Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

it was another ridiculously bright saturday afternoon in queens, and tony stark was, predictably, late. steve had been waiting by the chain-link fence outside the old community center for ten minutes, tapping his fingers against his notebook, which was supposed to be for homework but now held nothing but doodles of rocket ships and iron suits.

“you know,” steve muttered to himself, “being early doesn’t always mean being smart.”

before he could roll his eyes at his own joke, a sleek, obnoxiously loud motorcycle skidded to a stop nearby. tony swung a leg over the seat and grinned, that infuriatingly confident grin that somehow made steve’s stomach do flips.

“hey, cap,” tony said, tossing his helmet onto the pavement. “didn’t think you’d actually wait.”

“of course i waited,” steve replied, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably when tony leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “someone’s got to keep you from getting into trouble.”

“hm,” tony hummed, “or maybe someone’s just worried i’ll find a way to get into trouble without you.”

steve’s cheeks heated, and he looked away, pretending to examine the cracks in the sidewalk. “don’t flatter yourself.”

tony laughed, low and teasing, and before steve could protest, tony grabbed his hand. their fingers intertwined, and it was stupidly simple, like it had always been meant to happen. steve’s heart was pounding too hard to speak.

“race you to the park?” tony asked, already revving the engine like he knew the answer.

steve groaned but grinned anyway. “you’re going down, stark.”

they sped down the street, laughter trailing behind them, the city blurring in their peripheral vision. at the park, they collapsed onto the grass, tony’s head resting on steve’s shoulder.

“you know,” tony said quietly, not looking at him, “i like this. us. just… this.”

steve’s hand tightened around tony’s. “me too,” he admitted softly, and it was the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.

tony finally looked up, eyes sparkling like mischief and sincerity all at once. “good,” he said, and kissed steve’s temple, “because i don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.”

and in that perfect, messy, ordinary afternoon, teenage steve rogers and tony stark felt like the only two people in the world, and maybe, for once, that was exactly enough.

Chapter Text

rick found him at sunset.

the world was quiet in that strange, heavy way it only got after too much blood had been spilled and too many words were left unsaid. the old factory stood half-collapsed, rust eating through its bones, and rick stepped over the debris with the reluctant certainty of a man following a path he’d sworn he’d never take again.

negan was sitting on an overturned crate, batless, jacketless, looking like the end of something. or maybe the beginning—rick couldn’t decide which scared him more.

“well,” negan drawled, that familiar rasp cracking at the edges, “if it ain’t sheriff sunshine.”

rick didn’t smile. he couldn’t. “you’ve been avoiding us.”

“oh? was that a problem?” negan smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “i figured you’d be happy not having my charming ass around.”

rick stepped closer, boots echoing. “you disappeared for two weeks, negan.”

“did you miss me?” negan teased, but there was something thin, desperate beneath it.

rick exhaled sharply. “don’t do that.”

silence settled like dust. negan looked down at his hands—scarred, shaking, stripped of the bravado he’d once worn like armor.

“i didn’t know if i should come back,” negan admitted quietly. “everybody looks at me like i’m a mistake that keeps breathing.”

rick swallowed hard. “you’re trying.”

“trying doesn’t erase what i did.”

rick’s jaw clenched. “no. it doesn’t.”

negan’s laugh was soft and broken. “then what the hell am i doing, rick? what are you doing? coming out here like you’re about to drag me home.”

rick didn’t answer immediately. he walked the last few steps, stopping right in front of him. negan looked up, and for the first time rick realized how tired he was. not physically—soul-deep tired. lonely in a way that was almost painful to look at.

“i came,” rick said slowly, “because you matter. whether you believe it or not.”

negan’s breath hitched. not visibly—but rick heard it, felt it.

“you’re lying,” negan whispered, almost like he wanted it to be true.

“i don’t lie about this,” rick said, voice low. “not about you.”

negan blinked too fast, shoulders tense like he was bracing for a hit that didn’t come. rick knelt so they were eye level.

“you’re part of this world now. part of what we’re building.”

negan’s voice cracked. “even after everything?”

“especially after everything,” rick murmured. “you’re still here. you’re still trying. that counts.”

negan stared at him, jaw trembling. “rick… i don’t deserve—”

rick placed a hand on his shoulder. firm. grounding. surprising them both.

“you don’t have to deserve it,” he said softly. “you just have to choose it.”

something in negan broke then—not violently, not dramatically. just softened, melted, the edges losing their sharpness.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” negan whispered, half a laugh, half a confession.

rick’s thumb brushed his shoulder, a silent reassurance. “maybe,” he said. “but you’re not alone.”

negan closed his eyes, letting the warmth of rick’s hand sink in like sunlight after too long in the dark.

“okay,” he breathed. “i’ll come back.”

rick nodded, relief settling across his features.

“good,” he said, helping negan stand. “let’s go home.”

and for the first time in a long time, negan didn’t question the word home—not when rick said it. not when rick meant it.

Chapter Text

the first time natasha saw her, it felt like the air changed.

wanda maximoff stood in the middle of the briefing room, hands clasped, shoulders tight with nerves she was trying to hide. her hair fell over her face in waves, just enough to give her something to retreat behind. she looked young, powerful, uncertain—like a storm that wasn’t sure if it should break.

natasha didn’t believe in love at first sight.

she didn’t believe in much at first sight.

but something about wanda—quiet and blazing all at once—pulled at her like gravity.

“you must be natasha,” wanda said, voice soft but laced with an accent that curled around the words like warmth.

“and you’re wanda,” natasha replied, trying not to sound as breathless as she suddenly felt.

those green eyes met hers, and the room went still. wanda’s gaze wasn’t sharp—it was searching, curious, a little shy, but not afraid. natasha felt it like fingertips trailing across her skin.

an instant connection. irrational. unavoidable.

natasha had survived too many things to be surprised by danger. but this? this tenderness-struck-like-lightning feeling? it startled her in a way nothing else had.

“i’ve heard about you,” wanda said carefully.

natasha smirked. “only good things, i hope.”

wanda shook her head immediately. “no—i mean yes—i mean—” she groaned quietly, cheeks flushing. “i’m not good at this.”

natasha’s heart did something ridiculous.

“at talking?” she teased gently.

“at… meeting people,” wanda corrected, brushing her hair back. “especially people like you.”

natasha tilted her head. “people like me?”

wanda swallowed, eyes flicking to her lips before she looked away. “strong. confident. beautiful.”

natasha froze.

not visibly—she was better trained than that—but inside, she stopped breathing. no one said things like that to her so openly. not without agenda. not without expectation.

wanda said it like a truth she couldn’t hold back.

“you’re not bad at this,” natasha said softly. “not at all.”

wanda looked up again, hope flickering in her eyes like a spark catching fire.

“really?”

natasha nodded once. “really.”

a quiet moment stretched between them, full of things unspoken but somehow understood. a feeling new and familiar all at once. not danger. not fear. just something warm leaning toward something warmer.

wandas fingers twitched at her sides, as if unsure whether to reach out.

natasha stepped closer.

wanda inhaled sharply, but didn’t move away.

“come on,” natasha murmured, voice gentler than she used for anyone else. “i’ll show you the training rooms. and maybe… we can talk.”

wanda smiled—small, soft, luminous.

“i’d like that.”

and just like that, with a single shared look under fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the avengers facility, natasha romanoff—master spy, assassin, survivor—felt something she hadn’t felt in years:

a beginning.

a real one.

maybe even love.

Chapter Text

clark kent had never meant to fall for bruce wayne.

it just happened—slowly at first, then all at once, like the way the sun crept over the skyline before suddenly flooding the city in gold. bruce wasn’t an easy man to read, or love, or even stand close to without feeling the weight of his walls.

but tonight, in the dim light of the batcave, clark realized he’d fallen anyway.

bruce stood over the cracked monitors, shoulders tense beneath his suit, jaw set in that way that meant he’d been brooding for hours. the glow of the screens carved sharp lines across his face, highlighting the exhaustion he always pretended wasn’t there.

clark floated down from the upper platform, landing softly behind him.

“you didn’t answer the comms,” clark said gently.

bruce didn’t look back. “i was working.”

“you were avoiding me.”

this time, bruce paused.

clark stepped closer, warmth radiating from his chest, filling the cold space between them. bruce stiffened—not in fear, but in that stubborn, silent resistance he always wore like armor.

“i’m fine,” bruce said.

“no, you’re not,” clark replied softly.

bruce finally turned. their eyes met—blue meeting blue, though bruce’s were darker, heavier, full of something he didn’t want clark to see. something vulnerable.

“you scare me sometimes,” bruce admitted quietly.

clark blinked. “me?”

“yes.” bruce’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled where they rested on the console. “because you look at me like you… like you want something i don’t know how to give.”

clark took a slow step forward. “i don’t want anything from you that you can’t give.”

“and if i can’t give anything at all?”

clark lifted a hand—hesitating for the briefest moment—before touching bruce’s cheek with the softest, warmest graze of his thumb.

“then i’ll take whatever you can,” he murmured.

bruce’s eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his shoulders dissolving just a fraction. he leaned, almost unconsciously, into clark’s touch.

“clark…” he whispered, breath shaky.

“i’m right here,” clark said. “i’m not going anywhere.”

bruce opened his eyes again, something fierce and fragile flickering inside them, like a match struck in the dark.

he reached up and grabbed clark’s suit, pulling him closer in a sudden, desperate movement. their chests collided, heat meeting heat, breath mingling in the space between them.

clark’s voice dropped to a whisper. “bruce—”

bruce kissed him.

not soft, not gentle—just raw, urgent, like he’d been holding back for far too long. clark melted into it, grounding bruce with his hands, one at the back of his neck, the other sliding to his waist.

bruce pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, lips still brushing.

“this is a mistake,” bruce murmured, though his grip on clark’s suit said otherwise.

“then we’ll make it together,” clark whispered.

bruce huffed a shaky laugh. “god, clark…”

“come upstairs,” clark said softly, thumb brushing bruce’s lower lip. “not to talk.”

bruce’s breath caught—ever so slightly.

the pause was brief.

“okay,” he whispered.

clark kissed him again—slower this time, promising, grounding—and the moment stretched, warm and breathless, until bruce finally took his hand.

the two of them disappeared into the shadows of the manor, the door closing softly behind them.

everything else faded away.

Chapter Text

thor odinson wasn’t supposed to fall for someone like bruce banner.

he was loud. bruce was quiet.

he was a drummer—constantly tapping, hitting, moving, making noise wherever he went. bruce was a science nerd who carried three notebooks everywhere and apologized when someone else bumped into him.

they met in the worst, most embarrassing way possible.

thor crashed into bruce outside the campus science building—literally crashed—because he was trying to drum on his thighs and walk at the same time. his drumsticks flew. one hit a trash can. the other nearly hit a squirrel.

bruce blinked up at him from where he’d dropped to one knee, papers scattered everywhere.

“i… um… gravity,” bruce said weakly, clearly panicking and trying to explain why he was suddenly sitting on the ground.

thor froze. then blurted, “you’re cute.”

bruce’s brain just… blue-screened.

“what?”

“nothing!” thor panicked, scrambling to help him gather papers. “i mean—you’re… fine. are you fine? i think you’re fine. physically. maybe emotionally.”

bruce stared at him like thor had just announced he was the king of mars.

thor cleared his throat, cheeks going pink. “sorry. i get flustered.”

“you get flustered?” bruce asked, incredulous.

thor nodded helplessly. “around… certain people.”

bruce’s face flushed bright red.

and that was the beginning.

///////

thor started showing up outside the science building “accidentally on purpose.”

bruce always noticed.

mostly because thor was terrible at being subtle. he’d lean on a wall, trying to look cool, but then drop his drumsticks, chase them down, bump into a bike rack, and loudly pretend it never happened.

every time bruce walked out, thor’s whole face lit up like the sun had specifically risen for him.

“hey, bruce!” thor beamed.

bruce pushed up his glasses, cheeks pink. “oh. hi, thor.”

they walked together every day.

thor talked about music, rhythm, the way drums made his heart calm down instead of speed up.

bruce talked about research, molecules, equations, and the quiet beauty of understanding the world.

thor listened—really listened—even when he didn’t understand half the words.

and every time bruce laughed softly at one of thor’s terrible jokes, thor felt like he’d gotten an encore from the universe.

one afternoon, thor dragged bruce into the band’s practice room.

“i want to show you something,” thor said, practically vibrating.

bruce sat on a speaker, clutching his bag like it was a life vest.

thor grinned, twirling his drumsticks. “okay. don’t be scared.”

“i’m always scared,” bruce muttered.

but thor started playing—softly at first.

not the usual thunderous, chaotic beats everyone expected from him.

no, this was gentle. warm. complicated in a way that didn’t overwhelm—like rain on a quiet morning or a heartbeat heard through a stethoscope.

bruce watched, completely entranced.

“i made this one,” thor said between rhythms, “when i met you.”

bruce’s breath caught.

the music swelled—something bright, something hopeful, something that sounded like falling in love without knowing how to stop it.

when thor finished, the room went quiet.

bruce stood, walked over, and rested a trembling hand over thor’s, the one still holding a drumstick.

“thor,” he whispered, “that was beautiful.”

thor swallowed hard.

“you’re beautiful,” he said without thinking.

bruce’s eyes widened, soft and startled.

“oh,” bruce whispered.

thor stepped closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between them.

“i really like you,” thor said, voice low, honest, almost gentle. “more than i’ve ever liked anyone.”

bruce let out a tiny, nervous laugh. “i… i like you too. a lot. even though you’re… you know. loud.”

thor grinned. “and you’re quiet. it balances out.”

bruce looked down, shy. “can i…?”

thor tilted his head. “can you what?”

bruce hesitated. then leaned in and pressed the softest, smallest kiss to thor’s cheek.

thor’s heart stopped. then restarted too fast.

“we can start slow,” bruce murmured, cheeks red. “if you want.”

thor took bruce’s hand—carefully, reverently.

“slow is perfect,” he whispered.

and somewhere between heartbeats and equations, the drummer and the scientist found their rhythm.

Chapter Text

steve didn’t mean to get jealous.

he really didn’t.

but yesterday, he’d walked into the common room and saw tony and stephen strange talking—too close, too quietly, tony laughing at something strange said, head tilted in that way that always meant he was actually enjoying himself.

and steve felt something dark curl hot in his stomach.

he never said anything.

but he didn’t forget.

which is why steve walked into the lab tonight with his jaw set, shoulders tight, and something sharp simmering beneath his skin.

tony was bent over a hologram, muttering at it, wearing his glasses and a tank top—completely unaware of the storm walking straight toward him.

“you’re working late,” steve said, voice low.

tony looked up, smiling lightly. “someone’s gotta keep this place from exploding.”

steve didn’t smile back.

tony blinked, confused. “you okay, cap?”

steve stepped closer. too close. close enough tony’s breath caught. close enough that the blue glow of the hologram lit the edges of steve’s face, making him look sharper, hungrier.

“no,” steve said quietly, “i’m not.”

tony swallowed. “…did something happen?”

“yeah,” steve murmured. “yesterday.”

tony frowned, thinking—and then his expression shifted when he realized.

“oh,” he breathed. “steve, that was nothing. strange was just—”

“you were smiling at him.”

tony stared. “…i smile at people.”

“not like that.”

the words came out rough, almost a growl.

tony’s heartbeat stuttered. “steve…”

steve reached out, grabbing the edge of the table behind tony, caging him in without touching him. tony’s back hit the cold metal; steve’s chest nearly pressed to his.

“i didn’t like it,” steve admitted, voice low and shaking with restraint. “watching him stand that close to you.”

tony’s breath hitched. “you’re jealous?”

“i’m beyond jealous,” steve whispered. “i’m needy.”

the air snapped tight.

tony almost whined—quiet, involuntary.

“steve,” he said again, softer this time, “you know you don’t have to be jealous. i’m yours.”

steve’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.

“say that again.”

tony licked his lips. “i’m yours.”

that was all it took.

steve grabbed tony’s waist, pulling him forward so fast tony gasped. their bodies collided—heat against heat—and tony’s hands flew up to steve’s shoulders, steadying himself, breath trembling.

“you don’t get to look at anyone else like that,” steve murmured against his jaw, lips brushing but not quite kissing. “not when you look like this for me.”

tony shuddered. “i wasn’t—steve, i wasn’t trying to—”

“i know,” steve said, voice softer now but no less intense. “doesn’t change what it did to me.”

steve tilted tony’s chin up with two fingers, slow, possessive.

“you’re mine,” he whispered.

tony’s knees nearly buckled. “please kiss me.”

steve’s mouth crashed into his.

the kiss was messy, desperate, months of restraint breaking open all at once. steve pressed him harder into the table, hands gripping his hips with a need that made tony gasp into his mouth.

tony clung to him—fingers in his hair, nails dragging down his back, pulling him closer, closer, not close enough.

“steve—” he breathed, voice trembling with want.

“tell me,” steve whispered against his lips, “who you want.”

“you,” tony gasped. “only you.”

steve kissed him again, deeper, hungrier, swallowing the sound tony made.

the lights flickered.

the hologram sputtered.

somewhere between breathless kisses and steve lifting tony onto the table, tony’s glasses fell off, clattering to the floor.

steve didn’t look away from tony’s face—not for a second.

“i’m gonna make sure you remember who you belong to,” steve whispered, hands sliding slow and intentional along tony’s waist, voice dropping into something dark and promising.

tony exhaled a shaky, eager, “yes.”

the lab door locked with a soft click as steve’s hand found it blindly.

and the rest of the night faded into heat and shadows.

Chapter Text

dean didn’t know when looking at cas had started feeling like this.

like pressure in his chest.
like heat that had nowhere to go.
like he was one wrong glance away from doing something stupid.

and tonight, after a hunt gone sideways, cas was sitting on the edge of dean’s bed in the bunker, shirt torn at the shoulder, blue eyes glowing faintly from leftover grace.

dean couldn’t look away.

“you’re hurt,” dean said, voice low.

cas tilted his head. “i’m healing.”

“still,” dean muttered, stepping closer. “you scared the hell out of me.”

cas blinked, slow. “i knew you would come for me.”

“that’s not the point,” dean snapped, sharper than he meant.

cas softened, like he could see straight through dean’s defenses. “then what is?”

dean swallowed hard.

the room felt too small. too quiet. too full of every unspoken word they’d been dancing around for years.

“cas…” dean started, but the rest caught in his throat.

cas rose from the bed — close now, closer than dean could handle, the blue glow of his grace brushing against dean’s skin like heat lightning.

“dean,” cas said gently, “you’re trembling.”

dean scoffed. “i’m not—”

cas touched him.

just a hand on his jaw, a soft, careful touch — but dean’s breath left him in a rush, knees almost giving out.

“you are,” cas murmured.

dean grabbed cas’s wrist, not to push him away — but to keep him there.

“don’t… don’t look at me like that,” dean whispered.

“like what?” cas asked, stepping even closer, their chests brushing.

“like you…” dean struggled, voice breaking, “like you want something from me.”

cas’s eyes darkened. “i don’t want something, dean.”

dean’s heart stopped.

cas leaned in, breath warm against his mouth.

“i want you,” he whispered.

dean made a sound — quiet, helpless — and shoved cas against the wall, hands on his coat, mouth inches from his.

cas didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just looked at him like dean was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

“you have no idea,” dean said, voice wrecked, “how long i’ve been trying not to hear you say that.”

cas tilted his head. “and now that you have?”

dean’s mouth brushed his — not a kiss, not yet, but the spark before the strike.

“i can’t hold back anymore.”

cas exhaled like a prayer.

dean kissed him.

it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t careful. it was years of longing breaking open — hands grabbing, mouths crashing, breaths mixing, hearts pounding hard enough to bruise.

cas moaned softly into dean’s mouth, fingers curling into dean’s shirt, pulling him closer like he was anchoring himself to earth.

“dean,” cas whispered between kisses, voice trembling, “i’m losing control.”

“good,” dean growled, kissing down his throat. “i want you messy.”

cas shuddered — wings flickering faintly, brushing the room in shadows.

“dean…” he gasped, “please.”

dean lifted him, pushed him harder against the wall, kissing him until cas’s grace flared warm and hungry under his skin.

the lights flickered. the air shook.

and when dean’s mouth found his ear, his voice low and rough, the world seemed to tilt.

“tell me you’re mine.”

cas’s breath broke.

“i’ve always been yours.”

dean moaned — low, aching — and everything after that blurred into heat, hands, whispered names, the soft thud of the bunker door closing, and a night that burned bright and holy.

Chapter Text

rick has no idea why seeing negan laugh with someone else can still hit him like a punch to the ribs.

it’s stupid. it’s stupid as hell. years into this uneasy-thing they do — this snarling, tense, too-close thing — rick should be past feeling anything like jealousy. but all it took was one stupid sound: negan laughing, low and warm, at someone else’s joke.

rick hadn’t meant to react. he hadn’t meant to bristle. but he had. and negan noticed.

he always notices.

now the two of them are alone, the door of the half-lit storage room clicking shut behind them, the air between them thick enough to breathe in.

negan leans against a shelf casually, arms crossed, like he’s watching a show.
“you alright there, rick?” he asks, voice dipped in something dangerous. “you’ve been starin’ daggers at me all damn day.”

rick doesn’t answer. not with words. he just steps forward — boots slow, deliberate — until negan has no space left to lean back.

negan’s smirk twitches. “woah, cowboy. you look like you’re about to—”

rick fists a hand in negan’s jacket and shoves him back against the metal shelves with a clang.

negan’s breath stutters. not afraid — surprised. and very, very interested.

“you enjoyin’ yourself?” rick mutters, jaw clenched, voice rough from holding everything in. “laughin’ with her like that?”

negan tilts his head, like he’s deciding whether to tease or pour gasoline on the fire.
“are you—” he grins, slow and sharp, “—jealous?”

rick’s jaw ticks. “shut up.”

“oh, i don’t think i will,” negan purrs, leaning in until rick can feel the warmth of his breath on his throat. “’cause this? this is way too damn fun.”

rick hates how his pulse jumps. hates how negan sees it. hates how negan’s hand slides up his waist like it belongs there.

he grabs negan’s wrist. “don’t.”

“then stop lookin’ at me,” negan murmurs, eyes tracking rick’s lips. “’cause you look like you wanna tear me apart.”

rick swallows. hard.
“maybe i do.”

negan’s smile fades into something darker, hungrier. “then do it.”

the tension snaps like overstretched wire.

rick surges forward, kissing him with too much force, too much need, too much everything he refuses to say out loud. negan groans into it — a low, broken sound — grabbing rick’s hips, tugging him closer, matching the hunger with his own.

rick pushes him harder against the shelves, mouths colliding again and again, desperate and angry and starving. negan drags a hand up rick’s spine, making him shiver, pulling him in until there’s not a breath of space left between them.

“that what you wanted?” negan whispers against his mouth. “to remind me who the hell i belong to?”

rick breathes out shakily. “shut up.”

“make me.”

rick does.

the room fills with the scrape of breath, the thud of bodies against metal, the sound of negan choking out rick’s name like he’s been waiting to say it all damn day.

negan’s hand finds the back of rick’s neck. rick bites down on negan’s shoulder. it’s messy, rough, half-anger and half-devotion and all heat.

negan drags him closer, voice breaking on a laugh.
“goddamn, rick—”

rick cuts him off with another kiss, deeper, needier, pushing him back until negan’s knees bend and the shelves behind him rattle.

their bodies move together, faster, hotter, breath tangling, hands grabbing wherever they can, jealousy burning itself into something far, far worse.

and when negan drags rick down with him, pulling him to the floor, pulling him over him—

—whatever happens next isn’t for the fluorescent lights to see.

the door stays closed.
the room goes quiet.
the rest is heat and breath and the kind of closeness that feels like surrender.

Chapter Text

charles had never expected to have to race erik to the taco truck.

and yet here they were, standing on opposite sides of the sidewalk, glaring at each other like it was a war instead of a saturday afternoon.

“i called dibs first,” charles said, tapping his cane lightly.

“dibs?” erik scoffed. “really, charles? we’re adults.”

“adults who are very clearly hungry,” charles countered, eyes twinkling. “and if you touch my taco, i will use telepathy to make you regret it.”

erik raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “is that a threat, professor, or a promise?”

charles tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “a little of both.”

erik stepped closer, close enough that charles could feel the heat radiating off him. “well, if we’re being honest,” he said, voice low, teasing, “i was planning on stealing your taco anyway.”

charles gasped, clutching his chest as if physically wounded. “erik!”

“don’t act so surprised,” erik teased, leaning a fraction closer. “i’ve seen that look on your face before. it means you like it.”

charles blinked, flustered, adjusting his glasses nervously. “i do not—”

but his words were cut off when erik’s hand brushed his as he reached for the taco container at the same time. they froze, fingers touching, and charles felt a strange, electrifying warmth.

“hm,” erik murmured, eyes locking on charles’s. “you do like it.”

charles swallowed, trying not to smile. “i suppose,” he admitted reluctantly, “that i… might like you just a tiny bit.”

erik’s grin widened. “just a tiny bit?”

“well, okay,” charles sighed dramatically, “maybe more than a tiny bit.”

erik laughed, soft and low, and before charles could protest, erik leaned down and brushed a quick, teasing kiss against his temple.

“good,” erik said, stepping back with a satisfied smirk. “because now you owe me a taco.”

charles groaned, but he couldn’t hide the smile spreading across his face. “fine,” he said, holding out the container. “but only because you’re so infuriatingly handsome.”

erik took the taco like a victorious champion. “i’ll take it,” he said, “and the pleasure of your company, of course.”

charles rolled his eyes, though his cheeks were bright red. “oh, erik. you really are impossible.”

“and yet,” erik murmured, leaning close enough for charles to catch his breath, “you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

charles tried to argue—but he didn’t have the energy. instead, he laughed, and erik laughed too, and for a few blissful minutes, the taco truck, the sun, and the bustling city disappeared, leaving only the two of them, teasing, bickering, and maybe… falling a little more in love.

Chapter Text

hosea had been trying to mind his own business.
really, he had.

but when dutch strutted into town with his leather jacket, too-wide grin, and a swagger hosea knew was only half-confidence and half-show, all bets were off.

“hey, hosea,” dutch called, tipping his hat in that dramatic way that made hosea roll his eyes and blush at the same time. “what’s a smart guy like you doing in a place like this?”

hosea snorted, pretending not to notice the way dutch’s grin made his chest tighten. “same thing you are, probably. getting into trouble.”

“ah, but see, i’m good at trouble,” dutch replied, sauntering closer. “you? not so much.”

hosea raised an eyebrow. “oh, i think i can handle trouble just fine.”

“really?” dutch asked, stepping a little too close, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “wanna bet?”

hosea hesitated, then laughed. “fine. what’s the bet?”

“if i win,” dutch said, leaning casually against the fence, “you have to go out with me friday night.”

hosea nearly choked. “you’re insane. there’s no way i’m—”

“and if you win?” dutch prompted, grinning like he already knew the answer.

hosea thought for a moment, his lips twitching. “if i win… you’ll have to admit i’m smarter than you.”

dutch’s eyes narrowed in mock horror. “that is impossible.”

they spent the next hour racing through town—chasing chickens, hopping fences, nearly knocking over the baker’s cart, and laughing until their sides hurt. hosea kept a careful eye on dutch, noting how easily he laughed, how bright his smile was, how impossibly charming he was when he wasn’t pretending to be the king of trouble.

in the end, hosea won by a hair, tripping over a loose cobblestone at the last second, but dutch landed in a puddle with an extravagant groan, splashing water everywhere.

“fine,” dutch said, shaking water out of his jacket and glaring with fake indignation. “you are smarter than me. for now.”

hosea grinned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “for now.”

dutch leaned closer, lowering his voice. “you know… friday night still stands, right?”

hosea felt his chest twist. “i know.”

and just like that, between laughter, racing feet, and puddles, teenage hosea and dutch found themselves tangled in the beginning of something that was far more dangerous than any small-town race.

Chapter Text

tony doesn’t mean to say it. he never means to say anything real, not when it comes to steve, not when it comes to the things that sit like live wires beneath his ribs. he’s spent years swallowing it down, hiding it beneath sarcasm and noise and inventions that light up more than he ever could.

but the night before the mission feels different.

the briefing room is empty. everyone else has gone to pretend they’re not afraid, and steve is standing by the window, arms folded over his chest, jaw tight. he looks like he always does before a battle—steady, grounded, impossible to knock over. but tony knows him well enough to see the tremor under the stillness. he knows steve is scared, too.

so tony speaks, because silence suddenly feels unbearable.

“hey, uh… cap.” he tries for casual. he fails. his voice cracks like something old and tired. “listen. before we go out there and possibly get ourselves killed—”

steve turns, frowning, because he hates when tony jokes like that. hates when he pretends life is cheap. “tony.”

“no, let me… just let me finish, okay?” tony’s breath hitches, and he laughs, quiet and miserable, running a hand through his hair. “i’m not good at this. i’m really bad at this, actually. but if i don’t say it now i’m never going to.”

steve steps closer, slow, cautious, like tony is something fragile. tony hates it, loves it, wants to scream at it.

“say what?” steve asks.

and tony blurts it out like a punch to the chest.

“i’m in love with you.”

there’s a heartbeat where nothing exists. no war, no danger, no mission. just two men staring at each other with everything they’ve been too afraid to say hovering between them like smoke.

steve’s mouth parts. his eyes shine, blue and unbearably soft.

“tony…” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.

“don’t— don’t say anything. i know you don’t feel the same. i know you can’t. but if something happens tomorrow, i don’t want my last thought to be that i didn’t tell you. that’s all.”

steve breathes in, sharp, almost painful. “you think i don’t feel the same?”

tony opens his mouth, but he never gets to answer because steve is suddenly right there, so close tony can see every fleck of color in his eyes. steve cups his face with both hands—firm, warm, steady—and kisses him.

fast. desperate. like he waited too long and knows he’s run out of time.

tony’s entire world tilts. he grabs steve’s uniform with shaking hands and kisses him back, tasting salt he isn’t sure belongs to either of them.

then steve pulls away.

too soon. far too soon.

“i have to go,” he murmurs, forehead resting against tony’s. “but when i come back… we’ll talk. i promise.”

tony wants to say something brilliant, something witty, something brave. but all he manages is a whisper.

“come back to me.”

steve gives him a small, aching smile. “i will.”

////////

tony wakes up to white lights and pain in his ribs. the hum of machines. the weight of something cold in his chest that he doesn’t understand yet.

natasha is sitting beside the bed, bruised and silent.

“where’s steve?” tony asks immediately.

she doesn’t answer.

“nat. where is he?”

her eyes soften in the way that tells him everything.

“he saved us,” she says quietly. “he saved everyone.”

tony’s throat closes. “no.”

“tony…”

“no. he promised.”

and the thing in tony’s chest cracks open, spreading like fire, like grief, like the end of the world.

he closes his eyes and sees steve’s last smile. feels that one desperate kiss on his lips. hears the promise that will never be kept.

he had confessed his love.

and steve had never come back to hear the rest.