Possible Triggers: forced cross dressing, slavery, very lightly implied abuse (to an OC).
Nothing worse that chapter 6 of Rocket Raccoon, except with people-smuggling instead of robot-slavery sales. Still, rather warn than not.
If you guys think it's too much, I'll bump this up to M.
One good thing came from Peter's transformation. He wasn't recognizable anymore. Rocket, Groot, Gamora, and Drax, being the last (or nearly-last, or only) of their kinds made them noticeable, even if they were simply another random uncommon alien on the streets of Hala or Xandar before.
Peter, on his own, was a rare species but, as long as his mask wasn't up, he wasn't Star Lord. And, even if it was, nowadays, his respirator style had become popular enough that wearing it still didn't draw eyebrows, other than him being a Retribe.
And Nova really wanted him to keep it that way, for good reason. The Guardians were too big, and having all of them be immediate attention-grabbers defeated asking them for help in certain matters.
If they needed Peter for a public appearance, they usually did one of two things. Usually, they'd grab a body double from the Corps, Jethra Tusc was the right height and build- hair and face didn't matter because he put on a wig and wore a copy of Star Lord's mask, while Peter hid himself somewhere nearby and talked into a mic wired remotely to the respirator's speaker. Tusc didn't even have to worry about lip-synching, because, frankly, he stunk at it. And Rocket was always complaining that he didn't flail his arms enough when he 'talked'.
On rare occasions, Peter would pretend to be his old self himself, if it were a controlled environment set up by Nova. It was weird for him to put a stocking cap and wig on over his puff of feathers, and have someone else help him into a red hide jacket that carefully snapped shut in the back around his wings (the latter becoming less unusual; he did have clothes that covered his upper torso for cold weather and the vacuum of space- Drax was usually the one to help him strap them on). They'd seat him in a chair right against the back curtain of the studio, where he could slide his wings discreetly into the back scenery, nobody the wiser.
It was surreal, being so famous yet being the only member of the group that could walk right in the middle of Xandar without being mobbed. But for a mission like this, it really had its uses.
"Boy, where the hell are you?"
"Triya's Café, numbnuts. Table for two. Eating cake."
"Well shit," Yondu said, as he lowered the comms in his hand, looking at Peter, already seated at the next table over, spooning a mound of truffle gateau in his mouth. "Thought you was your dad."
Peter leaned back in the metal chair, stretching out both his arms and wingspan. "Really?"
"If I didn't know better, boy, I'd say you were that asshole."
"Good to know," Peter replied. "So, what was his name, anyway?"
"Hakkaw, Vyzel Hakkaw," Yondu replied. "But I'd really recommend you don't try finding him. Or using his family name-"
"Wasn't planning on it," Peter answered, showing another spoonful in his mouth and pointing it at Yondu after pulling it back out, clean.
"-Or impersonating him," Yondu finished.
"Eh, well…" Peter trailed off. He knew lying to Yondu would be bad for his health in the long run. "I was planning on that, but maybe it's not a good idea?"
"Not unless you want fifteen whole solar systems out for your blood, no."
"That bad, huh?"
"Makes me look like an angel, and I don't even got no wings like you do."
"Wings I don't even know how to use," Peter replied sourly, as he dug into the last of his dessert.
"Boy, I taught you to fly once, I can teach you again. Your asshole of a daddy ain't the only Retribe I know."
"You'd… do that?" Peter asked, waiting for some additional demand, warily.
"Have that rodent of yours make me a spray bottle of your pheromones and gimmie some of your molt and I'll get you lessons."
"The hell you do with that?" Peter asked, startled. He knew people acted a bit… funny on the ship when he started letting them off, but held always been too afraid of what they might be for, immediately turning the air scrubbers on overdrive in his ship. If they were those kind of scents, he'd rather not use a chemical cocktail to get his crew to like him. That's just low. And Drax and Groot making advances on him gave a shudder. Drax still thought of his wife too fondly, and would probably snap Peter like a twig, and Groot… was… a twig who could also snap him in half.
Gamora, on the other had, was hotter than hell, but uninterested, and Rocket? Peter had certainly had more interesting bedfellows, but bedding anyone was only happening of all parties involved consented, and knew exactly what they were consenting to. Period.
"Retribe feathers are the best for makin' arrows, how you think I met yer dad?" Yondu, said, swiping the final bite of cake off Peter's plate before he could take it, still contemplating his pheromones. Yondu wasn't really a sweets guy, but it was the last of Peter's food. "And if you don't know what your own pheromones are good for yet, boy, well, let's just say don't ever start puffin' 'em out in enclosed spaces unless you're ready for the consequences."
"They're not… like… Love Potion #9… are they?"
"They're a hallucinogenic. Potent, non-lethal, non habit-forming. Retribe's best defense mechanism. Make the person who inhaled it feel like they're in their happy place, while the feathered buggers flee."
"Does it… help with nightmares?" Peter asked quizzically.
"You're immune, kid," Yondu answered. "But if you're asking about spraying your team of effed-up doo-gooders, it might. Let me know how it goes," he added with a smirk.
"Thanks for the info," Peter finally responded, before standing up and shaking out his wings.
Yondu patted him on the back, a gentle tap instead of the brunt smack Peter had been used to as a child. "Now, you commin' along quietly, slave-boy, or am I gonna hav'ta cuff you?"
Peter rolled his eyes and held out a wrist. "You'd better get at least 40k for selling me," he scoffed. "I'm rare."
"Boy, I'm the best negotiator this side of Keystone. If I don't get at least 150, I ain't doin' my job."
One exchange of Peter, changed into simple felt boots and broadcloth pants with a traditional crossed pattern to fit the part, for 172,000 units and some piece of junker machinery later, and Peter was sitting manacled on a slaver craft. The boots were uncomfortable, and locked around his ankles, with fake talons sticking out the end. The slavers had carefully pulled Peter's wings and feathers, but didn't bother unbinding his feet, fearing a face full of (admittedly fake) destructive claws. Peter wasn't wearing socks inside, so he could flex his toes a small amount, puppeteering the fake claws slightly. He couldn't grasp with them, but the bindings made it look as though the boots were designed to prevent a mauling, anyway.
He was sure his feet would be rank by the end, and would probably demand at least a grand from Yondu to go and hit up a spa on Taspis. Maybe two, depending on how long it took to get some evidence.
But, damn did Yondu know how to negotiate. The money he got was dirtier than Rocket's wrench set, but Nova did give Yondu permission to keep a clean equivalent, as they took the unit strips he received from Torbach and pulled them from circulation while they tried to test them for narcotics, opioids, and any other illegal substances they might be able to book the Wyteil Consortium on above slavery. They needed enough counts to book the ten known leaders, plus as many more as they could case against the number of 'suppliers' like Torbach.
Gamora would be getting ready on the ship, slathering herself in enough makeup to make her look Krylonian.
And, while the slavers were good in checking Peter over for hidden devices, the tracker Rocket had him swallow wasn't ferreted out. Custom make, custom frequency.
He was good.
The Milano was somewhere nearby, Peter knew, and Gamora was coming to buy him back, once they followed the ship and discovered the black market Wyteil sold their stock from, but it didn't change Peter's unease. He could be snapped in half or….
"You think we should declaw the birdie?" a Badoon security guard asked. Peter tensed, but not quite for the reason they thought.
"Hah, lookit the pretty bird. Scared right outta his pretty little plumes."
"We should put him in a skirt 'n sell him as a girlie, I heard the birdies are the same except the plumbing," replied the first. "Girl'l sell for more."
"Don't take off his shoes, he'll claw out your eyes, for one, and two, he's in very good condition. Let the buyer declaw his feet if they want to so bad," Torbach, the perpetually irate, small-time smuggler, shot back. "But get him in some silks, and pierce his ears. I had the same idea you did, Prenja, which is why I didn't mind that blasted Centurian's price. I can get at least four times that from some buyers if they think he's a chick."
Peter sighed. Yondu and the Nova Corps had warned him they'd probably try to sell him as female, but neither Yondu nor himself expected the humanoid makeover. Retribe in pictures were impossible to distinguish by gender; both sexes wore the same burlap clothing and simple wooden bracelets, with a yoke around the neck after reaching adulthood. "Look, if I put on some makeup and jewelry, quietly, can you pass on the piercings?" he asked. "I'll even pull out my beard-feathers."
Torbach stormed to an inch of his face, hot breath right in Peter's eyes, "You don't get to make the rules, cargo."
"I'll also fight back and probably break every bone in my body," Peter replied, calmly. "Nobody is going to pay 700 K if they have to hospitalize me after purchase."
Torbach snorted loudly, grabbing Peter by the neck, but only barely so. "Fragile sunuva… Fine," he grumbled, before sending peter and a guard down to the wardrobe. Ugly, ripped-clothed slaves had a place in the market, but Wyteil sold special stock.
Peter didn't get to see what his face looked like, other than knowing one of the slavers had powdered him for at least an hour in that stupid chair after he'd been told to change into a frilled, soft skirt and long silk scarves.
Well, he'd gotten at least half his wish for a spa treatment; they'd given him a manicure. Thankfully, nobody touched or went near his fake talons, choosing to cover the ugly boots under mounds of skirt fabric.
The metal bangles on his wrist jingled against the manacles; Peter rubbed his wrists uncomfortably as he sat back in the holding room with the six other people- slaves- being shuffled down to the changing room one at a time. A young female Ailum sat next to Peter, fur freshly shampooed and trimmed, clasping Peter's left hand between her paws.
"'S gonna be okay," Peter cooed to her.
"You make a pretty girl, mister," she whispered back quietly. "I hope whoever takes you is nice."
"You've been through this before, haven't you?"
"Mmmm. Miss Biggs just died, and her husband didn't like me, so he sold me again. Nobody's been bad, but I miss my sis."
Peter carefully stretched out a wing to cradle the girl. Hopefully Gamora had enough money to buy off more than just him. He knew they could probably fight them at the market, get all of the people on the ship safe. But it would mean breaking up one little slaver ship, not the entire Consortium.
Another day, he thought, as he rubbed the girl's fuzzy head with the tip of his wing. Another day.
Of course they were going to put him in a gilded birdcage. They probably pulled it out just for Retribe they sold. Peter sat uneasily on the swing inside, counterbalancing himself with his outstretched wings.
If they'd made him look feminine, Peter sure as hell hoped he looked gorgeous.
He sat uneasily, watching the crowds of people pass. A leering Xandarian. A smartly-dressed male Kree; Peter could tell by the fabric that he was aristocracy and trying to hide it. A Badoon who looked at Peter once and huffed off. A Krylonian woman was there, but she was too short to be Gamora, and far more interested in the Ailum, anyway.
An hour passes. The Kree gentleman eventually rounds back to Peter's cage, and has a few words with the guard. The voice is familiar…
Rocket's?
No, it was too clean, dignified sounding, and Peter was just exhausted. The Kree makes a joke with the guard, and they both laugh. The cage door is unlocked.
This isn't good. Gamora's still not here, neither is anyone who could have been Drax or Kraglin, her backups.
"Be a good girl, and let the man see you," the guard admonished, as the Kree is let into the cage with Peter.
The Kree purses his lips, and trills out a series of whistles. "You allright, boy?" Centurian. It's Yondu, talking from the Kree man.
"What are you doing?" the guard asked, sternly, and the Kree opens his mouth, back turned to the guard and facing Peter. The flaps don't match, but it's a common artifact of translator implants converting the audio but not changing visual perception of the speaker.
However, the Kree is mouthing out the English lyrics to Cherry Bomb while speaking, "I cannot say hello to my new concubine in her language?" Not Yondu this time. Then again, the audio was definitely some high-class strata of Kree. Several people were probably sitting around a mic speaking for the mole they ended up choosing.
"No, go ahead," the guard replied. He wasn't the same one Peter had on the ship, which meant he probably didn't know Peter was male, or would have tried to make some excuse to stop the Kree from talking to Peter directly.
"Rocket's the one who speaks Kree like a freakin' diplomat," came Yondu's Centurian trills from the mole's mouth. Centurian, as a nonstandard language, couldn't be picked up by translators, but they were still all taking a risk that someone at the market actually understood it. "Just play along, OK? Reply in whistles so I don't look like a damn fool. Also, you look fabulous. I want a photo before you change out, or I'm putting your bounty back on the market."
"Eff you, Yondu," Peter trilled back.
"Nah, I'm good for now," he replied, as the Kree started touching Peter's wings, gently pulling on the feathers and testing the joints.
"She is young," Rocket said, out of the Kree's mouth.
"Not a day over twenty-two," the guard replied.
"You mean to say you have taken her before she has learned to fly," Rocket responded. Thanks for rubbin' it in, buddy, Peter thought.
"Well, I…"
"I will not pay one-hundred-thousand units for a Retribe who does not know how to fly, plebe. Get me the seller, posthaste."
Peter was trying very hard not to laugh.
"Yes… yes sir," the guard replied, head down.
Torbach was called over. "This young lady here," Rocket said, coldly and sternly, "is twenty one, is she not?"
"Of course. A flower, in her youth," Torbach replied, dripping with sleaze.
"Then she has not yet learned to fly," Rocket replied.
"She is fully mature, I assure-"
"But she is not twenty six. Mature or otherwise, there is a season and ceremony before one learns to take to the skies. So tell me, did you lie about her age or capability?"
Torbach reddened. "I…"
"Furthermore, it is quite telling that you have gone through such pains to paint this one, and miss so crucial a feature. Females have feathers growing from within their ears. Small, hard to see, certainly, but the only visible difference between the sexes."
"Well…" Torbach was sputtering.
"He is still a fine specimen," Rocket finished. "And I am less picky than most. But if you think even a third your current price is fair, I assure you that I will personally have my family look into how you acquire your wares and avoid the middleman entirely."
"Two-fifty, then?" Torbach offered.
"That I will do. Come, sir, let's bring you home and get that wretched paint off of you. It does not suit you in the least."
In what Peter remembered as the longest walk of shame of his life, the Kree gentleman guided Peter through the dizzying maze back out of the spaceport they'd docked in, to a small Kree craft, and out to space. Once they'd cleared radio distance, the Kree tipped back his head and laughed.
Correction: tipped back her head and laughed.
"Gamora?" Peter asked.
"Cherry Bomb did not give it away?" she inquired. "It is my call-sign, no?"
"I need a photograph before you wash off all that blue," Peter replied, chuckling, as he watched Gamora fish out a small device from her throat.
"Only if you let us photograph you before you clean yourself up," Gamora replied.
"Deal. I don't even know how stupid I look anyway."
"There's a mirror in the head, if you're curious. Just hold on, because I'm putting this vehicle in hyperdrive in a few minutes."
Peter walked the three paces he needed to get to the small head at the aft of the vessel
Odin-on-Frickin'-High.
Peter was hot.