#i really like silverspoon could you notice

[meatforkk]

just posting stuff from my instagram

[imagine-organization-xiii]

If i may ask; can i please have how the org 13 members act around their crush? Thank you in advance ❤️

Masterlist - Incorrect Organization XIII - Tip Jar!

You might also like: when they realize they’re in love with s/o

This was a long-ish one that’s been sitting in the back of my drafts forever lmao - I hope you all enjoy, especially since it’s a bit of long read!

Special thanks to Miss Silverspoon, PhantomMuze, and Sam for helping with Luxord, Saix, and Vexen. Such babes.

-

Xemnas - Least likely to actually show it. I mean, there will be signs, but it won’t be blatant that he’s acting a certain way because he’s attracted to you. There might be some favoritism (giving you better missions, not scolding you when something goes wrong, looking the other way in certain situations.)

Overall, it’s going to be subtle. You definitely won’t pick up anything weird, but the other org members might. Saix will definitely be the one to come up to you, grab you by the shoulders and give you a good shake. “Please, he’s driving the rest of us crazy.” And you’re like “what the hell???” Saix: “Xemnas has been giving you the best missions and staring at you for five minute intervals. In his language, that means he’s practically a wanton hussy.”

Xigbar - Not ashamed in the slightest. He won’t even act any different. He finds you attractive, you find him attractive (Xigbar: “Everyone finds me attractive, obviously.”) So why bother wasting time?  He doesn’t really call it a crush, though. He thinks crushes are for children and he’s a man, god damn it, he doesn’t have crushes.

An unintentional sap. Before he plucks up the courage to say something to you - and it takes him longer than he will ever admit - he finds himself going soft for you. Thinks you’re pretty, instead of hot; wants to hold your hand instead of slam you against the wall. It’s a bit infuriating to him at first, but also maybe kind of worth it.

Xaldin - Ohhhh, man. He’s been in love before; he’s been hurt before. So he is ready to rein in that shit immediately. But it’s so difficult because he likes you so much and you’re so awesome. He’ll decide to give it a chance eventually, but it will take some time. He would definitely be content with just being friends, though, because he really doesn’t want to ruin what the two of you already have.

He makes sure to always be there for you. Always helps you when you need it. A gentleman in the ways that matter and a feisty, flirtatious beast in the ways that don’t. The type of guy to flirt by making sure that he takes his shirt off after a sweaty workout and casually flexes/stretches when he knows you’re watching but also makes sure you’re hydrated and wrapping your fists correctly when you spar.

Vexen - You’ll probably know about his crush before he does. He’s so absorbed in whatever his task is - his experiments, his theories, etc. - that he doesn’t even notice that his eyes linger on you and his posture automatically straightens when you walk into the lab. He’ll instinctively turn his body in your direction so that you’re almost always in his line of sight.

Doesn’t yell at you for walking into his lab when he’s obviously busy. Actually asks you for your input, likes talking to you and discussing his theories with you. You’re smart, but some of his experiments are beyond you, and he doesn’t mind explaining in simpler terms when you ask questions. It blows Zexion’s mind because he has a running tab on the different ways that Vexen throws people out of his lab and he’s never done it to you.

Lexaeus - not much for flirting. He’s come to terms with the fact that he likes you, but you’ve both known each other long enough that you know him, so there’s no way that he can pretend to act a certain way because you would know that something wasn’t right. It’s very difficult to tell that he has a crush on you - there’s no blushing, no flirting, no favoritism. He’s just his normal self.

When you finally figure it out, you realize that he showed his crush in subtle ways instead - offering a hand to pull you up after sparring, holding open a door for you, and apparently glaring at people who come up to flirt with you when he accompanies you to the market for groceries.

Zexion - “IT’S NOT LIKE I LIKE YOU OR ANYTHING, GO AWAY.” This emo little bastard doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions. He lost his heart at a really bad time, when he was still growing into himself, learning balance between anger, frustration, patience, euphoria, etc. so he’s very unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the idea that he likes you.

There may be a few gentle shoves and punches in the shoulder. He has so many feelings and has no way to put them into the world other than violence - because that’s really all he knows nowadays. But it gets better!!! You learn together.

Saix - Honestly, God help you if Saix gets a crush on you because he really doesn’t make it easy. If anything, he’ll be making your life difficult. He overcompensates about not giving you any special treatment, giving you harder and more difficult tasks/missions, or your workload might remain the same but his expectations are almost impossibly high. He’s not only trying to prove himself to the others; he’s trying to prove to himself that he doesn’t care.

He’s more difficult to be around tbh, and yeah, he’ll definitely seek you out which is a pain in the ass when you’re trying to avoid him. You’ll have to be the one to barge into his office, slam open the door, and yell at him that he’s being an asshole. He’ll probably back off a bit, but.... he’s really only rough on you because he knows you’re capable of more.

Axel - Axel falls in love unapologetically. He’s head over heels almost immediately and not even ashamed of his crush on you. Flirting becomes almost a part of your friendship because he’s just that comfortable with you. His mood is already so bright when he’s around you, but now it’s like the sun and you can’t help but meet his smile with your own grin.

But it gets to be kind of weird on his end because... you don’t realize that he’s being serious when he flirts? So many pick up lines. So many compliments. But you’re just like “oh that same old Axel haha,” and he’s left banging his head against the wall because he likes you so much but you’re so oblivious.

Demyx - He won’t even notice that he has a crush on you tbh. It will take him forever to notice. He knows he’s attracted to you, but he’s attracted to a lot of people so he didn’t think that it would be any different! A crush?? In this economy??? But he’s grateful, you know? Because there really couldn’t be a better person for him to have a crush on - like he could have a crush on Xemnas, of all people, and that would just be disastrous.

Doesn’t act differently until he realizes he has a crush. When he does realize, he’ll get nervous and clumsy. Shouting from across the hall, “HEY LET ME GET THE DOOR FOR YOU” and runs, trips, and knocks out a tooth. Just completely ridiculous stuff. You kind of notice that he’s acting strange, but it’s just Demyx, and it will probably take Vexen going up to you and saying “please put him out of his misery before he accidentally kills himself trying to flirt with you”

Luxord - Luxord is so charming, more charming than he usually is. He always has this endearing aura around him, and man, he turns it up when he tries to flirt with you. A gift giver - small things, a dessert you might like, a flower he stole from Marluxia’s garden, lunch when you’re busy, etc. Very aware of how to approach you; also knows where to stop before he goes too far. Knows how to read you pretty well in that respect.

Loves the romance that comes with having a crush because there’s so much raw potential. Feelings are confusing, they take a while to grow, but the idea that something amazing can be coming in the future is a great feeling to him. Great potential hangout ideas that don’t necessarily have to be dates, but they help you both metaphorically test the waters about what a real relationship could be.

Marluxia - arguably the most romantic out of everyone. Surprisingly?? Also the most sensible. Of the mind that, you know, if you like someone then do something about it. He has a crush on you? Why not just give it a shot, then? He’ll bring you flowers! Accompany you when you go somewhere! Take you for garden walks! Take you out to dinner!

Somewhere along the line it just becomes a relationship and not just a crush and he’s like, yeah I did this. When everyone’s like “omg how did you get her to like you back” he’s just like “because I did something about it unlike all of you idiots.”

Larxene - Listen. Listen. Larxene is a strong independent woman who doesn’t need someone else in her life to make her feel loved and powerful but damn, you’re so awesome and she has the biggest crush on you even though all of her instincts say that she’s being dumb. Will ask you to spar with her as an excuse to get close to you and don’t be surprised if she’s extra harsh when sparring - she definitely won’t be pulling her punches.

When you get closer, she’ll open up to you in a way that she won’t open up to anyone else, which is a big, obvious flag for you that her feelings may be more than friendship. She doesn’t like talking about herself or her past, so hearing things she’s never told anyone (except maybe Marluxia), makes you feel really great about being her friend.

Roxas - Man, he is such a cute little marshmallow, not shy in general but shy around his crush. He’ll do his hardest not to blush around you, but he does get nervous. So nervous, in fact, that he might make you think he doesn’t like you because he’ll tend to avoid you when he can. He doesn’t want to look stupid in front of you.

This baby feels things deeply, despite the lack of a heart. He always has felt things more deeply than others. Likes physical contact so when he gets over his fears of being around you, he’ll probably end up asking to hold your hand, randomly hugging you, giving high fives, etc.

Xion - Only really falls for people that she’s already friends with, because she knows them and she’s comfortable with them. It’s subtle for her, though. She’ll realize her crush one night and suddenly she can’t even speak to you without blushing, cheeks a bright pink against her pale skin. She’ll stutter, too, and she hates that’s she’s so nervous for no reason because you’re friends!!! And she has no reason to be nervous!!!

She’s also so helpful when she has a crush! Like Demyx, she’s eager to help you with whatever you’re doing, whether that’s mission reports, cooking, cleaning, etc. Unlike Demyx, she actually gets the job done and doesn’t get injured when trying to help. You’re always so grateful and thankful and that just makes her blush even more.

[heli0s-writes]

Eat the Rich*

Summary: You’re just a girl in a bar way above your tax bracket and Ransom  really doesn’t care for what you’re wearing.

A/N: There are no spoilers for the movie. But, there IS... Smut. Dirty talk. Class warfare in the form of hate-fucking. 2.9k words of FILTH. I need to be exorcised for this. Thank you @evanstarff​ and @tropicalcap​ for sending me straight to hell.

The entire lounge seems to turn when you enter. Eyes slide back and forth your way, mid-conversation mouths dipping into low frowns. Amidst the old-money frat boys from Cambridge, Beacon Hill Barbie socialites, and Downtown business young bloods, you’re a flagrant contrast in ripped jeans and an old hoodie.

A favorite hoodie. An incendiary hoodie.

The kind of hoodie that is worn with pride around these West End parts. Even the group you arrive with tried to hackle you out of it— bachelorette party decorum, they cried, will you please take that thing off?

Your cousin might be marrying Silverspoon Asswipe and stringing herself up pretty next to all his call-girl friends, but you are a Jamaica Plain girl through and through and you will not stuff yourself into a glitzy cocktail dress before this hoodie.

She waves her hand at the hostess to distract her from your outfit, rustling the satin sash over her glossy sweetheart neckline, “Reservation under Prentiss; it was booked this morning?” And then a sharp look at you as if to say, you made the reservations, right?!

Duh. Your eyes respond when the hostess begins to lead your party back. You follow the tail end of the throng, veering off towards the bar; the miasma of Chanel perfume is enough to gag, and the cigar smoke is only a tiny bit better. Not like they’d care or even notice.

“Do you have PBR?”

The bartender stutters and before you can make him any more uncomfortable, a deep voice from beside you nips it in the bud.

Broad shoulders turn until you see his face. Amused, with a single raised eyebrow, mouth just barely tilting up at one corner. Mid-thirties and extremely well-groomed. Slicked back brown hair and classic Ray Bans hang from the collar of his sweater. Too handsome for his own good with the unmistakable swagger of someone grown up filthy rich.

“She’ll have the Glenfiddich. Neat.”

Certainly smug enough to butt in like you’re old friends.

“Will she?” You ponder defiantly at the pursed lips nestled over a strong jaw.

His own thick crystal glass is easily tipped into his mouth when he takes a too-large swig. Signet rings on two left fingers glimmer, and with a low exhale bordering a growl, he hisses through his teeth, “Yeah. I think you will.”

Bold blue eyes roam over your top and the statement printed there for a second before he scrutinizes your face. Then, purposefully—and knowing that your eyes are on him-- he looks back down to the swell of your chest.

A hum of approval before he faces forward again, only giving you his side profile.

“Wow,” you scoff, “Dick.”

The grin that splits his mouth for a second looks angelic if angels could be full-grown men with full-grown egos to match. “Close. It’s Ransom.”

Amber sloshes when the bartender returns, and you chance a sip because even your pride isn’t stupid enough to pass on a free glass of Glenfiddich.

The whiskey bites for a second before rolling smoothly down your throat. There’s an inherently superior taste to these luxury drinks, but you pull a face all the same, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Ransom chuckles, head turning just a tad as he looks to you from the corner of his eye.

“You making a statement with that thing on, or what?”

“You’re the one making a statement with that ladies wool scarf from Drake’s.”

Ransom jerks to you fully now, attention snatched by your wit as he leans in, “Where’d you come from, little girl? Not everyone walks into Carver’s dressed in rags.”

He really is a piece of work. When you tell him your neighborhood, as expected, he snorts with disdain, but his eyes fall back on you again, highly intrigued. “There’s more to you, isn’t there? My scarf, that attitude. Someone taught you a thing or two, didn’t they?”

The single-malt mouthful is singing in your veins and if your confidence was thinking about simmering down for a second, it’s forgotten itself inside the furious swirl. The hand around your empty glass clutches just a tiny bit tighter.

“Oh, come on,” Ransom waggles two fingers for another round, “Let’s see, I’m thinking… blue-collar parents, siblings, maybe with shared rooms in your dilapidated Jamaica Plain home?” A tap of his finger to that pink bottom lip too damn pretty to be on his wretched face, he pretends to mull a thought over.

He looks you up and down, taking just enough time to where you feel violated under his gaze, “I know: Public college. Two-year community. Working a day job in Back Bay made you bitter, didn’t it? Hence, statement piece.”

“Asshole,” you snap, unraveling at the seams with rage, and the bartender quickly flits away again, “Full ride to Northeastern, four years with honors. Back Bay can’t fucking afford me.”

You don’t know how he does it, but his derisive silence incenses you even more. He couples it with a slow flick of his tongue over teeth, flagrant staring, and the piercing blue of his eyes spotlight a trail—across your shoulders, down your arm, jumping from your fingertip to your thigh, and then it dips between.

Every inch of your body prickles alive with reaction, so naturally, you spit, “Fuck you.”

Ransom’s smile grows until it nearly looks genuine, but then the sharp points of his canines sink right into your gut.

“When?”

There is something ugly and incredible simmering behind his thick curtain eyelashes. A clear ocean grows stormy, sizzling like a cruel tempest rushing to life. The yellow gaussian blur from dim scone lights suddenly cast shadows over his sharp nose.

He slaps too many bills on the polished ebony and the swish of his scarf flicks over your knee when he stands. Ransom towers over you, light pink flush of inebriation and excitement growing hotter on his sculpted cheeks. He leans in, the open flaps of his overcoat falling around your shoulder, threatening to swallow you inside all his dark.

Low timbre and dusky spice goads, “Put your money where your mouth is, scholarship; that sweater’s not all talk, is it?”

Dick!

-

Big hands yank the hem up over your head for a second before something changes his mind. The heavy steel door is latched twice over and he’s pushing you into it with his imposing frame. Your skull hits the metal as his knee parts your thigh, leg shoving itself up in-between until you’re on your tip-toes, with nothing to do but land on him. The heat of it rushes all the way up to the top of your head, pouring from your mouth in a choked mewl.

Ransom rucks the top over your breasts until the words scrunch up at your collarbones and you think it must bring him some masochistic satisfaction to know their unforgiving glare:

Eat the Rich

His warning chills your spine.

“I’m gonna fuck that line from your brain. Fuck it right out.”

He yanks everything south of your waist to your ankles and pulls himself free from his pants, effortlessly tearing a condom from inside his leather wallet and slipping it on. Between the time he gets your bare ass on the counter and the sound of the rubber snap, he’s already branded a purple streak onto the side of your neck and you’re embarrassingly wet.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you see his length rising from beneath his cable-knit. Bright pink and angry, and so goddamn thick it makes you whimper. Ransom smothers it with his demanding and hungry mouth, impatient at being empty, stinging with whiskey and force. He’s probably never waited on anything in his life and within a short fifteen minutes of meeting him, you know that to be true.

Not a care in the world is given as goosebumps break out all over your arms.

He spins you into the sink countertop and then the two of you are staring at each other in the mirror’s reflection. His hands return to your hips with a bruising clutch and those thick fingers begin to rub the slick between your folds all over your thighs. Fucking A-- It’s good. Idiot rich boy does have the Midas Touch.

One long leg kicks your jeans completely off, sole of his shoes stomping all over them. He’s unforgivingly large and he knows it because everything about Ransom Drysdale is a statement: his clothes, his attitude, his dick. There’s a joke in here somewhere about him being the very epitome of it, but he’s glaring at you with that pretty bottom lip stretched between perfect white teeth and maybe you can forgive the fact that he’s leaving boot marks all over your jeans and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on your back.

“Tell me,” he teases, slipping one finger in, the metal of his ring pressing up against your clit, “Tell me you’ve had it like this before.”

A slow roll of his hips against your ass, letting the weight of his cock pressed hot and tight between his body and yours. You find yourself inching higher, micro-movements attuned to his, staring but unseeing at his face, buzzing with the raw need to be clenching around more than one finger.

“Not like this, not off Glenfiddich, in Jamaica Plain…”

And without thinking, because there isn’t much to think about, you hiss, “Oh, fuck you!”

Ransom chuckles into your ear because your voice breaks just a tad and he’s going to win this fight. Claws and teeth out sharper than knives, he bites down on your shoulder and slips in another finger. The distinct sensations—soft, slippery, strokes and the sting of his teeth—are scrambling your brain.  

He grips himself tight, pushes in with uncharacteristic restraint, and you’re so desperate and aching for it all you can do is push back and pray the sound you might be making isn’t loud enough for everyone in the damn place to hear.

You stifle a grunt with his next languid stroke and Ransom raises an eyebrow, “What? You suddenly shy now?”

It might be just a restroom, but it’s one of the nicest places you’ve ever been inside. Carver’s cigar room’s private single occupancy nook and he’s usurped it to screw you senseless. As if reading your thoughts, he rolls his eyes and continues, glaring at your half-lidded reflection.

“Who gives a shit?” Then, another smirk, “If you’re gonna scream, get my name right.”

Your belly is quivering from the pressure, holding yourself together as best you can before he takes you to pieces. The grooves in his rings cut into your skin. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers crawling up your chin to shove inside your mouth.

Like everything else he’s ever wanted in his life, he’ll own this, too.

And then it’s only punishment. Ransom twists your hair around one fist, other forearm pressing like an anchor on your sternum, wrist shoved through the neckline, hand splayed open and clutching your throat and it goes nearly all the way around. The reflection of your panting mouth and bouncing breasts matching his every thrust is lewd and vile and so goddamn good.

“I bet you fuck on top, don’t you, scholarship?” He releases your throat to pinch your cheeks together, tipping your head derisively, making you nod yourself stupid—awful and humiliating but it unexpectedly thrills.

“Bet you’re too proud to ask.” He makes you nod again, “Bet you want someone to fuck you open just like this—all filthy and sloppy—“

And he doesn’t have to make you agree that time, you’re already limp in expectation and your reflection, damn her, she nods.

He’s still fully dressed, coat swaying to cocoon the both of you in what is probably a hundred thousand dollars. His watch, his rings, his fucking boxers. That stupid cable knit sweater.

A yelp leaks out with your orgasm- unexpected and high and quick, like a wounded animal as you tip your head back onto his shoulder. He doesn’t stop, even for a second. Ransom thrusts deeper, and on the cusp of your second undoing, he licks an errant bead of sweat down the back of your neck.

“You got one more. Yeah, that’s right— one more— God, your pussy loves it. Squeezing me fucking good.” He’s sick. He’s sick and Jesus Christ, aren’t you, too? “Yeah. Push back on my cock. Fuck yourself with it…”

He guides your fingers to your clit with his free hand and begins to rub in motions. Your eyes flutter when he breathes into your ear, “There you go, scholarship, you’ll never get dick this good again—so go ahead and be selfish. I wanna see you all fucked out, fucked stupid, coming all over my dick.”

With two fingers sluiced with your spit, Ransom crams them up next to his cock and you can’t believe how he did it so easily but maybe you can. Yes, filthy and sloppy and never like you’ve had before. Your hands grip the counter top so tightly the tips look white and bloodless and the strained coil inside snaps clean in two.

“Fuck! Oh fuck! God!”

You slump backwards, fingertips to toes shocked tingly numb, boneless and empty of all thought, but he holds you up with ease. Ransom shushes your gasps, paws your breasts and fluttering sternum, runs his hand over your face and throat. The pinch of his fingers returns to your cheeks and he drags his other hand from inside your pussy up into to your mouth. Slick and dripping, a little rubbery from the condom, but otherwise just like yourself.

“Well, look at that. Aren’t you just…”

He pauses to view your blissful face, covered in a sheen layer of sweat, head resting on his shoulder, slanted just enough so that the tip of your nose brushes his jaw. A quick laugh, strangely knowing and a bit sweet or maybe you’re imagining it in your delirium, before he turns cold again.

“Make good on your slogan. Get on your fucking knees.”

His hand looks ridiculous, big and strong and wrapped around the best part of him, completely filthy with you smeared over his fist and you slide to your knees, forehead resting briefly on his knee. His pants have fallen around his ankles, boxers still midway, and you’re so exhausted you can hardly do much more than give him a light kiss to his inner thigh—God knows why—before you peel the rubber off.

It lands into the toilet and you obediently stick out your tongue, still panting to catch your breath as Ransom aims toward your open throat. “There you go,” he groans, fisting himself, “That’s it. Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”

And you don’t.

-

“So,” your old mentor asks, familiar low drawl of his voice crackling with the tone of a lifelong smoker, “What do you think?”

A hum passes through from your end as you think about all the ways Ransom Drysdale Thrombey pulled you apart and in all the ways you’ll probably think about for at least a couple of months.

“He’s exactly who you think he is.” You rock back and forth on your feet near the curb, “Disrespectful…” Scholarship, Ransom’s voice sneers, “Selfish…” Who gives a shit? “Manipulative.”

Well look at that… aren’t you just… And the glimmer of those big blue eyes half-crazed with lust and control, drinking in your reflection in the mirror, makes you clench up right there in the parking lot.

“You think he’s a killer?” Blanc asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” You reply, “Depends. He takes what he wants when he wants it… Could care less if he burns the world down with him. You divine the rest.”

Benoit Blanc’s frustrated sigh is all the response you expect him to give. This case with the Thrombeys really has gotten him all twisted up. He wouldn’t have called you for a favor if it didn’t. Of course, when he asked you to check Ransom Drysdale Thrombey out, he’ll be at Carver’s tomorrow around ten, he probably had other scenarios in mind…

“Well,” he mumbles, “Thanks again. These people sure are hell to be around. Give the new Prentisses my best, won’t you?”

You say your goodbyes and tuck your phone back into your pocket, shifting with a wince when the soreness between your legs throbs again. With a sigh into the dark autumn night, you shove your hands inside the center pouch of your hoodie, keeping your head low but still wary enough to find your Uber.

Ransom left you in the restroom about ten minutes ago, sitting on your haunches, still trying to remember how your lungs work. Right before the door shut, he had turned around and gave you one last smirk, pointing right at your top with glee. “How’d I taste, baby?”

Blanc needs to be careful, not that he isn’t— because he always is, as nutty as his brain works, he is. But Ransom is the only Thrombey you’ve met and if there are ten more of them… Blanc would do good to watch his ass and maybe get some extra help.

A jangle disrupts the quiet when you begin to play with what you’ve taken. Jagged metal edges. Heavy iconic insignia laying benignly in your palm before you tug it out.

Idiot. Good dick or not, an idiot is an idiot is an idiot— especially his kind. Didn’t even notice you slipped these right out of his coat pocket. You swing the ring around your flexed pointer in swift, angry circles, keys clanging together before your hand shuts it up.

With a hard wind of your arm back, you fling the set long into the night, satisfied when it lands behind a building some distance away.

Ransom Drysdale, you think, enthusiastic smile growing on your face as your ride pulls around the corner, have fun looking for those tonight.

Dick!

-

Ransom tags: @mermaidxatxheart @dumbubblegum @sapphirescrolls @gothambrat @southerncross47 @bubblegumpeeeach @fiercephantasmagoria @saliarheva @amberakawolfie

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[windfighter]

For the @winteriron-week

Day 6: “You should shut up now.”

Summary:

Bucky hates Tony and it's getting on the man's nerves. He tries mending the bridges, but Bucky keeps avoiding him. They work together, live together, and so maybe Tony has a small crush on the man, but that's not the reason he wants them to be able to talk to each other.

And maybe Bucky is avoiding Tony because of a completely different feeling than hate.

—

Bucky had been avoiding Tony and after three months of living in the same building it was starting to get irritating. Tony started tracking him with help from Jarvis because they seriously needed to learn to talk like adults, but whenever he entered a room Bucky was supposed to be in the soldier disappeared into the vents or through a window or a door. One time he heard Clint yelp out in surprise as Bucky suddenly appeared in the vents where he was not at all spying.

Tony tried recruiting Clint to help him but Clint refused.

”If he doesn't want to talk to you there's nothing you can do, man.”

”We're on the same team, we need to be able to behave like adults.”

”That's really coming from the right person, Mr I'll-throw-a-tantrum-if-I-don't-get-my-coffee.”

Tony huffed and abandoned that idea. He'd figure it out on his own. Occassionally he would join the team for movie and game nights and every time without fail he would see Bucky quickly disappear to wherever he was hiding out. He considered building traps, but the winter soldier would be able to look through them and get away and he gave up on that idea as well. Instead he started leaving little peace offerings around the tower. Simple things like food he knew Bucky enjoyed, magazines he liked flipping through, books Steve told him Bucky had loved when they were kids.  He even got him a dog one day, because Bucky's eyes always lit up whenever he saw a dog outside and maybe Tony shouldn't know that but he had seen him quite a few times when he was outside and heading to a meeting or just to grab a quick cup of coffee. Bucky outside of the tower always looked different from the Bucky he never quite saw in the tower.

He kept his distance outdoors though, he didn't have time and if Bucky felt safer outside the tower than inside he wasn't going to trample over it. No matter what people thought he wasn't heartless.

They had lived together in the tower for five months when Tony literally ran into Bucky. He was on his way to a meeting, already running late and not watching where he was walking when he slammed right into Bucky's metal arm and fell to the floor. His head swam, pain radiated from his sternum. Two paws stepped on his ribs and a very wet tongue licked his face. He blinked, shook his head and pushed the dog off his chest. He got to his feet, had to put his hand against the wall to steady himself. Bucky's blue eyes were staring at him, wide, worried and terrified and Tony was alert again.

”Excuse me but what the fuck?”

Bucky looked ready to bolt and Tony grabbed his sleeve.

”You do not get to run away this time, Robocop. I have no idea what I've done that made you hate me, but whatever it is I need to know how I can make it up to you.”

Bucky's hands clenched and unclenched and clenched again. His whole frame tensed up. Tony stretched his back.

”We live together, work together, we can't keep doing this. Are you unhappy with your floor? Because I can fix that. Or is it just resentment that I was born with a silverspoon in my mouth because I can honestly not do anything about it but for fuck's sake I'm trying to make the world a better place with it.”

Bucky's breathing was picking up and great, if he was getting the assassin angry maybe they'd finally get somewhere, maybe Bucky would just blurt out what was going on and why he was avoiding Tony to begin with. The dog was waving her tail and pressing against Tony's leg demanding pets but he did not have time for that right now.

”I'm serious, Barnes. I've done what I can to be a good host and tried to at least begin to build a friendship but it's hard when you keep avoiding me like this. What more do you want from me? I fixed your arm, which was freaking hard when you refused to be there to answer my questions, I got the trigger-words out of your head, I gave you a home, I talked in your favor in front of the whole bloody american government to keep you from being thrown to death row, to get you pardoned.”

”You should shut up now.”

”Why? Because I'm making you angry and I wouldn't like you when you're angry? Boo-freaking-hoo. I live with the Hulk and if anyone can do angry it's him. Fuck it, you know what. I'm done. I'm done trying to do this, done trying to get your pretty ass to not run away every time I show myself, done longing for those pretty eyes to look at me, done wanting you to sit with me for breakfast and movie nights. I'm just fucking done. You happy? I'll see you never because I have a meeting to attend to.”

He let go of Bucky, whipped around. His head got dizzy at the movement and he must have hit Bucky's shoulder harder than he thought. Bucky's hand grabbed his arm and Tony snarled, but Bucky pulled him closer.

”You should shut up, because otherwise I won't be able to stop myself from kissing you.”

And then he was facing Bucky again, Bucky's face just centimeters from his, milimeters from his. Bucky's lips were soft and warm against his own, the taste of maple syrup lingered on them after the breakfast Bucky must have just eaten. Bucky's arm wrapped around his waist and he leaned against it, tilted backwards and Bucky followed, his lips splitting apart and his tongue making it's way into Tony's mouth and Tony's knees grew weak, he felt lightheaded. The kiss ended, but Tony wanted more and he was still falling. Bucky's arms caught him, lowered him to the floor and Tony let out a whine.

”Fuck”, Bucky said and it was the most beautiful word Tony had ever heard and maybe he was still a little disoriented after the impact but Bucky's voice was so soft.

”I'm sorry”, Bucky continued and Tony wanted to assure him that there was nothing at all to be sorry for, but he couldn't get his mouth to obey. ”Shit, I promised I wouldn't do this, I wouldn't take advantage of you. You hate me, and you have all right in the world to do so and I shouldn't use the fact that you're obviously longing for human touch against you.”

”Is not”, Tony's voice was slightly slurred and he swallowed, tried to gather his bearings. He forced one of his eyes open to look at Bucky but had to close it again. ”It's not advantage if we both want it.”

”You only want it because no one else is giving it to you.”

”Think I can decide that on my own.” He made a new attempt at opening his eyes, but pain soared through his head and he put an arm over them to close out all light.

”...oh. Oh no. I took advantage of an injured man. Holy flying shit, Steve is going to kill me.”

Bucky put his arms under Tony, lifted him from the floor. The dog barked and Tony made shushing noises at her.

”Jarvis, what's the way to Banner's lab?”

”Noooo”, Tony started to twist in Bucky's grip. ”Don't have time, there's a meeting.”

”You have a concussion.”

”I've done meetings hungover, I can handle it. Besides it's mostly lack of sleep.”

He could hear Bucky roll his eyes and it was the most amazing thing ever. He let his arm fall down from his face, buried into Bucky's shoulder instead. The flesh one he noticed because of course Bucky wouldn't risk him hitting his head on the other again, because Bucky was an angel like that (which Tony had not at all noticed while he was absolutely not spying on him). Doors opened, closed, opened again as Jarvis directed Bucky through the tower and then Tony was lowered onto a bunk. He could hear Bucky telling Bruce what happened and then Bruce was over him, forced his eyes opened and asked him questions he didn't actually care about answering. Bruce let out a sigh.

”Talk to me or I'm ordering bedrest for a month.”

”You're not that kind of doctor.”

”He's fine. He needs a few hours of sleep and a couple of days taking it easy and then he'll be right back to his old annoying self again.”

”Well then”, Tony held his arms out. ”Is my knight in shining arm going to escort me to my room?”

Bucky chuckled and Tony swore that before the week was over he was going to get Bucky to actually laugh because he could just imagine how sweet it must sound. Bucky lifted him again, thanked Bruce for his help and then they were out of the lab. The dog's claws clicked against the floor as she followed them up the stairs to Tony's floor, followed them to Tony's bedroom. Bucky lowered Tony into the bed, took his shoes off, his tie and Tony protested weakly when he started unbuttoning Tony's shirt.

”I'm not dying, I can undress myself.”

He sat up, another dizzy spell hit him and then the dog was in the bed, licking his face and Tony groaned.

”What's she doing up here?”

”Helping”, Bucky lifted her and put her back on the floor. ”She's used to being in my bed.”

Tony changed into his pyjamas. Bucky stood nervously by the door and Tony wasn't sure what he was waiting for. He sat down on the bed, placed his fingers against his forehead to massage it but winced at the pain it sent out.

”...You're going to get a bruise”, Bucky supplied.

”Pep's going to kill me.” Tony sank down on the bed and glanced at Bucky. ”We're still not done you know.”

”We should... wait with the conversation until you're feeling better.”

”Uh-huh”, Tony patted the other side of the bed. ”Get up here and keep me company.”

Bucky twitched nervously and Tony would have grinned if his headache wasn't slowly getting worse with every passing second.

”I'm going to take advantage of the fact that you have the hots for me.”

Bucky moved painfully slowly, but he came up to the bed, sat down and kicked off his shoes. Tony closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

”Why should I hate you?”

”...I killed your parents.”

”Fair, but that's water under the bridge. Forgiven and forgotten. Why do you hate me?”

”I... what?”

”You keep hiding from me and running away when I get near and... ” Tony clenched his eyes and rubbed his temples. ”Feels like my head's gonna split.”

”You should sleep.”

”Soon. So, answer.”

”I don't hate you, I...”

Bucky fell silent and Tony opened an eye to look at him.

”Did you mean it?”

”I think I should ask you that.”

”The kiss, did you mean it? Because no one kisses like that without meaning it.”

Bucky blushed, looked away, and Tony definately needed to make Bucky blush more often because holy heck the sight made Tony giddy inside.

”I did.”

”...Can we do it again?”

Bucky looked at Tony again, cheeks still red. He blinked, then leaned down. Tony closed his eye again, his breath hitched, he felt his own cheeks getting red. Bucky's lips gently brushed against his forehead and Tony whined.

”When you've slept, I promise.”

”Dog's not allowed in the bed though.”

Tony rolled over to his side, wrapped an arm around Bucky and snuggled close. His breathing got slower, relaxed. Bucky tensed up for a few seconds, then leaned against the headboard, carded his fingers through Tony's hair.

”Sleep well, princess.”

The mattress shifted as the dog jumped up and rolled up against Tony's bed, but he didn't have it in him to protest and instead let sleep pull him under.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Shuswap Joe spent his formative years learning how to brew, barrel and distribute Scotch whiskey in Salmon Creek, and came of age in the dimly lit beer haunts and speakeasies that kept the town rollicking well into the night. At fourteen he got into his first bar brawl, smashing a stool over a miner’s head and then clubbing a mob of adversaries into submission with one of its severed legs. He was built like a moose, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and when puberty hit he began to cultivate his legendary tri-coloured beard. He was a formidable opponent, and that’s why the military wanted to recruit him for the Great War overseas. He had no quarrel with these far-away foreigners, and no interest in learning how to kill other men, but he felt swept up in communal patriotism as he watched one man after another don the uniform. Late one night he broached the topic with Clif as they carefully counted their stacks of booze cash. 

It was 1917, and their operation was going better than ever.

“You have to choose which master you’re going to serve in this world, and if you’re smart you’ll choose yourself,” Clif said, taking a luxurious puff on his cigar. 

“Those soldiers may think they’re fighting and dying for other people, but the truth is they’re suckers. They don’t understand that life is a chess board and they’re the pawns. But you can’t lose, Joe, if you don’t play.”

Deep down, Joe knew he wouldn’t be capable of standing in line or following orders. He could barely fit in amidst the rough and tumble lawlessness of Salmon Creek. Over the years he’d accrued a significant pile of cash, but he never aspired to ascend socially. Instead he spent most of his time at a small ramshackle shanty in the woods, where he lived like a burrowing animal. Joe was like a bear that had been forced to stand upright and pose as a human. All things considered, he simply wouldn’t make a good soldier.  

“I could fight,” he said.

“Of course you can fight. The question is should you? Death is awfully permanent, my friend, and it’s one thing to fight a man. It’s another thing entirely to fight a bomb, or a tank, or a plane.”

“What’s a plane?” Joe asked.

The truth was Clif couldn’t afford to lose Joe, who had become the foreman at their bustling distillery in the forest. Its wooden foundation traversed Salmon Creek so they they could drop their carefully crafted barrels of hooch into the current and smuggle them first out to Shuswap Lake and then ultimately down into the United States. Late at night the men would work with headlamps as they shepherded the precious liquor to its destination, bobbing along in the current. They worked in clandestine darkness, surrounded by barrels stacked right into the rafters, and in unison they bellowed out ballads about their barbarous lives, their voices echoing out into the late night calm. They sang about bar scraps and drunken epiphanies, about meeting God and challenging him to a fist fight.

“We’ve got a good thing going here, Joe. Don’t go looking for ways to ruin it. We stick this out and both of us will be very wealthy men.”

“I don’t care about money, Clif. You know that.”

“One day you will, kid. One day you’ll meet a woman and suddenly all the cash in the world won’t be enough.”

Joe wasn’t sure about that. Thinking about women always brought him back to his mother, who had left him to the Adams River and disappeared forever. The topic made him feel hopeless and empty, and a little bit dizzy. Clif had a ruminating obsession with Serena Silverspoon, the mysterious juggler from his younger years. He’d hired private investigators to track her down, scribbled one desperate love note after another, and had even attempted to organize an ill-advised kidnapping attempt. It didn’t matter how much he accumulated, it wasn’t enough for Clif if he couldn’t have Serena.

“Women seem like the surest way to drive yourself mad,” said Joe. “All they seem to bring is suffering.”

Clif finished his glass of Scotch, and slammed it down. “You’re right. They do bring suffering. But it’s sweet, sweet suffering. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

By this point it was clear that Shuswap Joe and Clif Garcia’s fates were intertwined, their fortunes dependent on their idiosyncratic friendship. Walking down the street together they made a strange pair, the stooped pink-nosed entrepreneur dwarfed by Joe’s mountainous frame. As the Great War chugged away in Europe they took the opportunity to supply the troops with high-end liquor at twice the ordinary price, filling their bank accounts until they were ready to burst. Joe spent many early mornings out on Shuswap Lake in his canoe, squinting through the mist while he waited for his bootleggers. He led a rag-tag army of misfits as they created an international smuggling operation that dwarfed their early ambitions.

“You know, you can’t really call this Scotch,” one smuggler said, while sampling the wares in a small tin cup. “Scotch needs to come from Scotland.”

“Is that so?”

“You didn’t know? It’s right there in the name.”

The comment bothered Joe, so he mentioned it to Clif. Were they guilty of misrepresenting their product? How could they go on selling it as one thing when it was clearly another? Sure, alcohol was alcohol, and nobody was complaining, but maybe they could change the name?

“To what?”

“I was thinking we could call it Shu-Scotch.”

Clif grinned, showing off the wide gaps in his teeth. “Brilliant. That way people know exactly where it comes from, and exactly who made it. Us. Why shouldn’t we be recognized for our handiwork, huh?”

The trouble was Prohibition. They’d successfully made it through the war, but now the United States had deemed their product illegal. Joe was a man grown now, and always getting bigger, while each day it seemed Clif was getting smaller. He began to keep a handkerchief in his chest pocket, and every few minutes he would hack and spit bloody phlegm into it. There was the smell of death on him, nobody could deny it, but he refused to quit working. Each day he would make his way down the main street of Salmon Creek to his office over the River Eel Saloon. He would sit at his desk overlooking the Shuswap mountains and plot the next evolution of his empire. Repeatedly Joe found him slumped unconscious at his desk, a jug of Shu-Scotch at his elbow. He knew that soon enough he would have to say goodbye to his friend.

Then one night Clif invited him for a walk. He hobbled along on his cane, following a dirt path through a grove of trees. The pace was slow and arduous, and more than once he refused Joe’s offers of assistance. The ground beneath them began to steepen, and pretty soon they reached a rock ledge that overlooked the town. Joe admired the glowing beauty of the early evening while Clif violently horked. Things were looking grim.

“I used to come up here with Serena, when we were sweethearts. She would juggle and dance for me, and we would lay in each other’s arms for hours. I can’t remember ever being happier,” Clif said. 

“I come up here whenever I think about her, just to see if I can catch a whiff of her scent on the wind. I have this hole inside me, Joe, a hole that can’t be filled by anything but her. And the truth is she’s not coming back.”

Joe nodded. All of this he knew already.

“Every man needs to face death one day, kid. Some go in war, some get taken away by sickness, some die on the toilet, but in the end the reaper gets all of us. Some people get to choose how they go, and some people don’t. If you’re smart, you’ll go out on your terms before the universe makes the choice for you.”

Joe didn’t know what to say.

“My life was one way before I met you, and another way after. When I look out at all we’ve accomplished together, well, that’s the only time I ever feel like all of this hasn’t gone to waste. You’re going to take this operation into the future, and there’s no better man for the job.”

Clif produced a flask and two shot glasses from some inner pockets, then carefully arranged them on a stone ledge. Soft wind whispered around them, curious, tugging at their clothes like an impatient child. His hands were too shaky to pour, so Joe did the honours himself. They raised their glasses, clinked, and poured the burning liquid down their gullets. That set Clif to coughing again, and this time a smear of crimson drooled from the edge of his mouth. Tears glistened in his bloodshot eyes. They were standing at the precipice of a hundred-food drop, the disapproving moon growing brighter above them. Shadows lengthened, the night sky purpled, and pretty soon it was dark. Salmon Creek sparkled and glittered in the black.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue,” Clif said, reaching out his hand. “It’s been a privilege knowing you, my friend. You’ve been like the son I never had.”

Joe grimaced, confused. “It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

Clif smiled. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

And with that, before Joe could stop him, Clif leapt off the edge and plummeted into the trees a hundred feet below. They barely noticed. 

The Kootenay Goon