. “They’ve got the skill. But they need to understand what it takes to lead.”

You swallow, your heart tight in your chest. It’s not just tattoos Dean is passing on—it’s everything that comes with being in this world, with him. The mafia lifestyle, the control, the power that pulses through his veins.

You’ve seen the darkness that follows Dean everywhere, the long hours, the moments when his past comes rushing back. You’ve seen the way his eyes harden, the way he can turn from loving to lethal in an instant. And now your son is learning that same side of him—the side that can protect and destroy with equal intensity.

“Do they know what this life means?” you ask, your voice suddenly quiet, worried.

Dean’s gaze softens just for a moment. “They will. They’re not a kid anymore. They understand what we do.” His eyes shift to the teenager again. “And they’ve got what it takes to keep this legacy going. I see it in them. They’re not afraid.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, you feel a flash of the weight of it all. This life is dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and the world you’ve built together—your family, your empire—is always under threat.

But then your son looks up, meets your eyes, and gives you that small, knowing smile. It’s as if they’ve already made peace with this life, just like you and Dean have. They are part of this, and there’s no turning back.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” they say, their voice steady. “Always.”

The words are simple, but they carry more weight than you could ever imagine. You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“Just don’t forget that you’ve got to stay smart. There’s always a price,” you reply, trying to keep your voice level. “The tattoos, the ink—it’s not just art. It’s a symbol of what we stand for. You remember that, okay?”

Your son nods, their eyes filled with the same quiet confidence you’ve seen in Dean for years. “I will.”

Dean steps forward then, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. You lean into his warmth, your hand resting on his chest.

“This is their world now, too,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’ll make sure they’re ready for it.”

The weight of it presses down on you, but you know Dean’s right. This world is theirs now. The legacy is theirs to carry, to shape, and to protect.

And as you look at your son, standing so tall and unflinching in the face of everything this life demands, you know that Dean’s right about one thing: they’ve got what it takes.

The Winchester name will live on.

The night had started like any other, calm and quiet. The tattoo shop had closed for the evening, and the low hum of the neon lights outside cast a soft glow on the shop floor as you and Dean sat in the back, the baby long since tucked into bed and your teenager nowhere to be seen. The air smelled like ink and leather, a familiar comfort in the chaos of your life.

But that peace shattered in an instant.

Dean’s phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time. He didn’t pick up, not yet. The silence lingered for a moment too long before you saw his posture shift—his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. You could feel it in the air; something was wrong.

"Dean?" you asked, but it was too late. He was already moving, pulling his phone from his pocket with a cold, calculated expression.

He answered the call.

“Where the hell are they?” Dean’s voice, usually low and measured, was tight with barely contained fury. “What do you want?”

You felt it then—the gut-wrenching, icy realization.

Your heart skipped. You were already on your feet, rushing towards him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Dean didn’t answer you right away. His eyes were locked on the phone, his lips tight, his jaw clenched. He took a slow breath before his words hit you like a freight train.

“They’ve got our kid.”

A rush of cold terror slammed into you. Your breath hitched. “What? Who? What the hell do you mean?”

“Somebody took them. For ransom,” Dean growled, his hand tightening around the phone. "They want money, but it’s not about money. It’s never just about money."

You could see it now—the flicker of rage in Dean’s eyes. A darkness, deep and unsettling. His body was wound so tight you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. He hung up abruptly, his face pale but his eyes burning with something darker.

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing. “What do we do? Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions, none of them good. “We get them back. Now.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, where the emergency stash of weapons was kept. You followed, heart in your throat. You knew Dean better than anyone. He was a force—calculating, ruthless, deadly—but seeing him like this, seeing that raw desperation and fury... it made your blood run cold.

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, the venom in his voice making you flinch. “No more talking. This isn’t some negotiation. This is personal. Whoever thought they could touch my kid is about to learn what happens when you mess with the Winchesters.”

You were barely able to keep up with him as he grabbed his gun, the sound of it clicking into place ringing in the otherwise silent room. He was already sliding on his jacket, the hard edge of his jawline like stone.

“You’re not going alone,” you said, your voice firm, no longer the shaky one you had been a moment ago.

Dean stopped, the briefest hesitation crossing his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowing, but you saw that brief flicker of worry. It didn’t last. He took a deep breath and turned to face you.

“You’re staying here with the baby,” he ordered, his voice low and controlled. But the undercurrent of his tone betrayed him. He was barely holding it together. “You’re safer here.”

“Don’t tell me what’s safer, Dean,” you snapped, taking a step forward. “They’re our kid. I’m going with you.”

He gave you one long, unreadable look before his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but more of a grimace.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered under his breath. “They’ve crossed a line. And I’m about to show them just how bad an idea that was.”

Before you could argue, Dean was out the door, moving fast. You had no choice but to follow.

The city streets blurred around you as you and Dean sped through the darkened roads. Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might break. His gaze was laser-focused on the road, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The message had been clear. The voice on the other end had been muffled, but the demand had been simple. Money, or we end them. But the truth was far more terrifying than that. Dean knew this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. This was a message.

And Dean never let messages slide.

You didn’t dare ask questions as the car whipped through the streets. Every second felt like an eternity, but Dean’s pace never faltered. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable. He was slipping back into that dangerous, unpredictable rhythm you knew too well.

“I’m gonna tear their fucking world apart,” Dean muttered, his voice tight with venom. “You don’t touch what’s mine and expect to walk away. No one does.”

He slammed the car to a stop in front of an old, rundown building—no lights, no signs, just a hollow shell of a place. His eyes flicked to you, once again soft for a fraction of a second. “Stay close, sweetheart. Don’t let them get to you.”

Before you could respond, Dean was out of the car, moving like a shadow—fast, calculated, lethal. You grabbed your own weapon and followed close behind. You knew, even without him saying a word, this wasn’t just about money. This was about respect. About vengeance. About showing whoever had taken your child just how badly they’d fucked up.

Inside the building, it was eerily quiet—until the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the dark. Your heart stuttered, but Dean was already at the door, his presence commanding. You could hear voices inside. One was familiar—your child’s, a little shaky but still strong.

The seconds felt like hours.

Dean motioned for you to stay low. You crouched behind him, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his lead.

Then Dean burst through the door. The sound of gunfire rang out, deafening and sharp. It was chaos—screams, shots, but Dean was a whirlwind. He moved faster than anyone could react, gunfire flashing, bodies hitting the floor.

And then you saw them. Your child, bound to a chair in the corner of the room, looking at Dean with a mix of fear and relief.

“Dean!” you shouted, rushing to their side.

Dean had already disarmed the remaining goons, his eyes cold and dead set on the leader of the operation—a man who had made the mistake of thinking he could get away with this.

Dean was on him in an instant, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet. “You think you can fuck with my family?” His voice was a deadly growl. The man’s eyes widened in terror.

The next few moments were a blur. The others were dealt with swiftly—brutally. Dean didn’t speak again, not until the building was clear and your child was free.

Dean walked toward you and your som, his demeanor still cold, but his hands trembling just slightly as he reached out to untie them.

“You good?” he asked, his voice gruff, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the undercurrent of worry he was trying to hide.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your son’s voice was steady, but you could see the relief in their eyes.

Dean looked at them, then back to you, his voice softer this time. “No one ever takes what’s ours again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, you believed him.

It had been weeks since the nightmare ended. Since Dean stormed through that warehouse like the wrath of God himself and took back what was his. Since he’d carried your son out of that hellhole and brought them home, holding them so tightly you thought he’d never let go.

Things had settled, in the way only the Winchesters knew how—cautiously, quietly, always keeping one eye open. But the weight had lifted. Your family was whole. And today, for the first time in a long time, life felt normal.

The shop was closed for the day. No buzzing tattoo machines, no clients, no business meetings in the back with men who spoke in hushed voices. Just you, Dean, and your now fully-recovered teenager spending the day somewhere safe—somewhere untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

The park was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through the trees, kids laughing in the distance. You sat on a picnic blanket, watching as your son—your fighter—taught their younger sibling how to climb onto the jungle gym. Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, that usual scowl on his face, but you knew him well enough to see through it. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was pride.

“You gonna hover all day, Winchester?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “Not hovering,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Watching for what? Squirrels?”

Dean shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice quieter now. “After everything…” His gaze flicked back to your teenager, who was laughing as their little sibling clung onto their back, begging for a piggyback ride. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

You softened, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “They are okay, Dean. Because of you. Because of us.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Hey. Look at them.” You tilted your head toward your kids. “They’re happy. They’re safe. They’ve got us. And nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing the way you looked in the sun, how your eyes held no fear, no worry—only love.

Then, finally, the scowl eased off his face, replaced by something much softer.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into his side, his lips brushing against your temple. “No one’s ever taking what’s mine again.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the laughter of your children filling the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. Whole.

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

//this is your kind reminder to REBLOG!!//

[transgenderer]

Before departing on her mating flight, each Atta queen packs a small wad of mycelia of the symbiotic fungus into her infrabuccal pocket (cibarium), a cavity located beneath the opening of the esophagus. Following the nuptial flight, the queen casts off her wings and excavates a nest chamber in the soil. This incipient nest consists of a narrow entrance gallery that descends 20 to 30 centimeters to a single chamber about 6 centimeters in length. The queen now spits out the mycelial wad and feeds it with her first eggs, which then serves as an inoculum to start a new fungus garden. By the third day, fresh mycelia have begun to grow, and the queen has laid three to six eggs. 39 At the end of the first month, the brood, now consisting of eggs, larvae, and perhaps pupae, is embedded in the center of a mat of proliferating fungus. During this initial phase of colony foundation, the queen cultivates the fungus garden herself, mainly by fertilizing the garden with fecal liquid. The queen consumes 90 percent of the eggs she lays. When the first larvae hatch, they are also fed with eggs. Apparently, the queen does not feed on the initial fungus culture, which is very fragile. If the queen fails to build up a healthy fungus garden, the whole colony-founding process is doomed. Instead, the queen subsists entirely on her own fat-body reserves and by catabolizing her now useless wing muscles.

When the first workers eclose, they begin to feed on the fungus, and they take over the fungus culture activities. The egg-laying rate of the queen now increases. Not all her eggs are viable; some are large trophic eggs formed in the oviduct by the fusion of two or more distinct but malformed eggs. These are given by workers to developing larvae. After a week or so, the young workers open the clogged nest entrance and start foraging in the immediate vicinity. They collect bits of leaves, which they add to the substrate of the fungus culture. By this time, the queen has ceased attending to the brood and fungus garden and has become an "egg-laying machine,"  a role she will keep for the rest of her long life. The queen is constantly surrounded by workers who groom and feed her with worker-laid trophic eggs. Indeed, the queen is the most precious part of the colony (see Plate 15). She is the reproductive unit of the superorganism. If she dies, the colony is doomed. The workers have assumed all "somatic"  duties of the colony: foraging, caring for the fungus garden, raising the brood, extending the nest structures, and defending the colony against predators and competitors.

Civilization by Instinct, E. O. Wilson

this is crazy right. feeding her larva and her fungus with her own eggs. which i guess are essentially just her fat reserves (in more digestible fecal form for the fungus), cuz shes not eating anything else. and then THEY feed her THEIR eggs. acid trip material

[nichromepackaging]

Bulk Bagging System | Bulk Packing Machine: Solid | Packaging systems | Nichrome

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Product: RICE , GRAIN , SUGAR, PULSES, AGRO CHEMICAL GRANULLES , ATTA , MAIDA, CAKE MIX.

Sku: 5 KGS TO 50 KGS.

Speed: UP TO 20 BPM.

 Floor Space: 3.5 MTRS WIDE X 13 MTRS LONG X 3 MTRS HEIGHT.

Specification: BAG ( OPEN MOUTH), BAG ( VALE TYPE).

Bag Width: MIN 250 mm Ø 50 mm & MAX Ø 800 mm Ø 80 mm.

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[creatureindustry4u]

Creature Industry: India’s Largest Food Machinery Suppliers

When it comes to food processing machinery in India, Creature Industry stands as a beacon of quality and innovation. As the largest supplier of food machinery in the country, Creature Industry offers a comprehensive range of equipment designed to meet the diverse needs of food processing businesses. From oil expellers to pulverizers, their products are known for their reliability, efficiency, and superior performance. Here’s a closer look at why Creature Industry is the leading name in food machinery supply and how they can help elevate your food processing operations.

Extensive Range of Food Machinery

1. Oil Expeller Machines

Creature Industry specializes in various types of oil expellers, including:

4 Bolt Oil Expeller

6 Bolt Oil Expeller

9 Bolt Oil Expeller

Mini Oil Expeller

Multi Seed Oil Expeller

Mustard Oil Expeller Machine

These machines are designed for efficient oil extraction from a wide variety of seeds and nuts, ensuring high yield and quality.

2. Packaging Machines

Packaging is crucial in the food industry, and Creature Industry offers state-of-the-art solutions:

Automatic Pouch Packing Machine

Box Strapping Machine

Double Chamber Vacuum Packing Machine

Food Vacuum Sealer

These machines ensure that food products are safely and hygienically packaged, maintaining their freshness and extending shelf life.

3. Pulverizer Machines

For grinding and processing spices, grains, and other food items, Creature Industry provides:

2 In 1 Pulverizer

Blower Pulverizer

Dhaniya Pisne Ki Machine

Domestic Pulverizer

Double Chamber Pulverizer

Grain Destoner

Gravy Machine

Haldi Pisne Ki Machine

Impact Pulverizer

Masala Kandap Machine

Mirchi Pisne Ki Machine

Wet Grinder Machine

These machines are essential for achieving fine, consistent textures in a variety of food products.

4. Grain Processing Equipment

Creature Industry also excels in providing machinery for grain processing:

Fully Automatic Industrial Atta Chakki Plant

Domestic Atta Chakki

Grain Destoner

These machines ensure efficient and high-quality processing of grains, making them ideal for both small-scale and large-scale operations.

Commitment to Quality and Innovation

Creature Industry is dedicated to incorporating the latest technological advancements into their machinery. This commitment to innovation ensures that their equipment not only meets but exceeds industry standards. Each machine undergoes rigorous quality control tests to guarantee durability and performance.

Customer-Centric Approach

Creature Industry understands that each business has unique needs. Their team of experts works closely with clients to recommend the best machinery for their specific requirements. This personalized approach ensures maximum efficiency and satisfaction. Additionally, they offer comprehensive after-sales support, including installation, maintenance, and troubleshooting services.

Benefits of Choosing Creature Industry

Cost-Effective Solutions: Competitive pricing makes their machinery accessible to businesses of all sizes.

Scalability: Whether you are a small startup or a large-scale operation, Creature Industry provides scalable solutions.

Reliability: With a proven track record, Creature Industry is a trusted partner for food processing businesses across India.

Sustainability: Eco-friendly machinery options help reduce environmental impact.

Conclusion

Creature Industry has established itself as India’s largest supplier of food machinery by consistently delivering high-quality, innovative, and customer-focused solutions. Their extensive product range, commitment to quality, and exceptional customer service make them the ideal partner for any business in the food processing industry. By choosing Creature Industry, businesses can enhance their production capabilities, ensure quality, and achieve long-term success.

[rainydawgradioblog]

Spring & Happiness, My Favorite Songs This Season

On a perfect sunny day I love to wake up and let my days be driven with inspiration from the complexities spring season always brings. However, the past few months have felt like a sprint to finish the school year, so when I do stop to smell the roses, I find there’s nothing better I like to do than find comfort in what I love the most; art. And lately, I find that best to do outside, with my brown Bose headphones on, and my “Spring & Happiness” playlist on repeat.

1. "Beginning Dream" by Triste Janero

The best things in life are short lived, much like this song, which is 1:17 minutes long. 

2. "Saccharine" by Atta Boy

Nothing feels as soothing as Atta Boy’s voice filling your room before bed. The build up of the guitar paired with the piano AND the subtle hint of confidence in her voice as we arrive at the chorus is perfect. 

In the beginning, the lyrics describe the feeling of being in an all-consuming love with a toxic lover. However, your craving for this love is so captivating that it leaves no room to discover that they really aren’t loving you the way you need to be loved. The turning point of the song, a line that caught my attention at first listen, is;

“But it’ll make sense while I wait”

This launches us back into the chorus where we are able to interpret it through a more self-respecting lens. Originally assumed to be about loving someone desperately, it now becomes a song about loving yourself to that same extent. 

3. "Peaches" by In The Valley Below

I’ve listened to this song so much by now that it’s permanently stuck replaying in my head. Upbeat and feel-good, it hits all the right buttons to trick you into having a good day, even when you’re not. So please, In the Valley Below, stay stuck in my head forever!!

“We won’t live too long / So let’s love for one song”

This song reminds me a lot of Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros, as it begins as a duet between two people before they end the song singing together in harmony. Without even needing to listen to lyrics, you can make out the electricity between the two which makes this song all the more addicting. 

4. "August" (acoustic) by flipturn 

Missed opportunities, like telling someone you love them (which this song is all!! about!!), are the inspiration for this warm, orchestral song. Flipturn sympathizes with audiences that can relate in the most personal way, though mentioning the lack of confrontation, the way it felt to be almost there yet almost not, and the regret that lives on past August. 

“We don’t talk about it / We don’t have the time”

I think I prefer the acoustic version for its slow, folksy build up. It compliments the vulnerable lyrics with raw elements like strings and the strumming of an acoustic guitar. Both renditions are beautiful and one could easily run in circles trying to choose between the two. 

5. "Masterpiece" by SAULT

Every person I play this for always asks me to send it to them! SAULT just happened to create the most soulful, intimate and mesmerizing masterpiece (see what I did there!) that leaves listeners wanting more. I've been on a comedown from only listening to Tyler the Creator / Foushee type beats since January and this song is the perfect blend of them and the songs I’ve included in this blog.

“You can clearly see God made a masterpiece”

This song is definitely about an obsessive love (there’s a theme in this blog that I am noticing now) but I can't help but think SAULT put that lyric in there to describe themselves and the creation of this song.

6. "No Machine" by Adrianne Lenker

Adrianne Lenker wrote this for your best friend. The person you couldn't live without and wouldn't know what to do if they weren’t here. When bright future was released, I had the absolute fortune of listening to this song with a few of my very close friends during a 3 hour car ride home. There were 5 of us packed into my tiny Lesbaru crosstrek and I remember hearing this song and thinking, 

“I don’t know what I’d do, don’t know what I’d do / Without you”

Lenker is a mastermind at describing people and their significance as earthly occurrences. In this particular song, she compares the vast ocean as the love given by a friend (in my interpretation), and how, like a river, we are constantly giving to it in return. I love my friends like I love this song, with everything in me!

7. "Didn’t Wanna Have To Do It" by Cass Elliot

A true spring anthem, this song comes back around every year at the same time and never fails to make me feel like the lead of a coming of age movie. If this whole blog has had the recurring theme of being in love with someone you can’t have, then this is the someone you can’t have’s perspective… What an endearing thought!! Yet this lovely song has no flaws (they could never make me hate you, Cass Elliot!). 

“I didn’t wanna have to be / The one to say ‘the end’”

Heartbreaking! However, listening to this while internalizing your pain through journaling happens to be incredibly healing. 

8. "If You Were Here" by Alice Phoebe Lou 

This song was sent to me by someone who I can’t see as often as I’d like, and I think it is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me. Lyrics aside, I am entranced by this intimate exchange of musical blends. This song is romantic, poetic, and mysterious. The most beautiful and sultry version of myself comes out when this song is on. 

“And I’d crumble at the beauty of what might”

 Alice Phoebe Lou, I loooove youuu. The music this woman creates is phenomenal, and I think this song takes the cake. 

Happy spring!

-Mya

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[toastedside]

Call From Home

Tim Drake x Batmom!Reader

Warning: sad Tim Drake, him crying, feeling small, fluff in the end

Note: I always like and entertain the idea that Tim eventually finish his education and go to college. I wrote this back in 2019 when I was away for college and experiencing mild case of homesick. Enjoy!

College life was pretty exciting. At least Tim able to muster that out loud now, and no longer wallowing in constant denial how much he enjoyed being a college student. It does get pretty crazy at times. The chaos in the dorms, the shenanigans of bored college students, morning classes. It got its own rhythm, and Tim was proud that he able to blend and follow the rhythm pretty well.

He never imagined that he eventually able to live a life like this. Like this one. Not after him confronting Batman in his own house. Not after his parents’ death. Not after taking the mantle and split his life into day and night. He never imagined he get to party until late night, laughing his ass off whilst running on the campus ground at night, pulling all night for assignments, and running late to classes.

The Red Robin suit he carefully packed still untouched. Tucked carefully underneath his bed. He never got time to be Red Robin. Not with the piling assignments and constant nudging to socialize. He listened to the police’s radio from his dorm when he was alone from time to time, but in a city like this, it’s pretty calm and mild.

Compared to Gotham, this city is peaceful.

It’s loud, it’s colorful, it’s exciting. Perhaps that’s why he liked the thrill of being here. It reminded him of home. Of Wayne Manor that filled with too many people, too many vigilantes who never know when to lower their voices. And perhaps that’s why he grew relentless and anxious as the clock slowly tick by and it’s all quiet. Darren, his roommate, was gone to his parents for the weekend. Left him all alone with his thought.

Tim sighed as he punched the number on his phone screen. He didn’t know why he did it. But something behind his mind pushed him to do so.

“Hello?” the voice answered after the fifth rang. Tim wanted to smack his head. You were probably sleeping.

“Hi Mom,” Tim greeted. “It’s me.”

“Hi, honey!” your voice laced with a lot of excitement. Tim sat up on his bed, head leaned to the wall next to him as he closed his eyes. “How are you? How do you like college?”

Tim chuckled. “It’s exciting, yeah. The assignments were crazy. But it was fun.”

“It reminds me with my college days! One time, this one student flood the whole floor with detergent because he didn’t know how to wash his own clothes in the washing machine.”

“My God. Just last week a student accidentally pushed the fire alarm because she was drunk.”

Tim could hear you laughing. And then a faint sound of a silverware hitting a surface. You’re in the kitchen then. Or the dining room. There were no background noises and it was all quiet. You were probably alone in the kitchen; dug on the freezer to eat a pint of ice cream you always so cleverly hide from everyone.

“How are you doing, Timmy? You haven’t answered my question.”

Tim went quiet as he bit his lower lip. You often called him Timmy when he was upset or in dire need of comfort. A nickname you reserved for comfort and now his brain associated it with tenderness and comfort. And the warmth of your embrace.

All of sudden, he wanted to cry. His eyes started to sting and his chest heavy. He didn’t know why, but listening to his mother’s voice alone opened up something he had shoved to the back of his mind since the day he moved into his dorm.

“Timmy? Honey?” you called for him. He probably had unconsciously let a sob escaped his mouth. “Baby, are you okay?”

“I miss you,” Tim rasped between his sobs. Saying those out loud only made him want to cry harder. “I miss Alfred. I miss Bruce, Jason, Dick, Damian, Cass…” he trailed, sniffled as he harshly wiped his tears with his sleeve. “I miss home.”

Tim pulled his knees into his chest, curled himself into a ball. He wanted nothing but to sank into your embrace, enjoying the way your fingers would thread on his hair and your nails lightly scratched his scalp. He wanted nothing but to eat a homemade food, not the cheap, knocked off questionable foods he often got on campus.

He wanted home.

“I miss you too, honey,” you cooed. You heaved a sigh as you continued, “The house does get a little quieter without you here.”

“I- I thought I’d be okay. I like it here,” Tim sniffed. “But I miss you. I miss home. And – I want to go home.”

The line went quiet for a little while. He could hear you shuffling in the background, a sound of chair being pushed confirmed his suspicion of you being in the kitchen. He was both surprised and bashful about his sudden childish plea. He never thought he would miss Gotham out of all places. It stinks and raked of criminal. The air here was crisp and clear, he could hear the bird chirping on his way to his classes.

But one call to home and his body longed to be there. One call and his soul wished he was home.

His bed suddenly felt too small and stuffy. The mattress is too stiff and the duvet not warm enough. Tim pressed his head onto his knees, his eyes still producing saline tears as he quietly listened to you contemplating your answer.

“Baby, you know what? It’s okay to miss home. It’s okay for wanting to be home and liking where you are at the same time. I had severe homesick cases when I was away for college too,” you answered finally, with a quiet huff as Tim faintly heard you landed in a cushion. Perhaps the living room.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Tim could listen a smile seeped on your voice. “Listen. You live your life here, in Gotham, for almost all your life. You born and grew up here. You live here in this house. You fight for the city. Of course, you’d miss home. Of course, you’d want to be here.”

Tim sniffed as a response.

“And you’re adapting. Nobody expect you to immediately like where you are. Especially when you’re so far away from home, all alone, all by yourself. You’re starting a new chapter in your life. There will be hard times. But I always know you’re a fighter. And you’ll survive just fine. You can do this.”

Tim smiled as he wiped his tears.

“Besides, I believe your friends suffer the same homesick cases too.”

An involuntary laugh escaped him. He let out a wet chuckle as he wiped his tears with his sleeve again. Eyes spared glances into the empty bed across him. “Yeah. Darren is out visiting his parents’ house. Lucky for him his parents are only two hours away.”

“See? You know what I mean?” Tim practically could see the way your face would scrunch up. An expression he grew fond of. “You’re always welcome to come home anytime, honey. Remember wherever you are, no matter how far, you’re always welcome here whenever.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You know what? This gives me an idea.”

“Idea?”

“For impromptu family weekend getaway,” you said thoughtfully. “What about you show the city around for us next week? Tell me places you like, good restaurants to eat, and places you visit the most.”

Tim blinked dumbly. “You’re visiting?”

“Yeah! Next week. I promise.”

Tim could feel a smile slowly crept up on his cheeks. He shifted on his bed out of excitement. “You know what? This also give me an idea.”

“Ooh, what is it?”

“That I should go cycling around and list down all places I want to show you,” Tim said as he hopped out of his bed. Already made a beeline towards his coat and shoe rack. “I think I need some fresh air too.”

“Alright, Atta Boy. Wear your jacket. It’s cold outside.”

���On it, Mom. I’ll call you later. See you next week.”

“See you next week, baby. I love you, bye.”

Tim was already halfway out of his room when he answered, “I love you too.”

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Teacher au Sukufushi

CW: teacher x student, age difference, smut, daddy kink, slight degradation kink

Megumi was frustrated. Sexually frustrated to be exact. It had been weeks since his last good fucking, since the last time he thought he was going to pass out because he had cummed too many times. It was absolutely infuriating knowing that he’d gone almost an entire two weeks without a real dick up his ass or down his throat. And the only person to blame was one Ryoumen Sukuna.

The homeroom teacher had basically taken sex off the table in the last few weeks as finals crept closer and more and more paperwork was piled onto his desk. 

Megumi understood, he really did, but that didn’t stop the burning ache he felt every time he saw his teacher at the front of the class. It’s like he was thrown back into his first year when Sukuna was some unattainable figure, someone he could stare at but never touch. It was agony all over again. 

All he wanted was to be back in the arms of the one he loved. 

And Fushiguro Megumi always got what he wanted.

It took no time at all to cook up a plan. Every day the teachers go to eat together, leaving one Ryoumen Sukuna alone in the faculty room (Sukuna hated interacting with the other teachers more than he had to). It would be easy to slip into the room and have his way with his teacher, they had done it dozens of times before. 

So that’s what Megumi did.

He skipped his lunch period in favor of creeping down the hall and around the corner to the faculty room, where the door was left open just a tad, just enough for Megumi to get close and peek inside. The room was empty, the teacher’s desks all left cluttered with strewn about work supplies. The only person left stood next to the copier on the other side of the room, back to the door and absorbed in getting the machine to work. 

Perfect.

Megumi was able to lower himself to the ground and awkwardly duck waddle over to Sukuna’s desk. As he moved the chair, Megumi caught sight of his long-lost thermos, the one Sukuna swears he couldn’t find around his apartment. 

The sentimental bastard. 

Megumi refocused himself, crawling all the way underneath the desk and replacing the chair so that he was completely hidden. “Stupid machine, taking forever to print out a few lousy pieces of paper.” Megumi could hear Sukuna’s agitated muttering. He couldn’t wait to fix that mood.

Sukuna pulled out the chair and promptly sat down, legs sliding under the desk and barely missing hitting Megumi. He could hear slurping from above him, Sukuna eating whatever he had packed in the thermos. Oh, Megumi would make him choke on his lunch.

Without hesitation, Megumi slid both his hands from Sukuna’s knees to his crotch. There was a loud gasp, followed by a curse then the wheels of the chair rolling backward as Sukuna ducked his head to check what had just touched him.

“Fushiguro Megumi, you little minx.” Sukuna breathed, visible relaxation coming to his face at seeing it was his beloved under the desk. “What are you doing? I’m trying to have lunch.”

“Well, I was about to have my own meal before you moved.” 

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “What did I tell you about finals? I have to focus on getting everything prepared.” 

Megumi leaned forward to better look at his teacher. “I know. That’s why I’m only going to suck you off, that way you can keep working.” He explained. 

Sukuna smirked, obviously interested in the prospect. There was still hesitation though. Megumi could fix that.

“Come on, daddy. Don’t you want my pretty little mouth around your big, fat cock? I promise I’ll do a real good job. I’ll suck you /all/ the way down.” Megumi traced his finger down his throat to emphasize just how deep he’d take the teacher. Hell, he even batted his long eyelashes he knew Sukuna was an absolute sucker for. 

“You drive a hard bargain, darling. How could I deny you now?” Sukuna lifted his head, double-checking there wasn’t anyone else in the room before making eye contact with the student, smirk gracing his face. “Go ahead, doll, get to it.” 

No more encouragement was needed. Megumi reached forward, putting his hands back on Sukuna’s knees and slowly running up his thighs and right over the bulge that was Sukuna’s soft cock. Megumi gave the bulge a few rubs through thin slacks before finally undoing the belt buckle and unzipping the pants. As a precaution, Megumi only pulled Sukuna’s cock from his underwear, letting it flop out and gaze at it in it’s quickly hardening glory. 

Megumi spit in his hand, making sure to make eye contact as he let the saliva drip between his fingers. Megumi could see Sukuna’s breath begin to pick up as he brought the spit soaked hand to the half hard cock. He gave a few pumps, loose and all wrist as he kept a strong look locked on Sukuna. Megumi loved watching the man lose his composure because of /him/. 

He leaned forward and gave a few kitten licks to the tip of the now completely hard dick in his hand. Megumi allowed his tongue to play, dipping into the slit and down the shaft as Megumi’s hand kept twisting a loose fist around the base. Spitting and kissing, getting the dick nice and wet while he mentally prepared himself to choke on it. 

When Megumi’s mouth was back on the tip, just sucking lightly, Sukuna’s hand came to grip the back of his head. “Come on, doll.  What happened to all that big talk from earlier? We don’t have all day. Get to it.”

Megumi huffed, glaring at Sukuna as he complied, finally taking him into his mouth. 

Sukuna was no average man, in any aspect, but especially when it came to his dick. No matter how many times Megumi had it in him, he was always taken aback. It was truly wonderful.

Megumi could already feel the ache in his jaw as he had to stretch his mouth wide to take the entire thing. Actively attempting to open his throat as he kept sinking lower and lower onto the cock, feeling it pass his uvula and enter his throat. Megumi gagged, barely able to cough with his mouth stuffed, soothed by a shushing Sukuna. 

At long last, Megumi’s nose landed in dark, curly pubes. “Atta boy, Megumi.” Sukuna praised, gently petting the student as he adjusted to the intrusion. 

Of course, Sukuna had no decency and when he deemed Megumi was more than accustomed, he proceeded to curl his fingers into Megumi’s hair and pull him off his dick only to force him back down. Megumi really did gag then, the sudden rough treatment not new or unwelcomed. 

Megumi completely let his throat go lax, both hands on Sukuna’s thighs for support and eyes rolled to the back of his head. “What a good boy, you are, letting daddy fuck your face.” 

Drool spilled from the sides of Megumi's mouth, actually dropping onto the floor below him. It felt so good to be used that Megumi just had to sneak a hand down into his own school slacks to free his own wet cock. Drops of precum dribbling from the tip and mixing with drool to make a small puddle. 

“Fuck, look at you. You’re such a fucking mess. A real slut for this cock, aren’t you?”

Megumi moaned in agreement. 

Sukuna continued to force Megumi’s head down, continued to punch his throat and bruise his mouth and absolute /use/ him. “Shit, you’re mouth feels so fucking good.” 

Megumi moaned when Sukuna threw his head back, gripping his head with both hands now as he sped up the movements. “I’m so fucking close,” Megumi hummed, adding some stimulation for his teacher as he jerked himself off faster. 

Just as Megumi was sure Sukuna was about to cum, the man stopped. Hands stilling Megumi’s head and sitting up straight in his chair. Megumi wanted to groan at the lack of movement. How dare he stop when Megumi was so close?

“Sukuna, lovely to see you here.” Came the voice of what Megumi would only guess was another teacher. “ I had a few questions about the upcoming exams.”

Sukuna cleared his throat, scooting his chair in further and crowding megumi under the desk. He was probably trying to hide Megumi better but in reality he was simply stuffing his dick deeper into the teen’s mouth. 

Memgumi might as well have forgotten about the other teacher. He was too focused on the throbbing dick in his mouth. Caution to the wind, Megumi began to suck hard on the appendage. Humming and slobbering and absolutely devouring the thing. 

A cough was heard from above him before a hand shot under the desk and forcibly held Megumi all the way down to the root, keeping him still. “I’m sorry, I’m pretty swamped with my own work right now. Why don’t you come by tomorrow and we can discuss this more.” 

Megumi reached to rub Sukuna’s balls through the pants, causing Sukuna to cough again. “Are you okay, Sukuna? Your face is pretty red.”

“Yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine. Now leave me alone to finish my work.” Sukuna barked at whoever was in the room. 

Followed was a huff, the sound of the door opening and closing, then an angry Sukuna rolling back in the chair and completely dislodging his dick from Megumi. 

“You little slut. Couldn’t wait for one moment, could you? Couldn’t help yourself? Hmm?” 

Megumi was lost in haze, no longer caring about the trouble they could have gotten in. “I’m sorry, daddy. Your dick is just too good. Please, daddy, let me finish. Let me finish.” 

Sukuna sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “What am I going to do with you?” 

He sighed again before placing a gentle hand under Megumi’s chin and tilting his head to look properly at Sukuna. “Open wide, doll. I’m gonna cum straight down that pretty little throat of yours.”

Obedient as ever, Megumi opened his mouth wide to allow Sukuna to glide his cock back in. Megumi gurgled, spewing more precum from his own cock. 

Megumi sucked hard, bobbing like mad until finally Sukuna groaned loud and spilled into the back of his mouth and straight down his throat as promised. It was hot and salty and just what Megumi needed to finish jerking himself to completion, cumming all over the floor. 

Sukuna pulled out, grabbing his chin and pointing Megumi’s hazy eyes to him. “Open. Let me see.” Megumi opened, showing his empty mouth. “Mmm, good boy.”

Slowly, Sukuna guided Megumi to his feet and stood him before the chair. He tucked the boy’s penis away and zipped him up then stood himself to look down at the student. He combed his fingers through Megumi’s eternally unruly hair then gave a tender kiss to the boy’s lips. “Go get cleaned up, doll. Class starts in a few. I’ll clean up here.” 

Megumi whined, tugging lightly on Sukuna’s shirt. He didn’t want to leave the teacher’s side yet. 

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll see you after school. I mean, I still need to punish you for this little naughty stunt afterall.” Sukuna smirked.

[l4verq]

remnants (3) | r.d

ransom drysdale x reader

in which you have to protect ransom drysdale because he has the same face as steve rogers, your ex who’s gone back to peggy.

warnings : mentions of panic attacks

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist 💗

ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛꜱ

*not my gif*

-

“rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

your eyes frantically looks around the outstretched hands, each holding up a rock.

bucky yells a cry of victory while you groan, glaring at your hands holding up ‘scissors’.

ransom rolls his eyes, “you guys hate me that bad?”

upon arriving to the hydra base after a long, long road trip, ransom grumbling about the music, sam screaming about how marvin gaye remains superior, you just couldn’t seem to catch a break.

because of course, you’d lose in this stupid game of rock, paper and scissors and of course, be forced to stay back with ransom in the car while sam and bucky scoped out the base for “any traps”.

“alright, we’ll be back in a few,” sam puts on his goggles, “but if we’re not-.”

“then we run.” ransom interrupts, pointing at you and him.

you have to bite back a smile seeing sam’s unamused face.

“then we go see if anything’s wrong.” you correct ransom, giving him a look.

“actually, no. he’s right, just run.” bucky ponders over it.

ransom scoffs under his breath and looks at you.

you’re smiling sof-

wait, were you actually smiling? at what that shaggy dude just said or more precisely, repeated?

“we’re obviously not running. it was a joke.” ransom clarifies, glancing over at bucky.

bucky’s vibranium arm locks in place, returning ransom’s stare, air getting unnecessarily tense.

they just look dumb, atleast to you.

sam claps his hand, “ok, so no one’s running. let’s go.”

he deploys red wing, the scarlet gadget humming off into the sky.

bucky gives you a nod, trailing behind sam, headed towards the entry door.

an awkward silence ensues, crickets violently chirping in the moonlit night.

“how’s your hand?” ransom clears his throat, adjusting his stance.

he’d been meaning to ask since yesterday but he just.. couldn’t.

“been better.” you flare your sore hands in front of you, tilting your head.

even though there weren’t any external wounds, you knew all of the damage was inside, lurking behind layers of flesh.

“so, you really did break your hands to get out of the chains?” he questions, eyebrow quirked.

“if you put it like that, i sound crazy.” you cross your arms, leaning against the car next to him.

he chuckles, a loud - almost obnoxious - sound that startles you a little.

steve never laughed like that, even when he did, it always felt like he was holding back, had his guard up.

“y/n, do you copy?” sam’s voice crackles in your ear, courtesy of the ear comm.

ransom springs to his feet, hand on his ear.

he’d asked for an ear comm as well to which everyone respectfully declined.

but after two hours of whines and grumbles about why he wants one, bucky practically flung that flesh coloured, pea sized gadget at him.

“we’re here.” he barks a little too loud.

“yea, we can hear you.” bucky mutters, annoyance laced in every word.

“you can speak normally.” you inform ransom, who flashes a thumbs up with a “got it.”

“there doesn’t seem to be mu-.”

static takes over, cutting sam off, you and ransom both flinching at the sudden blare in your ears.

you immediately cock your gun, reach into the car to pull out a flashlight and hand it to ransom.

“stay behind me.” you order, “we’re going through the back.”

“is there even one?”

“let’s find out.” you grab a flashlight as well.

you’re light on your feet, with careful, calculated steps.

ransom.. you couldn’t exactly blame him, he’s just a normal guy.

a normal guy who’s made it his goal to step on every single fallen leaf, producing this god awful crunching sound in the dead of the night.

“a little quieter?”

he starts tip-toeing, stumbling around.

you walk round the building, well what’s left of it.

it’s in bad shape, the entire building, hanging on by decaying bricks covered in mold.

it looks like it might’ve been around 3-4 stories high but it’s impossible to know now.

“there it is.” you whisper, flashlight pointed towards a door labelled EXIT.

on closer inspection, the knob is broken, only a hole where it used to be.

the hinges creak as you push the door open with ease, uncertain how the door didn’t fall right off because it was barely holding on.

gun in hand, flashlight on top, left foot forward, supporting your dominant one, just like you’ve been trained.

“this is how people die in movies.” ransom whispers, peeking inside the dark room.

you glare back at him, shushing him.

he clamps his forefinger and thumb together, dragging it along his lips, pretends to lock it and hands you the key.

“just search for a switch.” you mutter, looking straight infront again.

you aim your flashlight around, taking small steps inside.

clang.

you damn near jump out of your skin, finger already curled around the trigger, ready to pull when you whip around.

“sorry.” ransom mumbles, hands trailing around the wall, looking for a switch.

“i nearly shot you!” you whisper yell, lowering your gun.

the light flickers on, your eyes nearly blinded by it.

you look around, vision slowly adapting to the lit up room.

it’s a workstation with sewing machines?

the red, white and blue bits of cloth catch your eyes as you inch neare-

thud.

“y/n!” ransom shouts, but it’s distant.

too distant.

“yea, i’m here! i fell.,” you groan in pain, “somewhere. be car-.”

thud.

“fucking hell.” ransom curses, rubbing his shoulder, writhing in pain on the ground.

you’d be screaming at his stupid ass if only you weren’t doing the same, all feelings in your left leg lost.

“didn’t you see me fall?” you grit your teeth, clutching your leg.

he moans, slowly rolling over to his face.

“great! we’re both stuck here.”

you crane your neck to look up at the crack of light at the top, maybe a good four stories from where you’re sitting?

it was a miracle neither of you plunged to your death.

your hands fumble around the cold ground, feeling for your gun when you hear it.

a low, gentle whirring but it’s definitely not red wing this time.

you frantically scramble to your feet, left leg screaming in anguish even at the slightest pressure.

your hands reach out and this time they land on something hard.

something cold, much like the ground itself with ridged lines and creases.

it’s the wall.

but you could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before...

“the walls, they’re caving in.” you breathe out, instinctively backing away.

the familiar dread building up in your heart seemed to dull whatever pain resided in your leg.

“hey! get up.” you hop towards him but he brushes you off with a wave of his hand, still squirming in pain.

the whirring stops abruptly, along with the walls.

“bucky? sam? can you hear me?!” you yell into the ear comm, only to hear distorted sounds.

your eyes are adjusted enough to see the space between the two walls has decreased significantly.

ransom pushes his body off the ground with his shaky arms, slowly getting on his feet.

“am i crazy or did the wall move?” he breathes out, touching it.

“yea,” you exhale, closing your eyes shut, “yea, it did.”

“y/n!”

your ears perk up at the familiar voice.

“down here!” you yell, not sure if your voice can even be heard from where you are.

then like music to your ears, a familiar scarlet buzzes towards you two.

“sam!” you wave your hands at red wing hovering over you two.

his voice crackles “we’re trying to shut the whole place down, we’ll get you out.”

“the walls-.”

the whirring starts again as if reminded about what it needs to do.

red wing bumps against the contracting walls, falling into a heap of metal next to your feet.

you limp closer and closer to ransom, the wall centimetres away from your back, both of you realising the only way to have more space.

he pulls you into his chest, his good shoulder around you.

tears well up at your eyes, the crippling feeling sneaking in again.

these endurance tests are meant to help you get over your fears and phobias.

steve’d lied.

the endurance tests didn’t work.

because you were struggling to breathe, air hitched in your throat.

“it stopped, the walls.” ransom can barely move his body around, back hitting a hard boundary whenever he tries to.

balled up fists hanging desperately onto his clothes, you’re sobbing now, a hysterical mess.

the air only seemed to thin out more and more, your lungs straining for oxygen.

he watches in horror, the tiny space filled with your desperate gasps and whimpers.

you’re having a panic atta-

think, ransom.

what calms you down?

“you know, sometimes i look up at the stars at night when i can’t sleep.” he blubbers out, heart racing.

anything to just get you to stop trembling like that.

“i just lay in my bed - i have this window on my ceiling - and i look up at it.”

he’s unsure as he continues.

“reminds me of the glow in the dark stickers i had back in fourth grade.”

and of his fleeting childhood.

“did you have those? the $1 a pack with all the crazy fonts?” he whispers in your ear, tapping your back for an answer.

you manage a small nod, biting down your quivering lip.

who didn’t have those ugly stickers that seemed to fall off the very day you put them up.

“take a deep breath, can you do that for me?” he cooes, wincing when he brings his other shoulder around you.

he’s pretty sure it’s broken.

“c'mon, i’ll do it with you,” he pats your back, signalling you to inhale.

so you do.

you focus on the pace of his chest rising up and down steadily, willing yourself to do the same.

it was kind of working? whatever he was doing.

with those arms around you, whispers of sweet nothings in your ears, mediating your breathing.

until the whirring started again.

-

a/n : ohshsjsnssjsteysys pt 3 finally uppp :)))

tags : @readermia @inmate-marmalade @randomsevans @xoxabs88xox @thebadassbitchqueen @mypalbuck @natrushman3000 @townwitchbitch