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buckets-and-trees · 1 year

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Perfectionists

Title: Perfectionists Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: SHIELD Games is behind one of the best MMORPGs on the market. SHIELD stays on top because of the super employees they have across the board from the tech innovation department, to the story writers, to their game engineers - including one Bucky Barnes. It's his perfection that has pushed him into this position at an elite place in the industry, period. But one game tester always seems to find the most frustrating things to send back to him.

Content/Concept Warnings: Gamer AU; strong language; explicit smut: oral - male receiving, mild dacryphilia, vaginal fingering, genital sex, voyerism, masturbation

Notes: TRIPLE THREAT SUBMISSION for @buckybarnesevents WEEK THREE of Hot Bucky Summer: "Where do you want me?", my fifth square of @buckybarnesbingo B5: "Playing Games," and my third square for Connect4 Alternate June-iverse: C1 "Gamer." Gamer divider graphic by @sgt-seabass!

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Bucky looked up as he heard Steve’s telltale footsteps – not the normal ones – the trepidatious ones.

“No,” he said, tone stone cold.

Steve stopped a few steps away and sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

“How long is the list?”

“Buck.”

Bucky shook his head and pushed away from his desk. “You know what? No. I don’t even want to see it.”

He stormed out of the engineering and design lab, and Steve dropped his head back to look at the ceiling.

Sam chuckled. “I told you, man, you should wait until he’s out of the room to bring in new lists of purgatory for perfection.”

“He never takes a break. None of you take breaks,” Steve said.

“'Attitude reflects leadership, Captain.'"

"Don't quote Remember the Titans at me."

“Barnes just needs to fuck her.”

Steve’s head snapped over to Nat. “You know what, Romanoff?”

“She’s right,” Joaquin added without looking up from his screen, but a smirk on his face none the less. “His blood has been boiling for her for months, it’s about time he stops ignoring that.”

“Shit, Barnes!” you yelped, clutching your heart with one hand and an energy drink in the other. “Anyone ever tell you not to lurk in the dark?”

“I’m not lurking,” he groused.

“What else do you call lying in wait to confront someone? Especially in the dark? Alone? Leaning up against the wall, no less.”

You knew you were far from the only person in the building, but this late at night, you were the only tester still around and usually had this wing of the offices to yourself. This was a side gig for you, you only did it because you loved the game and loved getting to preview things before it was even sent to the beta test group of users, but that meant you usually only crossed paths with the handful of other official tester employees for SHIELD Games like ships passing in the night who basically clocked normal business hours.

“I don’t see you turning on any lights,” he said as you returned to your preferred spot on the couch.

“I prefer to play by glow of television,” you responded with a dramatic tone.

If Bucky rolled his eyes, you didn’t see it. “It’s how I’d be playing at home, keeps me focused so I can help you do your job.”

Which is why he was here confronting you, as you had so aptly noted. “I’m damn good at what I do.”

“And the only reason you hate my lists is because you’re already a god damn perfectionist so you can’t stand when I point out the flaws you missed or suggestions to make your work even better. But that’s why Maria hired me. Your community manager knew the user feedback I was giving when you launched the game was excellent.”

Bucky scoffed and shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Your game is only perfect after they put it in front of my face, Barnes.”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to scoff. “Make me,” you said and took a swig of your energy drink.

Bucky pushed off the wall and in three swift, silent steps was in front of you. With your head tilted back as you drank, you only saw him when he leaned forward, looming over you. You spluttered a little, and he smirked.

“You won’t be able to talk with this in front of your face,” he said, opened the front of his jeans, and pushed the denim and his boxers down his thighs in one go.

You would have roasted him for saying something so cliché in any other circumstance. But your brain was short-circuiting, and you were trying to rapidly re-establish the connections.

His right hand took the can out of your grasp and set it on the side table next to the couch, and his left hand cradled your chin, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip.

You looked up at him. Your heart was racing, and your pussy was thrumming. You were not certain this was real. He’d been the quiet one, a bit surly, but you had been surprised enough he’d come to confront you about the feedback in the first place and never would have put a penny on the odds of something like this happening with the gorgeous game designer you’d harbored a bit of a crush on but decided after the first week wouldn’t come to anything.

This was an unexpected side quest.

You nodded.

He pushed the tip to the edge of your lips, your tongue slipped out to circle the head. In one swift motion he gripped the back of your head and thrust his cock into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, and your hands flew up to hold onto his hips.

He used your mouth with abandon, and the hold of your hands on his hips was firm, encouraging. When you choked on his thick member, he slowed for a moment, then you squeezed his hip, and he speed up to his brutal pace again. This happened twice more, you having taken him deeper in your throat each time. Tears streamed down your face now, and he groaned when he looked down at you.

“You look so god damn beautiful,” he couldn’t help saying.

You whimpered, and he swept a thumb over your cheek, wiping away the tears, then brought them to his mouth.

He could feel the build of his climax at the root of him, and pulled out of your mouth abruptly, knowing he was too close to finishing and not ready for this to come to an end yet.

You fell forward, but he was instantly kneeling in front of you, ready to catch your lips with his. The kiss was hungry, and your mouth full of the taste of him made him groan again. Your hands tangled in his hair, slotting in despite being pulled back in a low bun. His hands had returned to hold your head as commandingly as they had when he was fucking your throat – one in your hair, one along your jaw.

When you were absolutely breathless, you finally pulled away.

Foreheads planted against each other, breaths still mingling, you licked your lips.

“Why don’t I show you what these hands can do?” he asked, one hand falling to your hip, rubbing his thumb down the crease of your thigh toward your core.

“Don’t tease.”

“Oh, no,” he agreed. Then with both hands, he pulled your hips to the edge of the cushion, hooked his fingers into the top of your pants, and peeled them down along with your panties. You pushed up to raise your hips so he could remove them completely, but your efforts were hardly needed as he used one hand to push you up, and the small show of unexpected strength made your insides squirm. He was built – you had seen it – but you hadn’t experienced the reality of it.

Bucky didn’t leave you a second to think about it any further as his fingers slid up and down your wet slit, he spread your outer folds and stroked your soft inner folds, and you moaned. Your eyes slipped shut, but you felt him watching your face. He was watching for how you reacted to each of his ministrations. He pinched your clit, and you yelped.

Your eyes flew open, and you saw his were filled with a mischievous glint. “Just testing all the possibilities,” he said.

You hit his shoulder. “I said no teasing!”

“You always want the experience to have more unexpected elements for the user to play with.”

“Bucky!” You did not want to hear one of your recent lines of feedback recited back to taunt you.

Except you did.

He was playing this game so well.

He slipped two fingers from that large, warm hand of his inside your cunt and began to pump. Your eyes melted closed again, and seemingly satisfied with his study, you felt Bucky claim your lips for more kisses while he pulled you closer and closer to an orgasm. It built steadily, his thumb at your clit, fingers in your channel, but when he curled those fingers and found the spongy spot against your pubic bone, it hit you instantly, and you cried out his name. He pulled your head into the crook of his neck while his other hand slowed in your cunt but helped prolong riding out the waves of your pleasure.

“Satisfactory experience?” he asked once your breathing started to return to normal.

You laughed against his shoulder, then pulled back to look at him. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, and he smiled.

“You know, I wasn’t afraid to poke the bear because you’re brilliant, I knew you could take it. You want to be the best, and I help give you that.” You reached down and took his still hard, leaking cock in your soft hands, and Bucky’s breath hitched. “Now, do you want to let me take you? I’m aching for you to fill me up.”

He groaned. “You can’t say shit like that.”

You nipped at his bottom lip and smirked. “Yes, I can. This company values my direct and honest feedback.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Where do you want me?”

Bucky quickly shoved his jeans all the way down his legs and settled down next to you on the couch, legs spreading wide. “In my lap.”

“Sounds just about right,” you said, straddling him.

His eager hands pulled your slick cunt flush against his groin, and you both moaned. You planted your hands on his broad shoulders, and rocked your hips just a little bit. Even that short back and forth of friction, his cock stroking your engorged clit, had your head falling back. Bucky pressed his lips to the column of your throat, not wasting an opportunity so inviting in the moment. You sighed and held his head to your neck where he continued to explore and mark you with slow, hot kisses, finding the places that made you shiver.

While you were lost in those sensations, Bucky reached down and lined his cock up with your slit, but that brought you back to the thrumming need to be filled by him, and you sunk down while he thrust up into you. He was thick, and he filled you more than you were used to, but not to a point of pain -far, far from it.

“Feel so good inside me,” you keened.

“No feedback?”

“Just fuck me until I can’t breathe, Buck.”

“With pleasure,” he growled.

After passing through two intense first levels of play, climbing to the final peak did not take long. One of his hands remained anchored at your hip to control the punishing but desired pace of thrusts, but his other steadily slid underneath your shirt and up your spine in a delicate way in contrast to everything else happening in the moment, including your lips returning to his in another kiss designed to devour.

Bucky felt you hit that crest of the climax, your muscles seizing in a moment of bliss, your pussy clenching hard around his cock. As you came down, he maneuvered you both to lay your back on the couch while he did just as you asked and continued to thrust into you hard, you boneless but in a blissful haze, unconcerned with trivial things like breathing, while he pursued his own pleasure. Then all at once he groaned and began to spill his hot seed inside of you, pausing for a second with the first ropes of cum, but then continued with deep, slow thrusts until he was completely spent.

It was a snug shuffling, but the two of you managed to get so you were both laying on your sides on the couch, your back up against the cushioned backboard, Bucky’s back to the glow of the giant television screen so all his muscled angles were sillhouted for you to admire in the afterglow. His legs were bunched up – possibly uncomfortably – and you tangled yours with his. You pushed some hair that had escaped from its knot at the back of his head off of his face, and he grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm.

“I think we’ll need to continue testing this,” you whispered against his lips.

You felt them curve into a smile before he said, “Thorough testing, absolutely. Need to explore all potential scenarios.”

“I’m glad you’ll be more amenable now to my feedback.”

“Oh, I never said that.”

You poked him in the ribs.

“Come on, you love the complex storylines. You don’t want me easily conquered.” And before you could protest, and claimed your lips again, this time in a long, slow kiss, no intention of leaving any time soon.

Too caught up with each other, neither of you heard the approaching footsteps, the gasp on discovering you, the moans they bit back when they gave over to touching themselves there in the dark, watching you, or their nearly silent retreat.

READ THEIR FOLLOW UP IN TEST PLAY

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #buckybarnesbingo2023 #bbb2023 #hotbuckysummer2023 #connect4au #gamer au #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #female reader #reader insert #x reader #x reader smut #x reader stories #aspen wrote something

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punkitt-is-here · 7 days

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I hope this is not intrusive, but I'd like to know since I'm going to college for animation in a few months: what did you pursue in college, and would you say the experience of college is worth it? Why or why not?

I had a fucking blast in college! It's been awesome. People shit talk it all the time because of the price and the job market or whatever, and I genuinely 100% get it, but for me it was a chance to be in a different space after being in a literal village for 18 years in my life and I met some of my best friends ever. Having the schedule of college really helped get me out of my shell, and the film and theatre programs here let me meet some of my favorite people on the planet. I'm queer, so that really factors into it, but I had a great time meeting other queer people my age in the departments and all my instructors were super kind and talented. I still had issues with the experience, but I'm going to miss it deeply and I'm really glad I went through with it. It's dependent on the folks running the program and the ones in it, but the film and theatre departments here rocked and I'm so sad to leave those folks behind next week! You get out what you put in, and I hope whatever you pursue goes excellent for you :>

#crispycreambacon #also i saw your second ask #its totally chill hehe!!!#my posts #asks

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existslikepristin · 1 year

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Been holding on to this one in a finished/unedited state for a few months now because I wasn't too happy with it. @worldsover did some editing for me. It still feels like something's missing (I'm not going to try to make Levi literally rewrite the whole thing), so feel free to give me critiques and suggestions, even if it's "yeah, I see what you mean and it is a little odd". I don't want to avoid posting it for forever, so let's call it a learning experience.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy! This is my first explicitly stated female reader insert, so that's yet another fun step.

(Also, I know I promised that the next story would be "normal" but you know what? Anything is normal compared to my last fic, so the only critique I will not be accepting is "Waaah, this isn't 'normal!'")

Tags: NSFW, TheLounge, Red Velvet, Irene, Female reader insert, anal, rimming, not a single line of dialogue, canonical silence, ass worship, massage oils, hand holding, yeah you’re deeefinitely the dominant one here

Open and Shut Up

~~~~~

No talking.

You can get behind that. That’s totally sexy. What’s less sexy… is a flowchart.

Obviously, you printed it out. Irene is going to be paying you for thi—It’s not payment, you remind yourself. It’s a mutual favor between acquaintances which may or may not involve money or goods/services which require it.

You scowl retroactively at Yeri’s so-called humorous insistence that you are, effectively, a prostitute. Performing sex acts in exchange, one time, for smoked salmon bagels is most definitely not prostitution, as you have reminded her many times.

Trying very hard to put that train of thought behind you, you glance around at the room. Low light, vanilla lavender sandalwood candles, obscenely soft towels, lube options, massage oils, and the stupid fucking laminated flowchart. You sigh—

NO! You don’t sigh, actually! Because the no talking rule was emphasized in great detail during negotiations, and included moans, groans, hums, whispers, grunts, and unnecessarily heavy breathing. And since a sigh is a heavy breath, you fucking hold that shit in tight!

But why do you need to hold in your sighs? Well, because of the final feature of the room that wasn’t mentioned two paragraphs ago: Irene, lying entirely nude on her stomach, on a bed of silk sheets, implying that your job—NOT your job, excuse you—has already begun. You entered the room mere seconds ago, so this should be extremely obvious to you, but you had to take care of a bit of exposition before you could really admire her body or get into the action. Perhaps you should do one of those two things now.

You can hardly believe what you’re seeing. Her slim legs and waist, the expanse of her back easily defeating the silkiness of the sheets she’s on, her elegant neck, her luxurious pitch black hair twirled into a loose bun, and the mild plumpness of her ass, peeking out from above the creases where her thighs meet it. Now, you’ve seen plenty of naked idols, but it’s the prestige that comes with this idol in particular that may have you so excited. Or it’s what she wants you to do to her. It’s hard to say. Point is, you’re wet, and you’re probably going to have to lay down a towel of your own.

On that note, you forgot an important aspect of the exposition: You’re not allowed to touch yourself.

That’s right. You’re in a room with a naked Irene, perhaps the most desired (per capita by fans and/or marketing departments) idol in history, preparing to gape her asshole in exchange for goods and/or services and/or currency totalling in value no less than the approximate equivalent worth of this spa treatment, and you aren’t supposed to get yourself off. But you are supposed to be naked, so you remove your shirt and bra, making just enough noise for her to hear you undressing, since that’s supposed to be how you let her know you’re about to start—

Oh, yes. Did you forget the most, actually, critically important part of your exposition? Oh, you think you caught on to it moments ago? Why, yes. You’re here, specifically, to gape her asshole. No more, except any action that will lead toward said gaping, and definitely no less. You are to take the role of dominant, while she takes the role of submissive. Never mind the fact that, per her instructions, you can’t speak, or make any noise, or touch yourself, or use her body to get yourself off, or choose your own state of undress, or touch any part of her not shown in the diagram on the flowchart, or do anything that isn’t explicitly spelled out on the flowchart… But you are required to spank her if she makes any noises. So yeah, you’re totally the dominant one here. (And, to be more specific, you are to keep track of which buttcheek you last spanked so that you can make sure to spread the ass-slapping evenly between cheeks and preserve symmetry, followed by immediate continuation of whatever action you were in the midst of prior to said spank.)

… Yes, that is the last of the exposition. What? You want to have a flashback to when the verbal negotiations were happening? Absolutely not. That’s dialogue, which is technically against the rules. It’s time to do things to Irene’s butthole. Stop stalling.

Once you remove your skirt, slippers, and underwear, you get onto your knees, noting that the floor seems slightly spongy and wondering what that’s about. Irene’s legs are closed. The crevasse of her ass on its own makes you want to scream, but the centerpoint of the cross formed by that crevasse and her thigh crease . There is the slightest gap at that point which reveals the tiniest sneak peak of what hides between. You bite down on your lips to suppress your instinctual lewd moan. Okay, you’re just getting started. Calm down, or this is going to be impossibly difficult.

You straddle Irene’s calves (without touching them!), take a deep and silent breath, and lean forward, placing your palms first on the flawless globes of her ass, then letting your fingers come to rest as well. They’re such a perfect combination of firm, soft, and smooth that it brings tears to your eyes. The inability to comment on them out loud brings you near-physical pain and certainly-mental anguish. If Irene cares, she’s not making it known. She’s deathly silent, and you only know she’s alive because of the way her back rises and falls with her breath.

Contact achieved. Looking at the flowchart isn’t necessary for now. You had a pretty easy time memorizing steps one through five since they don’t have any branching-off points. Step two is to inspect. You look away and take a couple more deep (and silent!) breaths, then increase the pressure of your hands on Irene’s butt and ever so slowly pull apart.

Within the realm of your imagination, you can see yourself comically hyperventilating. In the real world, you see a hole that you could only ever describe as manicured. Not a hair in sight, and some shade of pink so unrealistically perfect that it probably has a Pantone color named after it (Irene’s Butthole Pink? Pick a hex code). The miniscule folds of flesh are already very slightly gaped, giving you a near-imperceptible view into her interior, as if she’d had someone else very recently do what you’re about to, or as if she’d prepared herself with a butt plug. You wonder if Irene even owns a butt plug though, considering she can probably convince any person on the planet to open up her ass any time she would even want to use one. Or maybe she does have one. The Alexander III Commemorative Fabergé egg is still missing, after all…

You pull a little further, and can’t contain your shudder as not only her asshole opens by another couple millimeters, but her pussy lips spread and eventually split apart when the pressure barely overcomes the moisture holding them together. Your eyes and heart flutter, and you think you might faint. The vagina is one of many areas which is not indicated as touchable on the diagram, which hurts your soul because it’s the perfect number of shades darker than the surrounding skin and—

It’s time to focus! Asshole only! Get your mind out of the gutter!

Keeping one hand in place so she stays half-open, you get a handful of one of the massage oils. It feels room temperature, but you're supposed to hold it until it's warmer, so you stare at Irene's back as you try not to let too much drip away. The movement of her breathing is steady and subtle. In. Out. You try to match her pace. In. Out. In. Out.

When it's ready, you let the oil flow off your hand into the cleft of Irene's ass. She doesn't so much as flinch, which you obviously credit more to your excellent reading of body temperature and less to her ass-trance. But back to the butt in hand.

The oil travels leisurely down her crack, speeding up ever so slightly as the path becomes more vertical, and stopping to pool on top of her hole. You place your oily hand on its designated cheek again and repeat the process on the other side.

It’s time to really get started now… with step three-dash-C.

The tips of your thumbs meet just over her hole and press down flatly so that they do not enter her. You slowly shift them around each other and back, massaging with just the right pressure to stay on the rim. The rest of your hands are for massaging the rest of her derriere. It’s not necessary, but you want to show off your manual dexterity, and you want to make sure she’s as relaxed as can—She’s effectively already achieved Nirvana down there, from the looks of things, actually. The relaxation is for you. You’re the one who’s Nirvous about this anal—Is this a joke to you? It’s time for another spread test. You need to make sure Irene’s ready, because maybe somewhere between steps four-dash-E and four-dash-K you’ll forget to off yourself for that pun… Thank fuck you didn’t say that one out loud.

Step four is the first insertion.

Every ounce of fortitude you have is tested. You hold back your shaking. It’s just a finger. It is just a finger, right? You’ve done this plenty of times, to plenty of idols, no less. Well, not a silent butt-fingering, per se, but you’ve been knuckle deep in other idols before, and often more than one idol and often more than one knuckle! Irene just has a gravitas that makes yo—Don’t you dare say she has a gravitass. Stay. Quiet! And keep her ass spread with your free hand.

You watch the carefully trimmed, polished nail of your forefinger leisurely slip into her asshole. Then you pass your first knuckle. You stop on the second and quietly release your held breath. You don’t recall making an analogy about the feeling of her ass cheeks, but you’ll sure as hell compare the interior of her butt to cashmere. The minor gape you’d noticed previously has no effect on how tightly the hole hugs your digit.

Irene’s back rises a centimeter higher, and falls more slowly. Her pattern is broken. You catch your breath again. Did you do something wrong? Is the massage oil adequate? No, it’s only meant to be the starter. This was the whole intention. Right? You glance at the flowchart. Yes, step three, massage oil only, no additional lubrication. You do your best to relax and drag your finger back.

The way her asshole holds on to your finger is its own story of seduction, affair, and dramatic departure. She (her hole is a she) clearly doesn’t want her (so is your finger) to go, but she has to, lest her family shun her. But she cannot resist returning, leaving again despite all the kissing and languid hugging, and returning once more. One last time, she escapes completely, but after telling the story to a saucy friend, introduces Irene’s butt to them, and suddenly the sordid romance becomes a menage a trois.

Two fingers, two knuckles deep in Irene’s ass, you note your own wetness beginning to trail down your inner thigh. You aren’t sure exactly why the thought crosses your mind that you hope that it will somehow evaporate against your ragingly hot and bothered leg.

Now, out, and back in, out, and back in. With your breath. You match Irene’s. Out, and back in.

You gulp. You’re halfway through step four’s substeps. Next is the addition of another finger and more thrusting at a torturously slow pace for an actually timed five minutes. You find yourself hypnotized by it. The five minutes pass by in something more like twelve seconds, and the clock on the wall gently changes color to let you know it’s time to make the final preparations for step five. It’s not magical. It’s just connected by bluetooth to the phone to your left.

But what is magical? You’ve come this far, so you should know by now. It’s Irene’s asshole. You remove two of three fingers, then reinsert one more from the opposite hand, and as cautiously as you can, pull apart. There’s the magic.

Irene’s butt is open, and not just immediately around your fingers, but in a whole oval shape. It’s not enormously wide, but it’s enough that you could reasonably, without discomfort, insert the tip of your tongue.

… Hey. Wouldn’t you know it? That’s step five.

Rimming is always a questionable thing to do to your nose, ranging from the worst to a merely neutral idea. When you draw in close to Irene’s open ass, however, it’s the massage oil that overpowers your trepidatious olfactory sense. You’d noticed earlier that it was labeled as Fresh Linen, a scent that certainly makes sense given Irene’s reputation for laundry-doing, but it triggers a seemingly unrelated and entirely Loony memory of the smell of coffee. How the smells of linen and coffee are linked in your mind, you may never know. Perhaps you should see a professional about that.

But how’s the taste? Well, bland with the slight bitter spike of chemicals that improve viscosity but shouldn’t be ingested in large quantities. The risk of health complications is extremely low though, and you’d risk significantly more for this specific opportunity.

Irene’s butt cheeks and your face cheeks are still separated by your hands, but as of step five-dash-B that will no longer be the case. For now, your lips and tongue are in full contact, and that would be more than enough. To be licking around and inside the asshole of Irene, the rarely disputed queen of idols, you have to be infinitely lucky. You thank heaven you are.

Your focus is drawn in further and further. No more jokes. No more references to other stories. Even the most obvious pun/reference slips from your mind as you try your best to keep your tongue soft for Irene’s pleasure.

Your complete and total compliance doesn’t go unnoticed by Irene, somehow. The tiniest roll of her hips, that barest indication of her appreciation, kicks your core into overdrive. The trail down your thigh widens and it’s all you can do to beg the universe that you won’t drip on her calves.

It takes more strength than you knew you had not to squeal your desperation into her ass. Your thighs and your lungs and your everything else burn with desire. You know it’s not for want of air since your nose is still free, so it has to be your overwhelming need for Irene’s attention. You’d do anything. You are doing anything. A friendly agreement to gape her hole? No, this is a test, a labor, a trial. You’re proving your devotion.

You’re not licking a queen’s ass.

You’re worshipping a goddess.

It’s not a flowchart.

It’s a divine ritual.

The shifting color on the clock only mostly guides you out of your trance. You pull away with a heavy heart, staring half lidded at the strings of saliva still connecting you with what you now live for. There’s no difference in size, but you much prefer the sheen you left on her rim to that of the oil. Step five isn’t over yet.

Do rituals have steps? You try to think back to any hieroglyphics you’ve seen in old textbooks. There were no numbers… Obviously there were no numbers. They were hieroglyphics. You can’t read that shit—

Stop.

You remove your fingers, allowing Irene’s ass to close once more. It happens slowly. You nearly choke, watching her hole return to its previous shape with your breath held so tightly in your chest that it feels like something is going to burst. Hey, maybe it will, but that can’t happen yet. That would be too loud, and your goddess demands silence, so you open your mouth to simply allow the breath to drift out along with any comments you had on the subject.

You close back in once again, this time letting your face settle against Irene’s cheeks and gently nudge them apart, reattaching your tongue to her rim. You want to dive in, to feel her squeeze you, maybe even cum around you, but that’s not part of the ritual. You need to give her rest. The best is yet to cum—no. Come. You give her the lightest rimming you can, holding your tongue back to merely caress her asshole while you silently revel in the light press of her glutes on your cheeks.

Another slight roll of her hips sends you reeling. Your vision fades and Irene is all that’s left. You can see the movement. It’s not just her breath, but her oh-so-gentle rocking back and forth that makes the light and shadows play across her back like the grains of the Elysian fields waving in the breeze. It doesn’t seem right for you to be allowed to experience this, to taste this, to be treated to a view of paradise, to understand the touch of divinity.

The gently shifting color of the clock, magenta to yellow, broadens your vision again. You back away, taking a deep breath that you only now realize you desperately needed.

Without thinking, finally, you do as Irene has commanded. You place your palms on her ass: your altar. You slide your thumbs into her glorious hole, and you pull apart softly. Her muscles have relaxed so thoroughly that you meet no resistance. She is simply open, as if this is just how she was always meant to be, told in myths that cannot be written. Her soft ass doesn’t try to clench down. It remains a portal that entices you, begs you to enter.

And you could. Certainly, as is the case with other gods, Irene could forgive you for showing her your specialty. You, the heroic champion, could show her an unexpected pleasure. Touch her clit, lap at her juices, grind yourself on the back of her thigh. Her instruction indicated that you’re the dominant one here. Make it so.

You hook the first knuckle of each of your pointer fingers, as directed, inside.

No. You can’t get greedy now. You’re not that kind of hero.

Irene opens further around your digits with no effort. Now you see the depth of her abyss, and it does not try to close. Irene wants you to see into her. Even the beautiful spheres of her ass to either side, her graceful back, her soft legs, her captivating hair… It all fades away. You know what the next step is. You don't need the clock to intuit the moment she's ready. Your higher thoughts and your lust blend together.

Slowly, you pull further apart. Not much. It may not seem like it's so small, but this immortal gateway still needs to be treated with reverence. For every millimeter you actually widen her, though, you see miles more. It makes you feel light-headed, even a little dizzy. And when you slide your fingers out, those feelings become far more distinct. Irene remains open.

Gaping may have been an appropriate word for her to have described what she wanted from you, but it was far too crude to represent what you see now. Then again, you’re not sure what else to call it. It’s been a while since the thesaurus failed you.

Irene's muscles are relaxed. Serene, even. Like this is where they should naturally be. You simply guided them.

You lean back in and gently kiss her rim. It's dangerous, running your tongue around the defined edge of the mortal and everlasting, but exhilarating. The slight rolling of her hips is your indication that Irene is feeling the same passion, for all the hubris it takes to assume such a thing about your goddess. As far as you know, she could just be moving because your tongue and lips aren't in the right places and making up for your inadequacies.

Still, every slight, slow shade of her ass against your cheek is a divine caress, urging you further along the journey. Your kisses are as insistent as you can get them without making the grave error of smacking your lips.

In the foggiest reaches of your vision, a hand reaches out to you along the floor. Irene grasps at the air like she wants something. That’s not part of the ritual. You can only think of one thing in the moment, and you take her hand in yours.

Irene’s fingers close around yours and curl into your palm. They flutter every time you swirl your tongue across her rim, and, after a moment, they squeeze.

It’s terrifying, at first, when Irene trembles underneath you. It evokes thoughts of earthquakes, brought upon by the wrath of the gods. But no, it’s orgasm. Her asshole contracts slightly, but otherwise just quivers against your mouth. It ends almost as soon as it begins.

Irene takes her hand away, and a bit of your soul with it. She lightly presses on the clock, and it shifts to white. You don’t have to be reminded of what that means. Steeling your heart, you back off of Irene’s ass and carefully push yourself up to your feet. Even at your full height, you can see into Irene’s hole. Taking it in with the full picture of the rest of her body is an incredible sight to behold. Knowing that you contributed to it makes it even more beautiful.

As you look over her, your eyes go wide and you have to contain a gasp. Irene’s calves are covered in little wet streaks, right where you had been hovering over her. Embarrassment washes over you. It's hard to imagine being so turned on as to not have felt yourself dripping on her, especially after having worried about that very thing mere minutes ago. You want to reach for a towel to correct your mistake, but you know you're not supposed to touch her. You're supposed to be dressing yourself and leaving, so you step away, and reach down for your clothes.

Your arms feel heavy as you pull your underwear up, only getting more embarrassed about how soaked they immediately become.

As you put on your shirt though, Irene moves again. You can't help but stand perfectly still, mesmerized by the smooth motion of Irene getting up onto her knees and sitting back on her heels. Now upright, she's even more statuesque, back curved inward from her generous bottom up to her gentle shoulders. One hand releases her hair from its bun, and the night sky falls past her neck, simultaneously obscuring and enhancing that gorgeous expanse.

Irene’s torso twists a quarter in your direction. It's hard to think that for however long you've been here, this is the first you've seen her face and it's merely a silhouette, not even far enough around that she could look at you out of the corner of her eye. All you can see is her eyelashes, pointed down, to indicate that her eyes are closed. The movement also coyly presents you with the side of her breast, yet another of the endless curves of her body that you have had no opportunity to worship.

One graceful arm comes back. Her fingers find their way to the cleft of her ass and sensually feel their way down. You don't even think to wipe away your drool as you watch those fingers dip inward. They move in and out, unhurried and exquisite.

Your mind reels. Were you not enough? Is she just basking in the remnants of her pleasure? Is she doing this for you to watch? Should you even still be here?

Irene continues to toy lightly with her asshole while at the same time her other hand shakes out her hair from below.

Your legs twitch. You can't stay here anymore. You practically jump into your skirt, grab your shoes, and you're out the door. You keep the doorknob turned in your hand even as you whip yourself outside so the latch won't click when you close it.

In the hallway, you slump back against the wall. Your body is on fire. You need to be touched. You don’t live very far away. You can get home fast, and if you can’t grab someone on the way, idol or otherwise, you’ll be sitting on a vibrator all night—

The door you just came through opens again. Irene walks out in a shoulderless sweater, just long enough to cover her shorts, and sneakers. How she can look so casual, you’re sure you’ll never comprehend.

She doesn’t turn to leave, though. She steps closer to you, and closer, and closer. The hallway isn’t that wide. Are her steps inches long or is space expanding? Either way, she crosses and stands over you. It doesn’t matter what your height was. Your knees will only hold you against the wall at a height that makes it look like Irene is miles taller.

You open your mouth. You want to ask her to make good on her end of your bargain right now. Or maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. You just want to say something. But before you can, you feel the shock of physical connection. Irene strokes your cheek with the back of her fingers. Her eyes capture yours, holding you steady.

The distance becomes inches, and you’re paralyzed. She doesn’t blink as she gets even closer, but closes her eyes just in time to remove the final gap and touch her lips to yours. She kisses you so softly that you can barely feel it. In fact, the whole of your body seems suddenly light and cloudish, like a breeze could send you away. You even feel a drop of rain leave your eye.

When she retreats, she gives you the coyest smile to ever coy, and as she approaches her full height again, her fingers leave your jawline and the lightness you felt reverses. Gravity crashes your ass into the floor.

Then Irene turns to leave, breaking the line of sight to her eyes, freeing your own to wander. The last thing you see before she turns the corner is that she is not, in fact, wearing shorts under her sweater. You get one last glimpse of your handiwork. Though you can’t see very well and can’t imagine her ass is still gaped now that she’s back on her feet, it is still visibly wet, as are the backs of her thighs and calves.

#irene smut #irene #red velvet #red velvet smut #female reader #kpop smut

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theygotlost · 7 months

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ohhhhhh my god guys I gotta give you an update but i need to explain my entire job history for the past year first cause its a little confusing uh.

so feb-may I did this internship at this real estate digital marketing firm and I was just making social media graphics there. just instagram stories and shit. and it was boring as hell but I needed to find a job cause I was graduating, and I was hoping they would hire me but they didnt have the space for a new full time employee at the time so... that was a bust.

in june and july I was applying to jobs foreverrrrr and getting nowhere so I said fuck it i need SOMETHING to hold me over, so I started working in the print department at staples as you are all well aware. at least it would be relevant enough to put on my resume cause I do want to make print graphics right? so its something.

then like 6 weeks ago my manager from the internship reached out to me and said she wanted to take me back part time after all. so for the past month and a half I've been working 2 part time jobs, one at staples and one at this marketing office doing the exact same fuckass ig stories as before. i wont lie its been exhausting and unsustainable so I was still applying for other full time design jobs cause I had no idea how long I could keep this up.

about 3 weeks ago I got an interview for one of those jobs I applied for and they explained that they were actually looking for a senior designer which obviously im not qualified for, but they liked my portfolio enough that they wanted to consider CREATING a junior designer role for me which was CRAZYYY to hear... it's a hawaiian bbq restaurant chain and I'm definitely wayyy more interested in designing for food and beverage stuff than real estate, plus a few other aspects about the job sounded really appealing to me and the interview went great so I was really hoping to get that job. but then I didn't hear back and Im so desensitized to getting ghosted after interviews i stopped getting my hopes up a long time ago.

a week and a half ago management at my real estate job told me that they were finally ready to bring me on full time, and since it didnt seem like I had any other prospects I wasnt really in a position to turn it down, so I immediately accepted and put in my 2 weeks at staples. this saturday will hopefully be the last day i ever have to work retail forever. I didnt make any announcement here when I found out because its honestly been making me depressed thinking about doing nothing but making fuckass instagram stories for ugly real estate companies 40 hours a week and people congratulating me on it would just make me more depressed. I wasn't supposed to start full time there until the monday after thanksgiving so ive still been doing my double part time grind.

but then......

whats that....???

THE HAWAIIAN BBQ RESTAURANT ENTERS WITH THE STEEL CHAIR!!!!

after weeks of no response the hr guy finally gave me a call just now to tell me I GOT THE JOB?!??! i genuinely honestly did not think they were gonna give me an offer and was just gonna move on with my life 😭 so now im gonna have to walk into my office tomorrow morning and say SIKE!!! and theyre all gonna be so mad at meeeee but this is genuinely such a better position for me I didnt think this was gonna happen for another year at least....

tldr I thought i was gonna be stuck with a job i dont like but I ended up getting the job I want!!!!!!!!

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zuzsenpai · 4 months

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I'm honestly so furious right now. I work in a video and photography department for a large healthcare organization. We're a department of 9, plus an intern. We're under the "marketing" umbrella, though we do a lot more than marketing for the network (for example we also make patient and employee education videos/photos/animations).

Yesterday the social media department (also part of marketing. We supply photos and videos for them to post) posted an AI generated image on our company's instagram page. It was a photorealistic AI image of a baby, used to promote our pediatric cardiology service line. The image is so ridiculously obviously AI, it makes me want to puke. It's uncanny, too smooth with zero skin texture, the eyes are messed up, and the "baby" literally has full eyelashes on one eye and none on the other.

I'm livid because it's like... what the fuck do they need OUR department for if they're going to be using AI now?

To our knowledge, this is the first time they've done this. I get that there's an "argument" to be made that it's incredibly difficult and time consuming to set up a photoshoot with a real baby, and they wanted something fast and easy because the marketing service line directors are constantly on social media's ass to push out abhorrent amounts of marketing content on social media. This culture will never change. We've tried to explain that people don't like seeing constant mediocre ads for healthcare service lines when they are on social media. But the higher ups won't listen to that AT ALL. So... AI generated gross ass baby it is (I cannot stress enough how creepy this "baby" looks).

But it's a slippery slope. Because first it's a baby. Next it'll be a fake orthopedic surgery patient because who has time to find a real patient for our photographers to shoot? Never mind that people on social media actually DO like seeing real patient stories. Next it'll be a billboard on the highway with AI generated doctors because who cares to know what their real doctor looks like, right? This is making me so mad for the photographers in my department who work so fucking hard to shoot and edit stunning, quality images. Their jobs will be relegated to event photography until someday an unmanned robot can set up their own camera and do that too (they probably already can?).

Recently one of the service line directors in marketing asked me to use an AI voice for an animation I'm making. I had to put my foot down and say that we have three fantastic local voiceover artists who we use for these kinds of projects. One of them is a retired gentleman who went to school with my dad and is always extremely happy to get work from us. Sometimes I think these marketing people just want to use AI because it's trendy.

I understand that there are other industries and individuals who are already being massively affected by AI to a much larger and much more detrimental degree. And that my problems are largely me spinning out of control. I figured AI would hit us eventually, and there's really nothing I can do except continue to put my foot down about the voiceover thing. I can't do much for the photographers, sadly. I'm too nervous to get mad at social media, though I really wish I could at least point out how disgusting that baby looks. But I'm worried that I'm going to be some sort of pariah if I voice my opinion on it. I already get paid peanuts and there's really no way for me to advance my career here. So being the "person who shits on social media for using AI" might be detrimental to me in the long run. I really DO want to advocate for our photographers, but is it my place? Idk, it's complicated.

#what do i even tag this?#personal post for ts;#zuzu note;#ai for ts #tw ai #I don't know if people blacklist that kind of thing #I feel like you can't because ai is a common ummm combination of letters in words?#but just in case

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katy-l-wood · 1 year

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Sigh.

Don't really want advice, I just need to vent a little. Gonna stick it under a readmore too, because it got a little long.

I'm burning out so bad at work. I love the idea of this business, it's super fun in theory, as is what I do there. But the way the business is run is a nightmare, and the job does not pay anywhere near what it should. And I thought that was going to get better this January, because the owner finally admitted that we need a full marketing department and asked me if I wanted to run it if I were to be given an appropriate raise, and I told him yes. Then we had our January meeting where we were supposed to discuss everything and he said he's actually decided to interview outside candidates and only consider me as one of them.

Which is fucking bullshit. I built this marketing department from the ground up. They didn't even have fucking business cards when I started. Every initiative I've done has gone massively well for being nothing but hit-the-bricks marketing with zero budget.

I get that, legally, they are required to post the job within the company, but they aren't legally required to post it outside the company as far as I can tell. (Nor have they ever done that before anyways...)

And before this was revealed to me, I sat in on an interview and all the owner talked about during the interview is how much he loves people coming into the business and finding their own way and building new skills. He went on and on about the two main people who have done that, and how much he values them. Neither of them had to reinterview against outside candidates to run the departments they now run. Just me.

I know why it's happening too, which makes it even more annoying. The owner has ZERO idea what I do. None. I do not report to him. Every time I'm in a meeting with him and start trying to explain stuff I get some version of "oh, I just don't understand all of that." I think there might also be a touch of not liking me because I stand up to him. There was a big issue with Twitter over the holiday marketing season because I explained how, despite being our best platform, Twitter was too unstable to be as useful as normal due to the Musk takeover and the owner went OFF about it, about how I shouldn't be "bringing politics into it." Nevermind that ANY corporate takeover is going to be destabilizing for a time and the man has never used Twitter in his life so how the hell would he know what's going on. (Also, not even 5 minutes later he told me he didn't want us using TikTok "because of the Chinese." What was that about not getting political, sir?)

It's really clear that I'm just never gonna get the respect and support I need at this job, despite how great my direct boss is. I'm also really fucking tired of working somewhere with an HR lady that can't do her job and refuses to give us direct deposit because it's "too hard" and doesn't put our accumulated sick time on our checks like she's supposed to because she can't figure out how to make the system do it, so we just have to email her if we want to know.

And I've been applying to jobs! I've had interviews! Some of them have seemingly gone well, it's just that none of them have gone all the way to hiring me.

Even if I get a new job it isn't going to fix the fact that I'm burnt out, because I can't afford to take time off between the jobs to actually rest. I've got, like, $100 in savings right now and nothing in checking until my paycheck shows up this week. (And because we don't have direct deposit, the check could show up anytime between Wednesday and Saturday, unless HR had some random shit come up and didn't get the checks out on time, which has happened before.)

And I should (should) have two weeks paid vacation now that I've hit my third year at this job, but I don't want to just use it all up in fucking January in case I am stuck here for the rest of the year, but I could really use those two weeks right now.

Then, in the background of all of this, is my art and writing stuff. Especially The Pits/its Kickstarter in a couple months. If that Kickstarter goes as well as I'm hoping I probably COULD afford to take some time off. But I won't know about that until the end of March when it finishes. And also, I really don't want to be putting all my baggage from my day job on this one project. That's not good for me OR the project.

I'm fucking tired. I was so close to finally getting ahead of all this before inflation hit last year. So fucking close. And then it all went away. I just want a job that pays me what I'm worth and respects what I can do. That shouldn't be so fucking hard.

#Venting

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snifekinner · 1 day

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dont piss off the bitch with the code to your computer

Name: Feliks Łukasiewicz

Age: 35 (never acknowledge you know this)

Pronouns: She/They/He

Job: Senior IT Consultant

Height: 5'10

How do they take their coffee: loves a frappe but will actually drink any kind of coffee, although they will complain about it the entire time if it's bad.

thanks to @council-of-beetroot for some inspiration in this post: HERE

you see that hello kitty pill box and the stanley cup? that's right, shes hydrated, medicated, and dedicated. and complicated.

decided to put her in the IT department because it just feels right. threatens ivan with testicular damage on a bi-weekly basis due to his inane calls about his email not working. holds the tech equivalent of the nuclear codes to the company. although most people who see him in the office assume he's in marketing or sales, or something people-facing, feliks is actually that person who is almost impossible to fire because they're the only one who knows how to navigate all of the company software.

their job involves a lot of firefighting and making sure the junior IT staff are doing their jobs properly. the newly qualified interns are gobby little shits and everyone above her in management is an idiot. no one there is fit to kiss their boots.

along with tolys, arthur, and a few others who come and go, feliks is part of the bitter old lady smoker's club. they huddle up outside on their breaks chaining fags and bitching about the organisation and everyone in it. feliks reckons you never truly know a person until you've had to fix their computer, but she also thinks her opinions are right about everyone all the time.

although he's got a whipsnap temper and a vicious tongue, feliks can get away with it because she does the job so damn well. also the whole nuclear codes thing.

the other parts of his job he's figured out codes for, and managed to mostly automate the processes, so he can spend his spare time doing his nails and playing online poker. also finding a lot of time to make their desk look like a sanrio shop exploded on it, and be an absolute menace to everyone else.

#hws poland #aph poland #one for all my pol mutuals #hetatech hub au #office au

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dogshit-enchantment · 1 year

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Harvestella credits rolling... Time to give my thoughts on the game

Spoiler free thoughts:

Genuinely terrific game, I will bite the hand of whoever at squenix's marketing department declared this game to be "just a farming game" instead of the cosmic horror jrpg it actually is

Cry count was somewhere in the 15-20 range, had some of the most heart-wrenching side quests I've ever experienced in my many years of playing jrpgs. Main plot made me go "what? Hello? Huh?" Almost every cutscene, but in a good way.

A solid 10/10 game I love it to fucking pieces

Soundtrack was a genuine 11/10 I want to inject it into my brain

Characters were 10/10 love them so much

Combat was a 9/10 I didn't mind it being on the simpler side, though the final boss dragged a bit

Inventory and crafting gets a 10/10 I love how the inventory/storage works

Farming and ranching gets a 9/10 just cuz I could never get a hang of crop placement and had to axe so many plants OTL (skill issue)

Environment is a 13/10 I love the scenery and towns they're so incredible

Game performance on switch gets an 8/10 it was really solid for like 80% of the game but once u get more than 2 farm upgrades it rly starts to struggle on frame rates on the farm. Overworld also had that issue towards the very end. It was on switch tho so I'm not docking it too much for that, it did rly well (though I did suffer two crashes so OTL)

‼️‼️SPOILER ZONE‼️‼️

I will say, the ending didn't get me as teary eyed as I was expecting, but I felt it did a good job and didn't let me down. The final final boss could have had better line delivery as well as a bit of reworking of her final lines cuz by that point it felt a bit hollow to me. Though maybe I was just jaded from fighting the dream of man's end. That boss fucking sucked

(NVM loaded up my new game plus and getting the letter in the mail saying "humans, I love you" made me cry. I love you too, Omen.)

Favorite boss was by far Aria. She had incredible dialogue and I loved seeing her character getting pushed into a corner and the very human way she lashed out. So incredible I love her so much, and it felt so rewarding to give her back her diary and bringing her back from the brink of despair. She's such a relatable character.

I will say it's also incredibly funny that the minute I got to the American flag in Heine's quest I instantly put together where the plot was going, the fact that it was so warn, the way no one knew what it was, what an incredible morsel for them to give.

Favorite quest was probably a close tie between Istina and Dianthus. I loved that istina was given a "traditionally feminine" role, but was by no means treated differently for it. There was no hint of "you'd calm down if u just had a kid" type shit u see from so many pieces of media. Instead she got to have a storyline about learning how to be happy, how to help others have a happy childhood when she never got to have one. And Dianthus just... I fucking ugly cried at her quest I'm ngl. Her deciding to create art, as inspired by Emily... Makes me feel so much.

I also love that Geist went fucking crazy trying to realize his full potential with the metaphysical, meanwhile Dianthus is like "I'm simply built different" and handles it no problem.

I love Dianthus so much. She was my fave when I first picked up the demo and she stayed my fave the whole way through. Can't wait to date her in post-game.

Harvestella is so fucking good I'm gonna eat my hands

#rambling #harvestella #cant wait to date dianthus #dianthus best girl

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aelaer · 1 year

Note

⛓

Okay so. THREE YEARS AGO, back in early 2020 before The World Went To Shit, I posted a "whump prompt request" thing with icons to basically request fics based on the whumpy icon. I answered 2 or 3 of them before I basically stopped writing for like, over a year.

This year I'm doing my damnedest to finish the 6 whump prompts I have from early 2020 and the last (anon) prompt I have from 2019. That's my goal. (If I can get to the 2022 user-submitted prompt as well this year, that's an extra bonus).

I don't think this user is even in the fandom anymore (possibly not even on tumblr), but I'm still doing the prompt fics. As always with tumblr prompts, my tumblr followers get them first, and I'll post it on AO3 at a later time.

Obviously the prompt is chains. For 2 years I was trying another fic to fill this, but when it just wasn't happening, I threw out the original idea for this new one below.

So I've done alternate meetings between Stephen and various Avengers before, but I wanted to try something different and have a different set of Avengers meet him in different circumstances. Well, not that different because I just enjoy seeing Stephen suffer. Sorry love. But it's a different crew of Avengers, so it's at least a little different. I don't think I've seen this particular group meeting him before in this timeframe, either.

This fic stars Steve, Nat, Sam, and Stephen, and is actually written from Steve's POV! First time writing from Steve's POV so it was a lot of fun. Not betaed, but this is still about 7,000 words long, so enjoy!

—--

Ever since aliens attacked New York in 2012, alien technology was a major part of the arms dealing scene in the black market. Nuclear missiles were old school; Chitauri-powered weaponry was the cream of the crop. And as the United States' Department of Damage Control seemed to have done a very lousy job at controlling all the weaponry leaving the country the last several years, Steve Rogers figured he'd put his time out of the country to good use and clean up for them.

From all the people that came back from the Raft, only two were with him now. Clint and Ant-Man—Scott, nice guy—had families back home and went for a plea bargain. Wanda asked to be dropped off in Europe and Nat provided her with a new ID and enough money to get by for a couple months without any sort of job. Bucky—well, Bucky was getting help in Wakanda.

That just left him, Sam, and Nat. When he told them what he planned to do, they were fully on board. Nat even had some old KGB connections to get them started.

And that's how they had spent the last year, going from city to city, country to country, chasing leads on illegal alien weaponry across Asia. They started in Yemen and Oman, then went north to Syria (where they got into a tight spot and found Nick Fury of all people waiting for them. How he got to Syria in the first place, Steve had no idea.) After a tense conversation with him, he parted with him in Lebanon, then they started their way east to Iraq, Turkmenistan, and Afghanistan.

It was another old contact of Nat's that pointed them to their next destination: the state of Uttar Pradesh in northern India.

With most of their hits, it was clear that terrorists, insurgents, and other sorts who dealt with black market arms were getting types of Chitauri weapons. With their information out of India, it was less clear what the nature of the weapon was.

"From how they're discussing it, it sounds alien," Nat said as she read over her contact's notes. "And they're guarding it fiercely. But it appears they don't know what to do with it."

"Who has the weapon?" Sam asked. "Lashkar-e-Taiba? ISIS?"

She shook her head. "It's a small splinter group of revolutionists. No household names here."

Steve frowned; these small groups were more difficult to determine how to respond to. "Are they considered terrorists by the United States?"

Nat shook her head once more as she looked through the notes. "Strictly Indian. This group doesn't go beyond their borders."

"Then let's go for a nonlethal encounter, as much as possible. We're not here to say who's right and wrong about such things, so long as they're not hurting anyone in their actions."

She half-smiled. "They do have a weapon, Cap." They've likely hurt people, she didn't say.

He quirked his lips in return. "And that's why we're going to relieve them of it." In the end, it was up to the local authorities to take care of the people themselves and to put them through due process. If Steve could, he'd do the same for every terrorist, too—but he didn't have that luxury when they were caught in the middle of a gunfight, or when it was just the three of them versus dozens in enemy territory.

He wasn't happy with the fact, but he made do with what he could. He didn't particularly enjoy killing others in the war, either—and the fact that he still had to from time to time was an unhappy reality.

So when he could get through an incident without death, he gladly took it.

"All right," Sam said. "Next stop, India."

—--

Nat's connections made getting the quinjet from country to country actually possible. From there, they paid someone enough cash to both keep an eye on the jet and to keep quiet about it. These people made a living on such gigs, so after a year of seeing such deals, Steve was a lot less worried about it than when they first started.

Their contact got them a van and from there, they fit everything they needed into it to get to a safehouse and gather more intel from there.

Uttar Pradesh was a land of extremes. As the most populous state of India, it also saw some of its richest and poorest citizens, some great beauty and great ugliness, and both wondrous joys and terrible suffering. Steve didn't interact with the locals—Nat did all that if they had to, as she somehow knew Hindi as well—but he could see it in the people's faces as they went from city to village, and back again.

It took them a couple days to secure their safehouse to their liking, then another few days to find the location of their target. It took Nat and Sam another 48 hours to break into their security and tap their communications, and it wasn't too long that they got the location of the weapon.

"They're not giving any further description on what this weapon is," Nat said with a grimace as she leaned back in her chair. "I don't think the guys we bugged actually know what it is, just where it is as they were guarding the building. On the second floor, so that narrows it down further."

"That's annoying," Sam said. "I'll look up the address and see what I can find on the building. This city's large enough to have blueprints."

"Not sure how much you'll find," Nat said. "I'll drive out there and scout it out tonight."

"You can add it to what I do find," Sam said, grinning.

—---

When Nat came back from her scouting just before dawn, Steve woke up to find her thoughtful. "What happened?"

"The building was unusually busy, considering the time of night," she said. "The good news is that I found the most likely room in which they're keeping the weapon."

"Should be an easy snatch and grab?"

"Absolutely; this is a group of amateurs. You and Sam can probably stay in the car."

Steve snorted. "Well, if we would just get in your way."

Nat smirked, then went to get herself some breakfast. "I'll listen in today to see if anyone says anything more about the weapon."

About two hours later, Sam and Steve were mapping out their route away from the building once Nat had the weapon. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw her frowning as she listened to the tapped broadcast. He did not like that frown. "What is it?"

She listened for about ten more seconds. "It sounds like they have a prisoner."

Sam jerked his head up. "What?"

She paused as she listened, then after two minutes she shook her head. "These idiots know nothing. They think he was after the weapon, naturally, but for all they know he could be a political prisoner or hostage." She sighed. "Should've bugged someone more useful."

"This changes things," Steve said.

"A rescue mission makes this more complicated," Nat pointed out.

"Are you suggesting we leave him?"

Nat smiled slightly. "Just making sure you were aware."

"Well, I've never been one to back down from a challenge." He looked at Sam. "You'll be fine alone in the car?"

Sam shrugged. "I can keep the engine running. You sure you won't need help with sneaking in?"

"No. Show me what blueprints you found again, Sam." He had learned several things about subterfuge and stealth over the last year from Nat. He had to.

With their combined intelligence gathering, Steve was able to map out his own route to search for this prisoner. It was likely he was being kept in the basement level of the building, so Steve would start there and work his way up, if need be. As decided before, Steve wanted to go for the non-lethal route, and they had just enough drugs to knock people out to make it happen (one of the good things of running into Fury all those months ago was getting supplies of that nature).

With their plan set, all they had to do now was wait until nightfall.

—----

Nat was right: these guys were amateurs. Steve was certain that she'd be in and out of the building in five minutes, tops. He had the longer route here just because he had to find the room this prisoner was actually being held.

Half the people in the building were asleep on the second floor; those awake were either guarding the mysterious weapon (Nat had them handled) or posted around the perimeter. He only encountered one other guard on the first floor before making his way into the basement. Those he did encounter he stashed away in dark corners so they weren't easily spotted by anyone passing by.

The basement was a little busier. The stairwell led to a long hallway filled with several tiny rooms, one of which was easily seen as occupied the moment he came to the floor. Steve took out two guys in a room at a pair of computers and kept them propped in their chairs. The other rooms in the hall were empty of people, largely filled with storage and detritus.

At the edge of the corridor was another hallway and Steve carefully peered beyond the corner to see if anyone was there. There was a man sitting outside of a door playing on his phone; that was very likely the door Steve was looking for. It was child's play to sneak up at him and jab him in the neck just as he had done with the rest.

He lowered the guard to the floor before he could fall out of his chair, then peered through the small window—hole, really—within the door to take a look inside.

Well, he had definitely found the prisoner. While the light in the room was dim, he could tell that their prisoner didn't appear Indian; his skin was just too light. Steve frowned; what was a foreign national doing dealing with a group that largely dealt with Indian affairs?

It appeared that he had crossed them in some way because the man looked terrible. Bruises and bloody scrapes blossomed across his face; they appeared to be recent hurts, gained in hours or days rather than weeks or months. His dark hair was pressed damp against his head, though from sweat or water, Steve did not know. His clothes were unlike anything Steve's seen in the future so far, at least outside of movies.

Despite his poor state of being, this group had considered their captive enough of a threat to chain him to the wall itself. Steve had no idea wall fetters like that still existed. The man was leaning his head against one of his arms pulled up, though sleeping or unconscious, he couldn't say.

Steve soon discovered neither. As soon as he took the cell door key off the unconscious guard and slotted it into the lock, the man's eyes snapped open and he straightened his position as much as he was able to. And he didn't appear afraid at all. Resigned, perhaps, but not afraid. Interesting. Nat would have quite the analysis on him from just this.

The man's grim resignation turned into outright confusion as Steve opened the door to reveal himself.

"Keep your voice down," Steve warned as he dragged the guard's body from the hallway and into the cell. He carefully shut the door to make it look closed, but left it open a crack in case it locked from the inside. He turned back to the hostage. "We'd rather avoid a full on confrontation if we can."

"Captain America?" Disbelief dripped through every syllable, but he kept his voice low. And he sounded American; that wasn't expected at all.

Steve could not help his unhappy smile. "Not so sure I can call myself that anymore."

The man remained still as Steve closed the distance between them. "Let me get these off," he muttered as he brought up the key again. But he could see the problem immediately—the key was too large for the manacles.

The man was watching him and seemed to catch his realization. "I imagine that one of the leaders has that key," he said, voice flat. Not panicked at all like many others would be if they thought they were so close to freedom and were stuck.

This man was no normal civilian, that much was clear.

Steve, though, had another idea. "Hold on." He took hold of the left manacle and chain, then paused as he caught long scars on the hand accompanied by a tremor that certainly wasn't fear. "This might pinch. Brace yourself."

The man said nothing, but hissed softly as Steve snapped the chain from the manacle as the rough metal scraped against him, despite Steve's best efforts.

"Okay?" Steve said as he slowly let go of the manacle still around his wrist, allowing the man time to gain control of his arm.

"Fine. Don't worry about it."

Steve moved to the other manacle and saw the same patterns of scars on his right hand, as well. He broke the chain with as much care as he could, and this time the man remained silent at the break.

"Can you stand?"

The man was already standing—or at least attempting it. He managed to get up to his feet, but he was leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes were focused on the corner where Steve had deposited the unconscious guard near the door. Steve followed his gaze and saw that beyond the guard was some sort of red fabric in the corner.

"I need that," the man said, leaving no room for argument in his voice. With some bemusement, Steve gathered the long length of red fabric in one hand (a coat?), and with the other dragged the guard to where the hostage once sat so anyone looking in the dimly lit room would make out the figure of a body. So long as no one took a closer look, it would hold until morning.

The man took the red fabric as soon as Steve offered it to him and slung it over his shoulder. Steve caught the glint of silver of what he assumed was some sort of clasp on his coat, and while he was no expert, it looked like the real deal.

"Surprised they didn't take those," Steve said as he nodded to the ornamentation. "Lean on me."

The man did so without protest. Steve couldn't see what was causing the other's inability to fully stand, but that would have to be examined later. He did mutter, though, "They couldn't rip the clasps off. Then they thought they were maybe cursed." For some reason this seemed to amuse the man.

Right, then. "Follow my lead," Steve murmured.

He locked the door behind them and dropped the key in one of the storage rooms within the basement. Steve was slower going out than coming in, but he had been thorough in jabbing everyone and placing them in either hidden areas or in discrete positions, should anyone pass. But for all the rumors of having a powerful weapon, as their security personnel was not what Steve would consider top-rated, he wasn't expecting any change of guard anytime soon.

The building was thankfully small enough that the journey from the cell to the exit was less than five minutes, even at the slowed pace they were forced to go. From the corner of his eye Steve saw the man turn his head at the sight of one of the men stashed on a chair, positioned as if he were asleep rather than drugged.

It wasn't until they were past the building's outer fencing and around a corner that Steve breathed more easily. Perhaps the man sensed it, because he spoke for the first time since they left the cell. "Did you kill them?"

"The guards?"

"Yes."

"No. Just drugged."

Steve felt the man exhale beside him. "Good."

That… wasn't expected. But then again, nothing about this man met any of the preconceptions he originally thought about the person he would be rescuing. "What's your name?"

"Strange."

They turned another corner. "Your name is Strange?"

"Yes."

Fair enough.

"How far are we going?" Strange asked. Steve was supporting more of his weight now, his hidden injury seeming to do a number on him.

"Not far," he assured him. "I've got a car waiting."

"Great." The 'great' sounded oddly sarcastic.

The van was only a couple minutes further, which was good because Strange only seemed to be getting weaker with every step. By the time they turned the final corner to meet it, Strange's left leg fully gave out on him. Steve caught him before he could totally collapse, but he noticed Strange's attention was fully on the van.

"I'm not the only thing you're taking from that building, am I?" he asked between clenched teeth.

How could he possibly know? Steve didn't know how to answer, but before he needed to, Sam was stepping out of the van to assist him. He took in Strange's interesting fashion choices with a raised brow, then took on the role of medic immediately. "Where are you injured?" he asked as he took Strange's other arm. He spared a look at the hand and the manacle, then gripped him on the forearm as he slung it over his shoulders.

"It's complicated," was Strange's cryptic answer. "Nothing you can—" He sharply inhaled, "—help right now."

Once they loaded Strange into the back seat (with his coat on his lap—though it was rather large to be a coat, now that he took a longer look at it), Steve asked Sam quietly as they rounded the car, "You found the weapon?"

"Well, we definitely found what they were hiding, though I'm not so sure I'd call it that," he replied.

What on earth did that mean? Steve sent Sam a look, but held off on any further questions until they were out of immediate danger.

Nat had slipped into the driver's seat as soon as Sam was out of the van, and Sam gave it up with the roll of his eyes. Steve decided to sit in the back with Strange to keep an eye on him as they drove back to their safe house about thirty minutes away. Somehow Strange seemed worse resting in the van than moving. Yes, the road was bumpy and unpaved in many spots, but he would have thought walking from his prison would have been more taxing on him.

As he eyed Strange's clenched fists, tight eyes, and pallor face, he wondered where these hidden injuries lie—and if they were all physical in nature.

Perhaps more importantly, he was wondering what on Earth another American was doing all the way out there in the middle of Uttar Pradesh and far away from any sort of tourist destination (and they had done their research—this was absolutely not an area for tourists).

Apparently he wasn't the only one wondering about him. "So, you gonna tell us who you are and what on earth you're doing all the way out here?" Sam asked, turning himself partially around to look at him.

"If we could save the interrogation for when we're stopped, I would greatly appreciate it," he said without moving his eyes from the center of the windshield.

"Carsick?" Nat asked in that casual way that was anything but casual.

"Yes," Strange said, but Steve wasn't sure if he fully believed him. It was the tight anxiety in his gaze that pointed to something else.

But what it was wasn't important for him to know. Every man had his demons. So Steve said, "His name is Strange."

Sam looked between the two of them, gaze settling on Strange. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Strange said, curt and tense.

"Right," said Sam. He cleared his throat. "Well, Mr Strange, when we get to our little base, we'll take a look at you and see what we can do for your injuries."

At first, Strange didn't seem like he would reply. Then a moment later, after Sam had already turned around and Steve was getting ready to settle in for a long, silent trip, Strange said, "Doctor."

"Pardon?" Steve asked. Sam slightly turned his head.

"It's Doctor Strange."

Well, that just created more questions than it answered.

—---

Doctor Strange could barely walk by the time they made it to the safe house. His lips were pressed tight as he contained what appeared to be excruciating agony. Steve had seen that look on men's faces before in war as they lost limbs and burned from napalm fire.

What sort of wounds was he hiding underneath all his clothing?

"He can take my cot," Sam said. The cots were in a separate, smaller room to the side of the larger room that held their base of operations. Their vital equipment didn't exceed what could fit in a single van should they need to leave fast, but at this point they had acquired decent bedding, more fresh clothing, and a mini-fridge alongside the basic necessities of the trade: their tech, a well-stocked first aid kit, non-perishables to last for several weeks, and a few weapons.

Sam already had their first aid kit by his side as they got Strange to the cot, and Strange collapsed as soon as they let him go. However, when Sam started to undo his belts to his—robes, Steve guessed—to get access to whatever hurts he was hiding, Strange stopped him by grabbing at his arm. But the grip was minimal; Strange's hand was shaking badly enough to continuously jiggle the ugly manacle still there.

"Not—not hurt—physically," he panted.

Sam raised his eyebrows incredulously at the comment. "You've got bruises all over you. Look, with this weakness, you could have a bad internal bleed—"

"No," he hissed. "Listen." His weak grip readjusted itself on Sam's arm. "Move the statuette—away from me."

Steve turned a confused look to Sam, but Sam had stilled and was looking at Strange with narrowed eyes. "How did you—"

"200 feet," he interrupted. "For an hour. You'll see." With that, he finally passed out.

"Statuette?" Steve asked.

"It was what they were protecting." Nat appeared at the door and frowned at Strange as Sam, obviously, ignored his protests and started stripping him down to both attach him to a BPM and to look for any signs of massive trauma. "He shouldn't know that we took it."

Steve frowned. "He said something of the same just as we got to the van."

Nat's eyes narrowed. "Did he, now."

Steve shook his head. "But that doesn't make sense. They were supposed to be holding onto some powerful weapon."

"Whatever our intel, the statuette was definitely the only thing they were truly guarding," Nat said. "Had two men at the entrance and one on the ground below—even more than last night." She kept her narrowed gaze upon Strange. "Maybe he is what caused all the disturbance last night, too."

Steve frowned at the information. "Did anything about it seem suspicious?"

Nat shook her head. "Not from a cursory look. It's just a rather ugly statue made out of stone. Weighs no more than 10 pounds. I was saving the closer examination for when we got back here, though."

"This makes no sense." It was Sam this time, and he was looking at the diagnostics on his small handheld that he had hooked up to Strange.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"His vitals are not what I was expecting. His blood pressure is higher than normal, which is opposite what you'd see with internal bleeding, and none of this bruising is severe. I mean, he should still get himself to a hospital when he can to double check, but I'm not seeing any obvious signs of hemorrhaging."

Nat looked back at Strange. "He's not faking it. He's out."

"I know." Sam worked on cleaning up some of the cuts on Strange's face because they were, apparently, the worst wounds they found. "But from what I can see, he shouldn't be unconscious. I found no head trauma, no major blood loss, and his temperature's stable."

Steve pursed his lips together in thought. The world had gotten very weird the last few years.

Nat read him like a book. "You're going to entertain his idea?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, the world isn't exactly what it used to be," Steve said. "We can try for an hour. Just to see what happens."

Nat canted her head, then nodded slowly. "I know a spot. Be back soon."

—--

Fifteen minutes later, Steve had his chair at the doorway between the beds and the rest of the space as he kept an eye on Strange. Sam was working on repairing some of their surveillance tech while Nat was looking up something at the computers after having returned just a couple minutes ago.

"He said Doctor Strange, right?" Sam asked. "You think, being an American with robes and a cape and all, that he's playing at being some sort of superhero with a secret identity or something?"

Steve blinked and took another look at the red pile of cloth resting at the foot of Strange's cot. Huh, yeah, he supposed it could be a cape. A red cape like Thor's, to boot.

"I'm not so sure," Steve said as he eyed the man. "He didn't act like a civilian playing hero that got in over his head when I found him."

"Not a fake name, either," Nat said, causing the both of them to turn her way. She recited, "Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, MD, PhD. Neurosurgeon. And yes, I found images. It's him, just without the beard and a little less grey hair."

For some reason the name sounded familiar, though Steve had no idea why. He definitely hadn't met the guy before; he was pretty sure he'd remember him if he had.

Sam raised his eyebrows high. "What in the world is a neurosurgeon doing dressed like that in the weeds of Uttar Pradesh?"

"Former neurosurgeon, actually," Nat said with a thoughtful frown. "Last news I can find of him is from early 2016 after he got into a bad car accident. His hospital doesn't list him as a doctor there, anymore."

Steve frowned softly as he looked back at Strange. That would explain his hands. But as Sam said, it didn't explain what he was doing all the way out here. Then he narrowed his gaze as he saw Strange stir—or he thought he saw him move.

Then Steve blinked as he saw the edges of the red cape start rising upward. It reminded him of a cobra. He blinked again, and yea, it was definitely moving a bit like a snake. It was slinking.

"Hey uh, Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Clothing generally doesn't move on its own in this century, right?"

"Uh, what?"

"You better come see this."

Steve felt both Sam and Nat beside him as they watched the cape—definitely a cape, not a coat—extend itself upwards until it was no longer a bundle of cloth at the edge of the bed, but fully extended and covering Strange from the bottom of his neck to his feet.

This cape might've been bigger than Thor's cape.

"So that's definitely not normal, yes?" Steve reiterated.

"Yes, Steve, that's not normal," Nat repeated. "You two sure there wasn't any sort of tech embedded within it?"

"Surveillance would've picked up something," Sam said, which Steve knew that Nat knew.

"Right," she said. "I'd ah, I'd keep my distance from it, gentlemen."

"Right."

"Yep."

—------

Another twenty minutes passed before Steve heard a groan coming from the cot. He looked up from his sketch to watch a minutiae of expressions cross over Strange's face before it settled on the blank expression of a man who woke up in unfamiliar, potentially dangerous situations. Steve saw that expression all the time once, a lifetime ago.

Strange was not just a neurosurgeon, no matter where his internet trail ended. Nearly two years had passed since early 2016, after all—and much of the world had changed since then.

Steve pushed away the troubling, all-too-personal train of thought before it went somewhere dangerous. "Welcome back, Doctor Strange," he said. He kept his distance.

Strange glanced his way with a furrowed brow before a light of understanding came to his eyes. "Ah. Right." He slowly sat up, grimacing softly, frowning down at what was obviously rumpled, disturbed clothing. Speaking of clothing—the cape was floating a bit more now, its collar at the same level as Strange's head.

"Oh, good, I'm glad you're starting to feel better," Strange said, and he was definitely talking to his cape. Steve was certain about it.

"Uh," Steve started, causing Strange's eyes to focus again on him. They were no longer clouded in pain, and he could see the man had an unusually sharp gaze. "Nat was going to remove those manacles off you, but then your cape started moving…" He trailed off.

"It's a cloak," was Strange's absolutely absurd reply.

Steve was saved from replying by Sam joining him. And just out of sight of Strange, Nat lingered, listening. "Hey, doc. How're you feeling?" Steve was pretty sure Sam was mostly staring at the half-floating cape—cloak.

"Much better. Thank you for moving the statuette." He frowned at the manacles on his wrists before making something of an effort to straighten out his robes. The red cloak moved behind him and settled itself upon his shoulders with Strange saying nothing about it.

"Uh, you wanna tell us what that is?" Sam jerked his chin to the cloak as it moved.

"It's a cloak," Strange replied. With eyes that sharp, Steve knew the man was being purposefully obtuse.

"Funny." Sam crossed his arms. "You wanna tell us why it flies?"

"It's called the Cloak of Levitation. That's what it does."

Steve wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or amused by the obfuscation. He settled for something around the realm of exasperation. "Doctor Strange, please." Strange stilled his adjusting and settled his gaze on Steve. "If you would sit down with us," he gestured past his shoulder to the main room, "Natasha can remove the manacles while you answer a few questions."

Strange pursed his lips. "I don't suppose you'll let me go without answers," he said dryly, but he stood up. Steve stood as well to give Strange ample room to pass.

Steve could feel Nat stepping into line of sight just behind him. "Consider it payment for us getting you out of there."

Strange huffed as he stepped through into the main room; with his so-called cloak, his whole ensemble had an odd feeling of completion that was missing prior. "I thought the Avengers were meant to be altruistic." Steve had been pretty certain that Strange knew who the other two were, but that at least confirmed it.

Nat smiled. "Some of us are more altruistic than others." She nodded to the table where the laptops were sitting a minute ago, but were now closed and set aside. "Sit."

Steve was more than happy to leave the bulk of the interrogation to Nat. He retook his chair and Sam went back to his tech maintenance corner while Strange sat adjacent to Nat at the center table.

With her left hand, Nat slid her fingers underneath the manacle to offer some cushioning between the metal and Strange's skin, certainly raw from the metal and more sensitive with whatever lay underneath his skin now. Steve knew, only after being with her for so long, that it was yet another way she could better tell truth from lies by being right on top of his pulse.

She had never forgotten her years and years of training.

"Why were you being held in that building?" she started as she flicked open the pick.

Strange narrowed his eyes at the question. "The same reason you were drawn to it."

"And you were caught trying to take it."

"Well," Strange said, "I was not expecting to have such an adverse reaction."

Nat kept her gaze on the manacle, seemingly. Steve wouldn't doubt that she was looking up at Strange through her lashes at pertinent moments. "We came because we heard there was a powerful weapon being held there," she said slowly, "but it seems only to affect you."

Strange didn't reply, at first. "Was there a question in that statement, Miss Romanoff?"

Nat smiled. "You know my question, Doctor Strange."

Strange, again, considered his words. "And what would you do with that knowledge?"

Something that looked like true confusion flickered across Nat's expression. Steve doubted Strange caught it, but after all these years, he did. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be obtuse," Strange said, and there was an edge to his voice, suddenly. "After all, it was not even four years ago that the very agency you worked for created a weapon to kill millions. What am I to think of a person who worked for such an organization?"

The flash of something real crossing through Nat's eyes was so fast that Steve wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't just imagined it. "And all of us here were part of the team that exposed that plot." The first manacle clicked open, and Nat removed it, allowing Strange to take his wrist to rub it. "And when the worlds' governments tried to force us to sign a document that we believed endangered the world's freedom, we ran. And here we are."

Strange stared at her wordlessly, and they held a battle of wills. He had seen this expression on Nat very few times. The first she started showing it to him was when they really started working together, when—

Steve suddenly remembered. "Hydra!" At his exclamation, the battle of wills was dropped as everyone looked to him, but his eyes were again on Strange. "During Project Insight—one of their high level goons mentioned your name, your name and a few others—as he explained exactly what the algorithm was written to do." He looked at the other two. "Sitwell on the rooftop, remember?"

Realization came to them and they looked again at Strange, perhaps in a different light. "He did mention you," Sam said, pointing a screwdriver his way.

Strange cleared his throat. "That was in 2014, years before… this. They couldn't have known this would happen to me."

"And what is 'this', Doctor Strange?" Nat asked. She gestured for his left hand, and Strange gave it to her wordlessly. As she slipped her fingers underneath the metal and against his wrist, she asked, "What makes you different from us that the statue would only be an effective weapon against you?"

The silence sat. Strange said nothing, and it remained steady until the second manacle clicked open. Natasha removed it and stared at him for a moment, but when he remained still, she simply nodded and stood. "Steve can help you make arrangements to get back to where you need to go," is all she said, and turned to leave.

"Magic."

Nat stopped mid-step.

"The statuette has an adverse effect upon people who practice what you would call magic."

Sam was the first to break the silence. "Wait, do you mean 'You're a wizard, Harry,' type of magic?"

Strange's carefully blank expression fell away into a look of distaste. "The preferred term is sorcerer."

"A sorcerer is just a wizard without a hat," Sam said in return, and Strange's expression went through the whole range between gobsmacked and irritation, and back again.

Steve stepped in before Sam was completely eviscerated. "Right, so the statuette's bad news. What did you want to do with it?"

Strange seemed surprised by the question. "If it were up to me, I'd have it destroyed; were that impossible, burying it several miles deep or throwing it into the Mariana Trench is a good alternative. I'd say it could be placed in another dimension, but I'd be worried about another intelligent species potentially coming across it."

Right, dimensions. That was—something. Steve just nodded, as if all of that sounded perfectly reasonable and not completely insane.

Still, there was something Strange wasn't saying, and Steve had to make sure. "And these adverse effects—they're not permanent?"

"They're not."

"You sure?" Sam asked. "You were pretty badly off there for a time."

Strange cleared his throat. "I had been within near proximity to the object for almost a day, and the car ride's enforced closeness simply exacerbated the symptoms. They were unpleasant, but not permanent for the length of time I was exposed."

Steve narrowed his eyes; 'unpleasant' was a soldier's word for 'agonizing, but it didn't kill me so I'll be fine.' And Strange had the gaze of a man who had seen battle.

The other two noticed, naturally. They were both soldiers too. But it was Nat who prodded, to see just how much she could glean. It was almost instinctual for her to do so, Steve thought. "Sam is right to be concerned. You were near catatonic by the time the drive was through."

Strange's lip twitched upward in displeasure. He would allow some prying to establish—what? Some sort of basic trust? Whatever it was, it only went so far, and when Strange said, "I'm fine, thank you," Nat laid off with a raised hand and a slight smile.

Steve switched topics. "If you knew this statuette was so dangerous, why did you go in alone?" At Strange's quirked brow, Steve explained, "I assume there's more than one sorcerer around. You had to learn it from someone. You needed backup." Steve allowed a tone of disapproval to shine through his last sentence.

Strange heard it and rose up to it. "The statuette hasn't been encountered for quite some time, so its intensity wasn't known to any living sorcerer. Besides, we thought it was something else entirely here. If we'd known it was the statuette, we would have used a completely different strategy in retrieving it. On that note," he said, tone moving to decisive and unrelenting, "I'd like my phone call, now."

"Your what?" Sam asked.

"Well, Miss Romanoff said you'd be assisting me in getting out of here," Strange said. "To do that, I need to call somebody."

Steve nodded, though that statement led to more questions as to how Strange got out here in the first place. Did that mean there were other sorcerers in the vicinity?

They had several burner phones as part of their stash. Nat selected one not on their persons, so not yet in active use. Depending on what happened here would determine if they kept it or threw it out after this.

Strange nodded in thanks and dialed a number slowly enough that it didn't take a spy to read his movement, should he decide to steal the phone for some reason. Steve didn't think he would. Besides, if he was more concerned about keeping the number private, he certainly wouldn't have dialed it in front of Nat.

Regardless, it took about ten seconds from Strange lifting the phone to his ear for him to start talking. He stood as he did and began to slowly pace during the conversation.

"Wong, it's Stephen. I have good news and bad news." A pause. "The good news is that it wasn't the Jade of Antioch. The bad news is that it's the Empirikul Statuette."

Another pause. "Oh yeah, it's as bad as the books say it is. Can't say I recommend the experience." His cloak was swaying quite a bit. Was that natural? "The Avengers. Or, well, three former ones, I guess." Another pause. "Yeah, them. And yes. Where do you think I found a phone?" Pause. "Why would I have my wallet on me? That's an awful idea. It would've been taken from me if I had brought it."

Strange paused mid-stride as the response on the other side went for a few seconds longer than the other replies. "It wasn't—you're exaggerating. No, it wasn't that bad. The issue was the Empirikul Statuette, not the guys holding onto it. It wasn't even a day. I'm fine. But they did take my sling ring, so."

Strange rolled his eyes after another pause. "Look, it could have happened to anyone. It was just my luck that I went searching rather than someone else." He huffed in annoyance. "I just need someone to pick me up. Can you do that?" Another pause. "It's not in my immediate vicinity, but it's still too close. Give me ten minutes to walk—not going to chance the Cloak right now." A beat. "Yep. Right. Bye." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Steve. "If that's all, I should be on my way."

That phone call had only made him more curious about Strange. And when Steve exchanged looks with Sam, he could see the same on his face.

And apparently Nat wasn't going to let it go so easily, either. "This area can be dangerous at night," she said. "We'll escort you to a safe spot."

"That won't be necessary," Strange said. He set the phone back down on the table. "I can take care of myself."

Sam asked, "Your powers are fully back, then?"

Strange pressed his lips together at the question. He answered, "As I said, I can handle myself."

"So that's a no," Sam supplied.

"We wouldn't want anything to happen to you," Steve added.

Strange looked between the three of them, then exhaled in resignation. "You'd follow me regardless, wouldn't you?"

Nat smiled at him. "Wouldn't want our hard work to go to waste."

Strange rolled his eyes and gestured to the door. "Lead the way to this 'safe spot', then. Away from the statuette, if you would."

"Gladly." Nat headed to the door and Strange followed. Sam followed and Steve did as well because of course he wanted to see where this went. Before leaving, he swiped the burner phone Strange had left and slipped it into his pocket.

Nat led them through the dark back alleys southward of their hideout. In a few minutes, they were at a dead-end corridor nestled between three silent industrial buildings. "How's here?" she asked as she looked at Strange.

Strange's brow furrowed and he looked at his hands and made a gesture, then suddenly a bunch of golden sparks appeared on the tips of his fingers. "Here is far enough," he said.

Steve exchanged a look with Sam, and the latter asked, "So… what exactly can you do with magic?"

"Many things," Strange said as lowered his hands again.

Steve frowned at the vagueness of the answer. "And what is it that you do use your powers for, doctor?"

Strange looked at Steve again, his gaze considering. After a moment, he said, "When I was still learning the Mystic Arts, I was told that the Avengers handled physical threats to the world, while sorcerers handled more mystical threats—a countless number of them."

Sam folded his arms. "And that statuette is one of these so-called mystical threats?"

"In a way. In the wrong hands, it could cause a catastrophe." Strange waved his hand. "But I was thinking more along the lines of extra-dimensional entities that would enjoy consuming the Earth."

Nat tilted her head. "And do you come across those often?"

"More often than you would think," said Strange.

Suddenly, golden sparks appeared in the air behind Strange up against the wall. Nat took a step back, hand on her holster, and Steve felt Sam tense beside him. Strange, however, just turned and said, "And here's my ride."

The golden sparks widened into a circle large enough for anyone to walk through it. On the other side was a room and another man, Asian, dressed in brown robes and looking exasperated. "Strange."

"Wong." Strange stepped through the circle to the other side.

This so-called Wong glanced at Steve, then Nat and Sam. "Thank you for the assistance. We'll take care of the relic from here."

"Relic?" Sam asked.

"The statuette. You won't find any use for it, I assure you."

Nat narrowed her eyes but didn't argue. Steve decided to keep it simple. "Happy to help. You can, uh, call on us if you ever need assistance." He held the burner phone up.

Strange shot him a raised eyebrow. Wong's expression, however, remained even. "You should hope that day never comes, Captain." With that, the golden circle closed, leaving the three alone in the dark once more.

"Are we just gonna let them take the statuette?" Sam asked.

Nat's lips were pursed. "They may already have. He was able to get to Strange without knowing where he was physically. And if they were able to find the statuette in the first place without any sort of scouting and they now know it's in this area, I suspect that they could have moved it since they can travel with portals like that."

"He was right in that there's not much we can do with it," Steve said as he opened up the burner phone. "We can take a look to see if it's in the hiding spot or not anymore." He pulled up the last called number. "Either of you know what country code +977 is for?"

Nat was faster with searching. "Nepal."

"Huh. They're right next door." Steve closed the phone. "Still, I'll keep this phone handy. They may prove to be useful allies in the future."

Sam sighed. "So I guess it's now the big three rather than the big two that we gotta keep an eye out for."

"What?" Steve asked as they headed out of the alley.

"Well, it was just robots and aliens before. Now it's robots, aliens, and wizards. Or at least magical 'entities', whatever that means."

Steve huffed in amusement. "Well, we certainly do live in interesting times."

"Can't argue against that."

—----

The history of going after weapons in Syria then Lebanon, and getting picked up by Nick Fury are actually from the MCU Prelude comics! Those are considered backstory canon so I definitely recommend giving them a read, they're really interesting and fill in some holes for a lot of Avengers-related stuff around AOU, CW, and IW. (The Doctor Strange ones are really great, too.)

According to Wiki, Nat spoke *at least* 11 languages. I'm not sure how much of this is from the MCU or not. But I figured her having another language under her belt wasn't the most insane thing in the world.

The "jab to instant unconsciousness" isn't a thing in the real world, but it was established as existing in the MCU in FFH, so it makes these non-lethal special ops missions much easier. It's a fun trope so I certainly don't blame Hollywood for having it.

Finally, the Empirikul Statuette is a made up item, named as a nod to the Empirikuls, who in the comics kill all magic—items, books, users, etc. So an item that makes magic inert and makes magic users suffer in its presence seemed an appropriate item to name after them.

#stephen strange #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #doctor strange fanfiction #whump #a bit at least #prompt fill #mcu #my writing #my fanfiction #fanfic

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abluescarfonwaston · 2 years

Text

Thinking about Kotetsu frantically applying to hero work everywhere he can after he graduates high school. Getting rejected over and over again. The rare times he Does get an interview he bombs all of them. Talking face in the cement. He is shit at lying about how he cares about the company’s sponsors. About how he Totally wants to be famous and do all the other shit heroes do. (No I just- I just want to save people. But whatever I’ll do the rest of it. Please just-)

“You should know who sponsors them and demonstrate you’ll be a good advocate for their products.” So reads Tomoe from the ‘how to ace your hero interviews’ books and magazines they’ve bought. He manages fine until the interviewer’s tone goes less formal and she asks him what he likes to drink. He laughs and says he actually likes [rival company] better but [their company] is fine. Although he worked at a place and the machines always filled with crickets- is that normal? [He KNOWS ABOUT THE CRICKETS GET HIM OUT OF HERE] And that’s the Best interview he has with marketing. Usually he forgets the sponsors name or ends up spitting the food or drink out. Coughing from the cologne. Explaining ‘oh yeah we got a bookshelf from there. I broke it trying to put it together. Real shit wood.’

‘You should demonstrate a love for the camera. Making sure to place yourself and your logos in clear view. The applicants who score the most during simulations often make it to the next round.” The simulation starts. Camera’s rolling. Everyone is jockeying for the limelight and best way to stand out. Kotetsu heard someone yell ‘help’ and raced in before the camera could even check his number. He scores a decent amount of points but...

“And never forget! No matter how many points you score or sponsors you enamor you won’t land a job if they think you’ll cost more than you bring in. Don’t destroy Anything you don’t have to during the simulation!”

Kotetsu falls to the floor. He’s not crying. He’s Not okay? Not at the ‘too destructive’ evaluation result printed in bright red. Tomoe’s shoulders fall as she stares at him. Pool of tears growing before she pulls him up and into her shoulder. “It’ll work out Kotetsu. You are a hero. My hero. One of these days someone will see that.” Crushes him in her arms. “So we just have to keep trying! Start writing those cover letters!”

He’s almost twenty five. Dragging himself to one more interview burning up his vacation time with an extended lunch at work (shouldn’t you be spending it with Tomoe or something? Not chasing dreams.) and already writing the rejection letter in his head. ‘Mr Kotetsu we regret to inform you that at this time-” So he’s not exactly in the best headspace going in.

Stumbles over the company’s sponsors. Shoulders slump as legal frowns at his results. (High points. damage totals exceed-) Marketing smiles at his head and body shots but frown at his work uniform and the exhausted bags under his eyes. (Didn’t even have the sense to change before the interview. unprofessional)

The interviewer -Ben? Was that his name?- stares at him. He pinches his leg and forces himself to sit up straight. He’s so tired. Covering Miranda’s shift was probably a mistake but... “Sorry... Could you repeat that?” She needed the time off. She’d been so worried about her dad the last few weeks.

“I asked about your work history. Seems pretty interesting to me.” Tracks up and down his uniform. "Did you come here straight from work?”

“Yeah. I uh... did.” He thinks he got most of the blood off. Not that he had much time to check. “I worked in avalanche search and rescue during the winters while i was at university and the volunteer fire department the rest of the year.”

“And now you work for the paramedics.” He nodded. If they were going to turn him down, couldn’t they do it already? He was supposed to be back. “So why hero work then? You’re already helping people.”

His hands dug into his knees. “Because...” Ground his teeth. “I have these powers for a reason. To help people. To save them.” Not that anyone would let him. “That’s what Mr. Legend told me. I’ve wanted to be a hero ever sense. It’s all I want to do.”

Let me prove my powers are not a curse. They are made for more than destruction and violence. They are for saving people. That I was made to save people.

“Please.” Bows his head. Heroes must be brave. Fearless. Strong. They don’t cry in a prospective bosses office because that hope and confidence that once burned like an inferno flickers in his chest like a candle’s dying flame. “Let me be a hero.”

The man is quiet for a time. Exhaustion sinks back into his bones. Time to go Kotetsu. You got another 9 hours left on your shift.

“What song do you do chest compressions to?” The man asks just as he grabs his coat to leave. He pauses, one arm in the sleeve that does not match his paramedic uniform even slightly. Answers. “That’s a good one Mr. Kaburagi. We should have news for you soon.”

He nods. Waves a thanks and leaves. Auto form email already in his head, if not his inbox.

Almost deletes it on auto pilot when they email him a few days later. But... there’s an attachment. That’s never happened before. Stares at it. Calls Tomoe down to read it for him because that can’t be right.

“Attached is your offer letter and Oh my god! Kotetsu! It’s happening!” Hugs him around the neck as he sits in stunned silence before picking her up and spinning her round.

“It’s happening. I’m going to be Wild Tiger. I’m gonna be a hero. I’m gonna be a hero.”

#kotetsu t. kaburagi #tiger and bunny #kotetsu kaburagi #if canon won't tell me what he did all that time i will write it myself #its free real estate #long post #tomoe kaburagi #Ben really was out there like look at this mess. this expensive destructive mess #he's got the spirit. the heart #we gotta do it

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annaphoenix1994 · 9 months

Text

Ch.128 - Dipshits.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist 1; Masterlist 2 - Next Chapter

Kiera discusses her next strategy with Rob; Simon catches Baler falling in with the wrong crowd by playing Cowboy Poker.

“It’s about time you showed up for lunch!” Robert chuckled while he joined her in her office, sitting down at the small table that was close to the window, looking out towards the vague frame of the Tetons in the far distance, only knowing the mountain range due to its shape alone. “I got you a chicken wrap from the café. Hope you weren’t craving anything else.”

“That’s fine, Rob. Thank you.” Kiera shook her head, kindly accepting the fresh chicken Caesar wrap he had brought her as a kind gesture.

As well as a reward for helping him make a fuck ton of money within the last few months.

“So, are you excited to finally be taking full control of this office?”

“Terrified, but it’s how I learn.” She shrugged.

“Well, what’s your first move?”

“For one, I’m going to take down Jenkins. Any fucking way I can,” She scoffed, eagerly curling her index finger under the tab of her can of Dr. Pepper. “You get these land developers like him who find pristine recreational property, build whatever they desire and sell the dream – no major problems arise unless you have cocksuckers like Jenkins who desire to take it further: building hotels and casinos. They all end up leaving because they can’t generate enough cash flow after trying to turn it into New York City.”

“That’s right. You can’t make a big business out of raw land with real estate.” Rob nodded.

“Exactly.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“We set up a fund – a fund that buys land and puts it into a conservation easement which cuts the property tax by 2/3’s by the end of the year. Then we go to the Department of Agriculture and enroll the land in a CRP.”

“What’s a CRP?”

“It’s the federal government paying us not to farm it.”

Rob scoffed, “Now why would the federal government willingly pay its citizens not to do something that brings in revenue? That just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“To control the supply. They won’t have to worry about local farmers – or people like Jenkins – diluting the market. It’s shit, but it’s a benefit for us.”

“What’s the turnaround look like?”

Kiera shrugged, “A government pay per acre, per year depending on land. The last I checked in Wyoming, it’s between $200-$300 an acre. That also goes for Montana, Utah, and Colorado – except Colorado is more stingy with where its money goes.”

“So the government will pay the land off for us in seven years?”

“We’ll pretty much become landlords who are paid not to rent.”

“Hm. Sounds like a pyramid scheme.”

“With the government at the bottom for once, then yeah. Let’s start with a $100,000,000 investment in land, then we funnel the CRP funds into more land purchases and buy probably up to 30,000 acres per year without spending a dime. We make a profit by year two with a net revenue of $45,000,000 per year.”

“The more we buy, the more the number increases?”

“Sound like a good retirement plan for you?”

“Of course it does, but why hasn’t anyone does this before?”

“They can’t afford it, but we can.”

“What’s in it for you, Kiera?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Something is buried within you.”

“I’m just doing my job,” She assured him. “And I’m doing the best I can to protect my father’s ranch and legacy for as long as I can.”

“I understand,” Rob nodded. “We’ll put the land into the hedge fund and use the brokers to buy up the land. Don’t haggle on price, Kiera. You know what to do.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have given me the reins.”

Kiera’s fingers ached with as much as she had been typing on her computer, silently thankful that she had forced herself to upgrade from the slow HP desktop to an iMac, which hit the spot on her aesthetic, finding herself to be slightly more organized than she thought. Impressive, she mused.

Breaking her gaze from her computer, her head throbbed once she broke her focus to look for the source of the vibrations from her phone. Shit, already 5:00? “Hey.”

“What’re you up to, love?” Simon asked softly on the other end of the phone.

“Getting ready to have a meeting with a realtor who’s selling land around the ranch. Going to make an offer on it.”

“Rolling in the bread, yeah?”

She scoffed, “If only it was our money…”

“I’m sure I’d see signs,” He chuckled. “Coming home after?”

“Most definitely. My eyes have been so strained and my head has been hurting since I came in this morning. I ran into our buddy this morning.”

“Who?”

“Jenkins. I stopped at the diner for breakfast because I was craving strawberry banana pancakes and knew Ruby was there. That fucker was there, too. Me and him had a little word.”

“I bet that went well.”

“About like you could imagine. Couldn’t keep my big mouth shut.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” He poked. “So… Cravings, huh?”

She swore she had heard him smile at the thought.

“It’s been a few weeks now… I need to check and see if we have another one on the way,” She giggled. “Guess I have a stop to make on my way home, huh?”

“I’d love to see that. Your daughter has been babbling dada all day and I’ve been on a Cloud 9. If only I can get Jacob to finally talk without saying gibberish.”

“That’s because they’re babies, Simon,” She scoffed playfully. “The realtor’s coming in. This shouldn’t take long. Want me to call you back?”

“You can call me back or I can mute myself, love. I’m just sitting on the couch watching Evie and Jacob sleep.”

“Where’s Baler?”

“Bunkhouse. He and Johnny have been bullying each other about playing poker and Teeter kept instigating it, so that’s what he’s been doing since he’s been home from school.”

“Christ, that boy,” Kiera shook her head, glancing up at the realtor who had walked in, setting his briefcase down next to him in the chair while he sat in front of Kiera’s desk.

“Did I come in at a wrong time?” He asked, his tone nearly irritated at not only the fact that he had to deal with a woman, but being a man of strict order when it came to appointments. When you say to be here at 5:00, I expect you to be ready, not talking on the phone. Fucking women.

Oh, but he had no idea what he was up against…

And she noticed this, making it a point to piss him off even more for her own benefit. “Just mute yourself, Simon.” She advised, also sending him a quick text to inform him that he wanted to hear the rest of the conversation.

“What’ve you got for me, David?” She asked, watching him huff before stacking a file on her desk with the plot of land that he was able to provide for her that was for sale.

“Hope this best suits your needs.” He commented.

She arched her brow as she looked over the file as well as the photos that he had taken for the marketing on his iPad. “How many acres?”

“418. Asking price is $6,000.000. Has a water source, two houses, a separate garage, horse barn, indoor arena that’s air-conditioned and heated. The whole nine yards.”

“How motivated are the sellers?”

David scoffed, “Well, they thought spending the winter here was better than being in South Carolina. You tell me.”

You cocky motherfucker, she scoffed to herself. I’m going to ruin your ego in a few minutes. “Offer $4,000,000. No escrow – cash. One week close.”

“Wouldn’t you want to see it first?”

“Seeing it now.”

“Okay… You didn’t strike me as the type that would just buy something without seeing it.”

“You’d be surprised, buddy,” She retorted. “No negotiations. Offer the four and a week close. Surely they’d be eager to move back east for a mild winter.”

“Care to see one more that might better suit your interest?”

“Why not.”

David nodded, removing another file from his briefcase before setting it on her desk, taking the iPad and opening the other folder for his next proposal. “800 acres that ties into the national forest on the west, view of the Grand Tetons from the back patio, nothing but hunting land. It’s not available, but I know the people—”

“Then why are you showing it to me?”

“You… Wanted to see every large plot in the northwest part of Wyoming?”

“For sale.”

A brief moment of silence fell between the two, making dominant eye contact as if they were challenging each other. “It’s called Wren Acres.”

“Why’s it named after a wren?” She questioned curiously, truly wondering why a plot of land would be called something opposite to what species resided there.

“Who the fuck knows,” David scoffed. “Maybe it’s because they’re from South Carolina?”

“What’s with the wit, David?” Kiera asked softly, her adrenaline pumping as she was eager to make another man mad that she would be questioning his dominance. “Quick math for your commission making you feel eager? Damn, you’re showing us properties that aren’t even for sale. Man, you’re on a roll. Might go home and lay some pipe to the ole’ lady.”

He scoffed in astonishment as well as surprise. It’s kinda hot when a woman thinks she can be more assertive than me… “Wha-?”

“Get out of my office.”

“Kiera, I don’t—”

“Get the fuck out of my office. When you make a proposal, fax it to me so I don’t have to look at you again.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

“You won’t or I will,” She shrugged. “You can lose your commission and I’ll go and lay pipe to your ole lady. Your choice.”

He scoffed, gathering his files and iPad before stuffing them back into his briefcase. “I’d like to see that.”

“I bet you would. Go write up the offer so I don’t have to. When you get your commission I want you to shove it so far up your waxed ass,” She scoffed, glaring at him while she watched him storm out of her office before mumbling, “Fuck, I hate real estate agents.” To Simon once she directed her conversation back at him, hearing him chuckling at her conversation while patiently waiting for it to end, although a part of him hoped it wouldn’t end, he quite thoroughly enjoyed watching Kiera be assertive to people, including him. It’s so bloody sexy when she tells me like it is, he mused to himself. “You remind me every day why I’m glad to be on your good side, love.”

“Did I forget to mute you?”

“Sure did, but I don’t mind. At least I was assured that you didn’t have another man in your office for another type of meeting…” He poked.

“That’s tomorrow,” She scoffed back, her tone nearly assertive, even though sarcasm was a thick underlier. “I’m finishing up and heading home. What do you want for dinner?”

“Remember, it’s Friday. Your mum was going to cook dinner and we go over there.”

“That’s right. I forgot to call her earlier—”

“Don’t stress about it. She called me and I took the kids over there around noon. She asked me to help her hang a few frames around the house that the poor lass couldn’t reach.”

“Awe, look at you being a house-husband.”

“Gotta do something while I’m on time off from work. Feels nice to do nothing with something on occasion.”

“I’m sure, babe. I’m heading to the truck now. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Be safe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Got a whole hand of ‘em, boys!” Frankie taunted the others, his free hand full of cards while the other clutched a bottle of beer.

“Easy to say when you’re not in it.” Dirk teased from across the table.

“What’s eatin’ you, Baler? I know that’s not your poker face!” Lawson snickered, nudging the teen with his elbow.

“Yeah, you look like you’re about to take a shite!” Johnny laughed, tossing into the blind that sat piled in the middle of the table.

“Maybe I am…” Baler sighed, the corner of his mouth raising into a smirk before tossing the winning draw onto the table, watching the rest of the playing wranglers sigh in defeat.

“You son of a bitch!” Frankie sighed, folding his hand before twining his fingers behind his head while Lawson tossed his ballcap to the floor.

“Is this all we’re gonna do?” Teeter groaned impatiently.

“It’s what we always do?...” Frankie answered, his brows furrowed.

“Is it just one set of nuts y’all share?” She taunted, making Dirk laugh.

“Aside from the ones I’m wearing, I think your lady has the only ones in this room.”

“You’re probably right, mate.” Johnny huffed, his face flushed.

“When I was your age, we were out in the arena playing real poker… Cowboy Poker.”

“Now that sounds fun!” Teeter chimed.

“Wh-What is that?” Johnny asked.

“Oh, it’s real fun, baby. Involves a lot of whiskey and gettin’ a lil dirty!” She mused, leaning down from behind him to kiss his cheek.

“What exactly is it?” Baler asked, his expression just as confused as Johnny’s.

“We’re not playing it, so it doesn’t matter.” Frankie answered abruptly, shaking his head and beginning to shuffle a deck of cards.

“Bock… Bock, bock…” Dirk trailed off, chewing on the end of his cigar.

“That old fart is taunting me!” Baler scoffed. “Let’s do it.”

“Boy, your balls haven’t even dropped yet and you’re wanting to risk not ever growing them!” Lawson sighed.

“And your dad will kill us.” Johnny reminded, arching his brow. “Especially me for letting you do it.”

“Afraid you all will lose? It’s a damn shame mine haven’t even dropped and I have more balls than all of you combined.” Baler shrugged.

“Goddammit,” Frankie sighed. “Let’s go.”

All members of the table stood to their feet, anxious and ready for whatever this so-called game was. Knowing that it was taking place in an arena, it was about to get messier than what Teeter had explained.

“Don’t worry, baby! Ye be alright! I’m gonna stay behind the fence here!” Teeter snickered, clasping her hands over Johnny’s shoulders as she stood behind him once he sat down in the plastic chair, setting an open bottle of whiskey in his lap before her lips rested on his temple. “Drink up. Ye gonna need some liquid courage!”

Johnny nodded, never hesitating before taking a large sip of the liquor before passing it to Frankie, watching him repeat the motion before he passed it to Lawson, watching him take a small swig before passing it to Baler, shocked to see him take a drink just like Simon would as well as never making a sour face after he swallowed.

“Goddamn, kid, you stealin’ whiskey when your dad ain’t home?” Dirk commented, surprised.

“Nah, I just had a rough life before this place, old man,” He retorted. “More liquid courage, Frankie? You look like a puss right now.”

“Fuck you. You sound just like my sister.” He retorted, referring to Kiera as she was his sibling.

“Taught me well, didn’t she?”

“Now, what’s the rules?”

“Last one at the table keeps the pot,” Lawson answered, his form visibly trembling from adrenaline and fear. “Pass me some more of that.”

“Drink up, dipshits,” Dirk laughed. “You’re going to need it.”

“You two are getting horse traded by this old bastard and he isn’t even drinking anything.” Baler taunted.

“This is fucking nuts!” Lawson shouted, desperate to pump himself up to hide his fear.

“Quit crying!” Baler scoffed. “We’re ready!”

“Yeah, there’s not a lot smart about this…” Frankie sighed.

“Here we go, ladies,” Baler continued, taking a final long swig of the burning whiskey before shouting, “Ready!”

Johnny took a deep breath when he heard the gate open, a set of thunderous hooves colliding with the sand while Teeter shouted at the bovine, the radio that was perched on the ground to provide as background music blared Mud by Whiskey Myers as the bull charged into the arena, looking around frantically before setting its sights on the table in the middle of the arena, each player sitting as still as they possibly could as the bull charged closer, bowing its head for its desired impact, Baler sitting on the other end of the table and physically watched the bull charge as if it were charging at just him.

With a sharp thud and the air kicked from his lungs, Baler steadily stood on his feet to flee to the nearest fence, watching as he was the last one in the arena, unaware that the other players had fled with adrenaline after being rammed by the bull, Johnny and Teeter both encouraging Baler to run with adrenaline still coursing through their veins, Dirk’s aching limbs helping the teenager over the top of the fence rail with a laugh while he did his best to dust him off. “That’s some cowboy shit, boy!” He shouted with excitement.

“That’s… That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!” He laughed. “But that was fucking awesome!”

“Ye okay baby, no missin’ teeth?! Your pecker still on right? I ain’t need no limp’n!” Teeter questioned Johnny, looking him over while he gasped for air and clutched his ribs.

“I’m fine, bonnie. Bastard hit me right in the ribs.” He groaned.

“Balls of steel!” Frankie laughed, patting Baler on the shoulder as he limped towards the barn, regrouping with the rest of the wranglers as they all gasped for air.

“Are you alright?”

“Fuckin’ peachy.” Baler groaned, wiping the blood from his nose.

“You might need this.” Lawson said, reaching the bottle of leftover whiskey to the teen as he took it eagerly, finishing it off without a second thought, even if Simon had just walked towards the arena to investigate the commotion, the wranglers unaware that the blaring music had caught his attention as it was very rare of the wranglers to throw a “party.”

“He lost his hat, so he owes us a six pack and a new radio.” Frankie teased, the players still unaware of Simon’s deathly gaze as he was storming towards them.

“The fuck I do!” Baler scoffed. “Give me my money!”

“Fine!” He scoffed, slapping the fifty-dollar bill into the teen’s palm, watching with a scowl as he had eagerly fisted it into his back pocket.

“What the fuck are you bastards doing?” Simon shouted.

The wranglers were wide-eyed, looking like a bunch of deer in oncoming headlights, nearly scared out of their wits and suddenly wishing they were caught slacking on the job instead of what they had just done, the worst of it willingly letting a teenager drink whiskey like an old man.

“Uhm… It’s Friday.” Baler answered for them, hoping that the day of the week would at least help him and the wranglers out of this situation.

“I know what bloody day it is, lad!” He shouted. “Why were you in the arena with that bull and why are you bloody?!”

“We were tryin’ to milk him!” Teeter snickered, knowing that Simon wouldn’t be as inclined to scold her in front of Johnny.

Boy, what she wrong.

“Not the fucking time,” He glared, more irritated that his son was battered and bloody – something that always drove under his skin as he always felt he needed to be the one to protect him, even in his wrong decisions. But Simon wouldn’t admit that he was impressed with the kid. You just took a beating by a two-thousand pound bull and still got up. You have some serious guts, kid. “Lad, go to the house and tell your mum what you just did.”

“N-No, I—”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

Then, the teen did something that truly caught Simon off guard. He scoffed at him.

Simon arched his brow – a warning. “Get the furball out, then go to the house and tell your mum what you just did.”

Baler scoffed again.

“If you *scoffing sound* one more time, I’ll choke you for real.”

The rest of the wranglers laughed as Baler limped away in defeat.

“Balls of steel when it comes to a bull, but going home like a kitten when he’s in trouble.” Lawson teased.

“I’d be more afraid of going home if I were him,” Dirk shrugged. “That bull is the least of my worries if it comes down to dealing with Kiera as mad as a wet hen.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I forgot she beat the shit out of Frankie a couple of years ago.” Lawson snickered, nudging Frankie with his elbow before Simon quickly took control of the situation and grasped their coats, knocking them off balance before shoving them back towards the bunkhouse.

“You all get out of here and get yourselves cleaned up. Four a.m. comes early!”

“We never get up at four on Saturday—” Dirk pleaded.

“You all will tomorrow,” He glared. “Maybe you all will learn once you decide to not mess with a bloody rabid bull.”

“Yes, sir.” Dirk nodded, respecting Simon’s leadership as well as understanding his reason for being upset, joining the rest of the wranglers to the bunkhouse, Teeter helping the old man walk as Johnny stayed behind in an attempt to stay on Simon’s good side.

Like a dog who had just been punished.

“You, especially.” He scoffed, arching his brow at Johnny.

“I’m sorry, Simon. It was all just fun—”

“Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”

“Pretty fuckin’ rough,” He breathed a laugh, stuffing his freezing hands into his jacket pockets. “What’re you wanting us to do in the morning?”

“In case you forgot, you said you were coming hunting with me and the boy tomorrow.”

“I’d rather work,” Johnny sighed. “Hunting with you is like a recon mission. After being with Teeter for so long, I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut for longer than an hour.”

“You’ve never been able to keep your mouth shut,” Simon retorted. “Who won?”

“Your kid. Little bastard never moved.” Johnny huffed, relieved once he saw a prideful smile spread across Simon’s face at his answer.

“Is that right?”

“The kid is a walking stick of dynamite. He’s a perfect mix of you and Kiera and he isn’t even blood-related to you. Makes me wonder how your actual kids will turn out.” He poked.

“I can assure you, if my daughter grows up with Kiera’s attitude and my stubbornness and I catch her out here playing this stupid game like you all were playing tonight, every one of you would be dead and she’d be locked up in the house until she was an adult.”

“Don’t lie, you wouldn’t even let her out of the house when she was an adult!”

“You’re probably right.”

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