Lottery, for the one word prompt thing?
830.
Clint almost breaks his tooth on a silvery disc, and the entire room of aliens erupts into hollering, which is terrifying considering the number of mouths they each have. It’s a tradition, the ambassador assures them, one of long standing, and it means that Clint gets to be - well it seems to equate to King for the day. They offer him the choicest of the rest of the dishes, someone unlaces his boots and starts massaging his feet, and there’s a whole bunch of miscommunication that ends with Clint very politely sending away the dancing girls. And the dancing boys. And the dancing - tentacled things.
Overall, though, he’s enjoying the hell out of the whole thing, so it makes sense that just as soon as the meal is done he’s led to a sumptuous chamber where he is tenderly chained to an oversized bed and informed - from what he can make out - that he’s won the lottery and is therefore going to be sacrificed to the huge bear-shark creature that features heavily in all of their art.
“It is a very great honour,” the ambassador tells him, its wrinkled foreheads kinda undermining the attempted smiles. “Usually it would be one of our own people, of course, but the fact that it is one of the Visitors will bless the relationship between our peoples.”
“And what’re the advantages of a blessed relationship?” Clint asks sarcastically.
The ambassador shrugs at least three of its shoulders. “Well firstly we will not kill you all, which was the original plan.”
They go away after that. They seem less enthusiastic about explaining the situation after he starts throwing things.
Clint’s out of the cuffs and halfway up a grappling line made of silken bedsheets - which are, for the record, a pain in the ass to climb - when the door bursts open and Bucky storms in, covered in green ichor and possibly electrical burns.
“You here to rescue me?” Clint asks, using the bedsheets like a giant slip’n’slide and coasting over the marble floor to Bucky’s feet. He could kiss ‘em, he’s so glad to see the guy, but it’d probably give away the whole crush thing and he’s been hiding that so well.
“I’m here to point you to the exit,” Bucky says, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet. “No way you need rescuing, but your sense of direction’s for shit.”
