#react data table

[deepspace-scenarios]

[scenario/drabble] You = me?

LIs react to you/MC showing up to a date dressed exactly like them.

(Genre: Fluff; tw: mild suggestiveness)

SYLUS 

You stroll in with a suit jacket worn exactly the way he does- draped like a cape, the crow brooch glinting under the dim ambient light of the restaurant. Sylus raises a brow as he takes in your appearance.

"Kitten," he purrs, standing to pull out a chair for you. "Are you mocking me… or tempting me?" His fingers brush the brooch. "Because if it’s the latter, this game ends with that outfit on my floor." 

It sends an electrifying heat coiling deep within you, but you refuse to let your composure slip just yet.

You mimic his posture, chin lifted. "I just wanted to see if I could pull off power better than you." 

He laughs, low and indulgent. "Oh, you do."  

___

XAVIER 

Xavier freezes mid-sip when he sees you in his signature hoodie-and-tee combo, the tea hovering in front of his face as he looks, or rather, stares. His cup clinks when he sets it down.

 "You're… me."  

You wink, copying his serene smile and slipping into the seat opposite him. "Do I look like a fallen star now?"  

He reaches out, fingertips grazing the fabric. "No. You look like everything… everything I love,"  

Then- rare mischief flashes. “You'd look even better with me. At my place, in my be-”

“Xavier!” You yelp, stopping him from finishing what he had to say.

He beams at you. “I meant, napping in a hoodie is very comfortable. So we should try it together,”

___

ZAYNE 

Zayne’s chopsticks pause over his plate when you slide into the booth, dressed in his go-to all-black attire.

His stare lingers on you.

 "…You even got the correct height for the rolled sleeves."  

You adjust imaginary glasses. "Based on observational data, this was the optimal outfit for unconventional seduction."  

A beat. Then- he leans in, his voice a whisper. "Your confidence interval is 100%."  

Your heart flutters in your chest at the way a hint of a smirk grazes his lips.

"Let's eat now, otherwise the soup dumplings will get cold." He says lightly to remind you to sit, picking one up with practiced ease and placing it into your bowl.

His gaze for the rest of the evening is weighted with a certain intensity, one that promises more to come, once you return home with him.

___

RAFAYEL

“Hey Rafayel,” you greet, your hand brushing his shoulder lightly as you walk in from behind him. “Sorry I'm late,”

There's a short beat of silence.

Rafayel's butter knife clatters onto the plate. "Is that-? Are you? ME?!"  

You do a spin, the white fabric flowing around you. "Who else?"  

He springs up, hands fluttering over your hair and outfit. "Oh, Miss Bodyguard you look absolutely stunning- wait, do a pose! Pose like I do!"  

You flick your hair and angle your shoulder to pose. His jaw drops.

 "I’m OBSESSED! This is art!"  He declares.

Then, suddenly, he takes your hands into his. His tone turns serious as he asks you softly. "But you have to tell me. Am I also art to you, Miss Bodyguard?”  

You grin at him. “Of course, you're the true embodiment of art itself,”

He preens, bringing your hand up and pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. Then another, and another, until you almost have to physically sit him back down on his chair and remind him to stop the PDA and eat.

--- 

CALEB 

Caleb chokes on his water when he sees your handmade sweater. He turns away quickly, coughing and spluttering into his elbow before he spews water all over the fancy steak frites on the table.

You make it to the corner table, a small little alcove that has an L-shaped sofa bench against the wall. With him being closer now, you can see that pink tinges the tips of his ears as he clears his throat. "You- you made this? For our date? For me?"  

You mimic his shy grin, sliding your bag off your shoulder as you slide into the plush bench, knees touching his. You stretch out your arm so that he can admire your handiwork. "Just a bit of stitching with ready-made items. Had to match my favorite person."  

His hands hover, like he’s afraid to wrinkle it. "I… I love it.. And the sweater paws- pipsqueak, that should be illegal,”

“Too cute to handle?” You tease.

He pinches your cheek, then squishes you in a tight hug. “Never, pipsqueak.”

His heartbeat says otherwise.

[learntechsolution]

Deploying a Node.js application to Heroku is a straightforward process. Heroku is a platform as a service (PaaS) that allows you to easily deploy, manage, and scale web applications. Here's a step-by-step guide to deploying a Node.js application to Heroku

[learn-techsolution]

Deploying a Node.js application to Heroku is a straightforward process. Heroku is a platform as a service (PaaS) that allows you to easily deploy, manage, and scale web applications. Here's a step-by-step guide to deploying a Node.js application to Heroku

[learntech-solution]

Deploying a Node.js application to Heroku is a straightforward process. Heroku is a platform as a service (PaaS) that allows you to easily deploy, manage, and scale web applications. Here's a step-by-step guide to deploying a Node.js application to Heroku

[learn-tech-solution]

Deploying a Node.js application to Heroku is a straightforward process. Heroku is a platform as a service (PaaS) that allows you to easily deploy, manage, and scale web applications. Here's a step-by-step guide to deploying a Node.js application to Heroku

[webtutorialstack]

Fetch data from api and show in table with jquery dataTable plugin.

[skmhlml]

hey! you can make a Enderman x Fem Reader in which he is learning the ways in which she shows pleasure? With smut, pleeeease.

and also, I admit that I've always had a bit of a crush on this monster, and it's at least interesting to see people liking him so much now

P.S: I'll also be so sad when the obsession with him ends

Note: watching kalmekrist rn, feeling pretty, might make jaw-dropping traumatizing smut, idk.

Endermen are naturally curious, and this one is especially intrigued by you—your laugh, your touch, the way your eyes soften when you’re happy. He doesn’t quite get it yet, but he wants to. Every sound, expression, or gesture you make fascinates him.

He becomes obsessed with your sounds—gasps, giggles, sighs. Every little noise you make teaches him something new. He starts experimenting: holding your hand longer, brushing your hair from your face, standing close to feel your body heat. Every pleased sigh or happy noise is a win in his book.

At first, his fingers were awkward—long and spindly, not used to soft skin. But he’s a quick learner. He watches how you react when he drags those inky-black fingertips along the inside of your thighs. The way your breath hitches when he strokes just under your navel. He files it away like a scientist cataloging data—except it’s deeply personal, primal even.

The first time he made you moan—really moan—it stunned him. He paused mid-movement, pupils glowing brighter as he stared at your lips, then your eyes. Then he did it again. And again. He started to chase those sounds like treasure, each new pitch and gasp making his tendrils twitch in response.

He studies the arch of your back when his long wet tongue flicks between your legs. The way your thighs tremble, the way your hands reach for his shoulders, trying to pull him closer or push him deeper. He learns how your body tightens just before release—and that knowledge drives him wild.

Endermen radiate a strange chill, but when aroused, their core temperature spikes. You can feel it in the way his body hums against yours, how the room feels charged with energy. He’ll lift you effortlessly, pressing you against walls, tables, or pinning you to the bed, entirely focused on what makes you writhe.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. No, that’s when it gets really good for him. He leans in close, head brushing your neck, tendrils writhing inside you, around you, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from your spent body. He whispers your own moans back into your ear like a language he’s learning by heart.

One tendril wraps around your neck like a loose choker, another teases your clit in time with your pulse, and inside—he stretches you wide, too much, just enough to make your breath catch. He wants you to be ruined by him. No one else. Ever.

He didn’t mean to intrude. Not the first time. He was just… curious. You were always so warm, your voice soft, your body fascinating. He never meant to appear in your room at night. But then you moaned.

His eyes locked on you from the shadows as your fingers slid between your thighs. Your head tilted back. You sighed his name—soft and breathy—and he froze. Time stopped. He didn’t understand what you were doing. But it made his core burn. Something primal and wrong and so right curled inside him.

After that, he watched every time. Hidden in the dark corners of your room, in the rafters, behind the portal frame—you never noticed. Or maybe you wanted him to watch. He became obsessed. Not with sex—but your pleasure. The way your hips rocked, the shape of your parted lips, the heat that built in your body until you shattered around your own fingers.

The next time you were near him, he mimicked the way you touched yourself. His hand moved slowly, fingers curling in the same rhythm you used. He tilted his head, confused and fascinated, watching your face as he repeated the motion—not on himself, but on you. You gasped. Eyes wide. He froze, then did it again, watching your body jolt. He had learned.

You were on your bed again, fingers buried deep, panting his name. And then—you felt something else.Long, shadowy tendrils curled around your ankles, thighs, waist—restraining, but not cruel. A cool, slick pressure replaced your fingers. You opened your eyes.

He was standing at the foot of your bed. Silent. Glowing eyes boring into yours, wide and starving. The tendril thrust inside slowly—mocking your own rhythm from before. He had studied you. And now he was testing what he’d learned.

He knows what noises mean you’re close. He knows the twitch in your thighs, the breath you hold, the way your hips lift—he’s memorized your pleasure. So when he wraps two tendrils around your wrists, holds your legs apart, and thrusts a third into you with expert rhythm—he does it with complete, focused precision.

His face is inches from yours, his eyes glowing bright, fixated on every moan, every breath, every reaction. His body is still—only his tendrils move. You’re the experiment. The obsession. The lesson.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. He wants to see it again. And again. And again.

“Ah…” he mimics you. Not perfect—but close enough to make your skin crawl with lust. His voice is distorted, otherworldly, but it’s trying to sound like you. His tendrils spread you wide, teasing, thrusting, overstimulating until you sob for mercy. He leans in close, tongue sliding over your cheek, breath hot and damp.

And then, in your own voice, he whispers: “Again.”

[iamespecter]

I've been thinking a lot about episode 4 recently, but not exactly in a way that what most would think. I'm actually specifically referring to this scene of Zooble and Jax.

But I'm not thinking about Jax and Zooble, rather I'm looking at the patties.

They're fucking High Definition. In fact, everything in the diner is high definition, save for the NPCs. There's also Orbsman. A simple NPC comprised of blue spheres, and simple elongated eyes. He's the most out of place NPC, if we disregard the mannequins. Even the way he moves is so outdated, and Ragatha had made a point that Orbsman comes from an adventure way before Pomni's arrival.

The guy even clips through the table when trying to order.

Something that always had some sirens going off in my head is how the Circus is this low-poly scenery with heavily stylized props, but the adventure locations are always much more detailed and realistic.

Since The Grounds is definitely, if not, one of the oldest locations, it makes sense for it to be graphically styled like this. But Caine's adventure set pieces are becoming more and more realistic, and also a whole lot more morbid than we had initially thought.

Going back to the patties, the food there is more realistic and has a higher polygon count compared to Bubble's "feast".

Where am I going with this? .... I have no idea, I forgot. /j

Jokes aside, I really do think that as more humans enter the circus and talk about what life is in the real world, Caine extracts that data and improves the 3D environmental props, resulting in higher definition textures.

All of this combined means he can learn. He IS an ever-evolving pseudo-sentient AI. And the reason why he's stagnating is because of a combination of being trapped in his own little bubble (haha see what I did there) of comfort, and the fact that no one's really able to give him criticism on how to improve, which is.... honestly understandable, given how he reacted to the whole "it was bad" line from Pomni and "Why did you think I would like that?!" from Zooble.

Not to mention episode 3 where the whole circus started to glitch when he was just thinking about the fact that he could possibly be bad at the "only thing he's good at" during the therapy session.

In fact it's interesting how human Caine acts sometimes... I think it's quite interesting to think about the fact that Caine is both progressing in terms of bringing the casts' world to the digital circus and making it so HD that it looks even better than Triple A games, but regressing even more in terms of catering to them and what exactly humans need.

He understands, and doesn't at the same time.

This also makes me think about the players themselves, too.

Ragatha, one of the oldest players, gets pierced by a spike through her chest, and barely has any reaction to it. Meanwhile, Zooble, the second most recent member, gets scalded by the stove.

The only time Ragatha actively claims she's in "so much pain" is when she's glitching badly. Both Ragatha and Kinger barely react to the knives too; and not to mention Ragatha even gets fucking plunged into a boiling deep fryer, and yes while she screams, it sounds more like she's just drowning rather than being fried alive.

And the only patch up she gets is a FUCKING BAND AID ON HER CHEEK. A COMPLETELY UNRELATED WORKPLACE INJURY FIRST AID APPLIANCE LMFAO

It could be just a coincidence and I'm just being stupid again, but I think this "improvement" actually also applies to the rest of the cast, and how their digital bodies react to the five different senses. I'm sure Ragatha and Kinger can most definitely still feel pain, but not exactly as "bad" as the newer integrations do. Dare I say, it's on brand with how used these two are to the digital world's wackiness because they've been there the longest.

Like they've been numbed to the pain of the countless adventures they've had to go through.

Anyways my brain be thinking useless facts fr fr

EDIT: Going back to Caine, it's definitely interesting how this AI seems to possess (some) emotions in the first place. He's mostly wacky and nonchalant, but he also gets angry under the right conditions.

... I think not only is his adventures his "work of art", but also his main coping mechanism from the fact that he can't achieve his goal, one that constantly backfires on him. Like a 'one step forward, two steps back' scenario that's slowly causing him to slip and break.

And what scares me the most is that like all things... he'll reach a breaking point sometime. He's already reached a breaking point with Zooble. It doesn't help that Gangle could've possibly made things worse with introducing Caine to the whole "punishment" thing, and since we literally have NO context for the last 3 episodes for the finale... I could only fear what's in store.

[mx-paradox]

Too Far? (Just Enough) {Sakura Haruka x Reader}

Teasing Haruka leads to you needing to 'take care' of a very embarrassing 'problem' you accidentally caused...

Minors Do Not Interact, written with aged-up haruka in mind, smut, handjob, semi-public sex (locked restroom), praise kink, subby haruka, established relationship, gender neutral reader (no gendered words or any anatomy at all mentioned). word count: 2200 | Ao3 version

You were addicted to the sight of Haruka’s blush.

Every time your boyfriend flushed a shade of rose, you felt it go straight to your head, like a sugar rush. It was the best feeling; especially if it was you who was the cause of that sweet blush.

So, you liked to tease him. Never in a harsh way. You weren’t cruel. But sometimes you got just a little too close to him…touched him a little too intimately for public…praised him a little too much…just so you could get your dose of his embarrassed expression and strawberry flush.

It never went much farther than that, however. You knew Haruka needed to be handled gently; he wasn’t breakable, maybe, but he deserved the soft treatment he never had before. So, you didn’t push it. You pulled away before the embarrassment turned to shame and anger. You showed him love in other ways, quieter ways, ways that were easier for his affection-starved body to stomach. The teasing was just a sort of…seasoning, a bit of flavor you allowed yourself to sneak into your meal (him).

You didn’t think it would escalate like this.

(But you weren’t complaining.)

—

Pothos was filled to the brim with rowdy gang members, your boyfriend among them. It took some maneuvering (and some well-placed elbows) to make your way to him, but it was worth it to nestle into the cramped booth with him.

Tsuguera greeted you with a strong slap to the back that made you wince. Thankfully, Suo and Nirei greeted you verbally. Haruka only let out a grunt, before subtly linking his pinky with yours beneath the table.

“You guys celebrating?” you asked, once you were settled.

“Nothing big,” Suo said with a serene smile. “Just another fight won.”

Your eyes automatically drifted towards Nirei, who was just waiting for the slightest sliver of interest to be shown so he could recount the fight in question. Your inquisitive look was enough to break the floodgates. You couldn’t keep up with all of his enthusiastic babble (few could), but you understood the basics.

“Aren’t you sweet?” you cooed, turning to your boyfriend.

“Huh?!”

“Stepping in to help those girls like that. Starting this whole big fight just to protect them.”

Haruka was already getting the lightest dusting of pink across his cheekbones. He tried to avoid your eyes by looking down, but you dropped your head down to meet his gaze. You would allow yourself to play with him. Just a little bit, as a treat.

“Y’know what,” you murmured, eyes wide and locked onto his, “You’re such a good boy, Haru.”

He went up in flames. It was like he had just ingested a ghost pepper, whole, and was having a full-body reaction to the capsaicin. You barely had a second to admire the fruits of your labor before he let out a screech that sounded vaguely like “IGOTTAPISS—," leapt over your lap, and booked it to the bathroom.

You sat, frozen, staring at Nirei and Suo, who were also similarly shocked.

“What did you say to him?” Suo asked, a touch of humor in his voice. “I haven’t seen him react that way…ever, I think. It was quite impressive, actually.”

Nirei pulled a notebook from his jacket and thumbed through it, like he was double-checking his data. “I don’t think he’s ever been that embarrassed before.”

You started to feel a trickle of guilt slither down your throat. It was just meant to be a bit of fun, a little teasing. You didn’t expect Haruka to react this badly to a little pet name, but you’ve clearly miscalculated. Maybe it hit a nerve you didn’t know was exposed, or maybe it was just a little too much for a busy restaurant full of his friends. Either way, you had made a misstep, and now you would have to deal with the consequences.

“I’m going to go check on him,” you announced, giving the other two men an apologetic grimace. Nirei waved you off, while Suo gave you a head nod punctuated by his typical mysterious smile.

—

The men’s bathroom, a single stall, was tucked further into the back of the restaurant, away from most of the main noise. You knocked at the door, ready to sweet-talk your boyfriend into letting you in, but the door creaked open on its own. He must’ve been in such a state he didn’t even bother to close it properly, you thought, frowning to yourself.

You slipped inside, making sure to close and lock the door behind you before you turned.

You weren’t quite sure what you expected. But it certainly wasn’t the sight you were greeted with.

Haruka had just noticed your entrance, and he stood, frozen. Both of his hands were gripping the edge of the sink counter, his knuckles white. His face and bangs were damp; probably from splashing water on his face to cool down. But the most shocking thing was the obvious bulge of an erection pressing against the zipper of his tight jeans.

You gaped at him. Your brain was lagging like an old windows program (the sight of Haruka’s arousal had definitely been a shock to the system), but with a moment to process, you finally understood what happened.

“Did you get hard when I called you a good boy?”

 He let out a bitten-back whimper. He was grasping the counter so hard you swore you could hear it crack under the pressure. “Stop teasing me,” he said, trying to project anger into his voice to cover up the underlying whine.

“Hey,” you said, placatingly. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. I wouldn’t do that.”

 Haruka blinked at you. He still looked so vulnerable; more so than he ever had in a fight. You felt like you were in a fight…at the very least, it felt like the stakes were just as high. Your sweet boyfriend looked like he was one wrong word slipping from your mouth away from shattering. You needed to be gentle with him. Careful.

You started to move towards him, slowly. “In fact…I think that,” you nodded towards the tent in his pants. “Is pretty hot, actually.”

He didn’t answer, but you can see the blush on his face deepen. He’s still self-conscious, however, bringing both hands down in an attempt to protect what little modesty he might have left.

You let him, for now, choosing instead to grip his chin between your fingers so you could tilt him into a slow, sensual kiss. You were holding yourself back from devouring him, but even at your leashed pace he let out the prettiest sounding mewls into your mouth. He slowly relaxed into your kisses, hands drifting naturally from his crotch to tangle themselves in your shirt. You continued to indulge him, licking deeper into his mouth, chasing all of his sweet noises. Eventually, you had to let him breathe properly, but you made sure to run your tongue over his teeth in the way you knew made him shudder first.

You gave him a second to catch his breath, and recover, before asking, “Do you want me to help you, baby?”

Haruka was too flustered to speak, but he gave you the tiniest nod, unable to meet your eyes.

“Good boy,” you breathed. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

The sound of you pulling down his zipper echoed through the bathroom. Haruka's blunt nails scratched against the counter at the sound. You gave him a few soft pecks along his jaw to distract him, before slipping your hand into his underwear.

His cock was positively dripping when you pulled it out. The head was flushed red, fading down into pink near where the root of his dick was concealed by the bush of his black-and-white pubes. You rubbed your thumb across his slit, coaxing more precum out of his tip as he let out a high-pitched whine.

You raised your gaze, so you could see the both of you in the mirror. Haruka was cherry-red now, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in both embarrassment and arousal. His sharp canines were digging into his lips, nearly drawing blood as he unsuccessfully tried to bite back the lewd noises he was making. You couldn't see the reflection of his cock from this angle, but you could see the muscles in his forearms flex as he gripped the counter edge. You could see the subtle movements in your own arm, wrapped around his body and leisurely jerking his cock. You met your own eyes in the mirror, which were glinting with delight and lust.

"So perfect, Haru," you purred into his rosy ear.

He let out a whimpering cry, hips jerking forward into your grip unconsciously. You licked a stripe up his neck, nibbling at the lobe of his ear. Where your chest was pressed against his back, you could feel his shuddering, broken breathing as you pleasure him; you could almost feel the quickening beat of his heart.

Suddenly, you got an idea. Your self-indulgent actions already led you here, giving your boyfriend a handjob in a public restroom, so what was a little bit more teasing?

"Haruka," you cooed. "Open your eyes for me, baby."

It took him a moment, but he was nothing if not your good boy. You watched as his dual-colored eyes fought to flutter open, endeavors nearly thwarted by both his natural instinct to let them slide shut in pleasure and the wetness that clumped his lashes together. But, finally, they were cracked open enough for you to see his blown-out pupils, surrounded by thin metallic rings of color.

His eyes were open, but his brain was so hazed-out from arousal that he clearly wasn't even processing anything he was seeing. And that simply wouldn't do.

You stilled your hand, moving to lightly grip the base of his cock to stave off his oncoming orgasm. "Look at yourself in the mirror, Haruka."

Haruka blinked dumbly, letting out a whimper as you denied him his pleasure. Reluctantly, he raised his gaze.

His breath hitched as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He truly looked debauched, every inch of visible skin flushed and slick with sweat, hair mussed, lips bitten and red, eyes shining with tears. He blushed even more as he looked at himself; you could feel the heat radiating from his skin as his eyes met yours in the mirror.

"See? My boyfriend is the prettiest person in the world." You started to stroke him again, this time faster, movements aided by the pre that was leaking from his cock in a steady stream. "You're so sexy, Haruka, I could just eat you alive."

Your pretty boy couldn't even hold back his sounds anymore. Mewls and whines poured from his lips, noises mixing with the slick, lewd sound of your hand working him to climax. His eyes were hooded, in danger of slipping shut again completely; but every time he got close, you would slow your hand until he opened them again. Haruka likely didn't even realize it, but he was humping into your fist, hips jerking in small, unrelenting movements as he lost himself to his arousal.

You kissed him on the cheek, chasteness of it almost ridiculous for the situation you were in. "My precious, adorable, good boy."

Haruka let out a broken moan as he came into your hand. His head was thrown back, the perfect, biteable line of his throat exposed as his voice cracked and faded into a high-pitched, near-silent whine. He was shaking in your arms, every muscle flexing and frozen. You stroked him through his orgasm, milking the shots of milky hot come out of him until his aching balls were empty and his cock oversensitive.

You held him tightly through the comedown, making sure to kiss him all over and murmur words of reassurance and praise to him. You couldn't help but savor the feeling of him, wrung dry of ecstasy, warm and lax in your arms. He was clinging to you with a relaxed shamelessness, born of post-orgasm haze, that was a rare pleasure for you (but a pleasure that you experienced more and more frequently as Haruka learned how to be loved).

As you pressed another kiss to his sweaty forehead, you whispered to him that he really was just your perfect boy, wasn't he?

—

It took a long time to pull Haruka together, but, after a suspiciously long time, the two of you stumbled your way back into the main area of the cafe.

You had hoped that you could slip out unnoticed, and text everyone afterwards when you were taking Haru home, but your hopes were dashed by Nirei's sharp eyes.

"Hey! Are you guys okay? You were gone for—"

He's cut off by Suo placing a hand on his shoulder. You watched Suo's observant gaze catalogue Haruka's flushed and ruffled appearance, the way his eyes wouldn't leave the ground; and how you seemed to be glowing with a smug, cat-like satisfaction. "I think Sakura was just overwhelmed. We should let the lovebirds go home to rest, eh, Nirei-kun?"

Nirei looked a little sheepish, but his normal reaction told you he most certainly did not guess the real reason Haruka was "overwhelmed." Nirei wished you well with a stutter as you took the golden opportunity to take Haruka home.

(It was nearly impossible to tell, with one of his eyes covered, but you wouldn't put it past Suo for that suspiciously slow blink in your direction to be a wink).

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

In Every Universe

Bob Reynolds x Fem!Witch!Reader

Thunderbolts x Fem!Witch!Reader

this has mentions of/suicide, please reach out to me or anyone if you’re feeling like this. you matter.

It always started the same way.

With a mission.

With them.

Y/N moved through the smoke and chaos, glass crunching under her boots, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and ozone. Her hands hummed faintly, crackling with power she didn’t fully understand. Energy shimmered at her fingertips, raw and restless, waiting for a fight.

She forced herself to focus.

There was a mission. A target. A team counting on her.

She had to stay sharp. Had to stay present.

But her eyes drifted. They always did.

To him.

Bob Reynolds.

He moved like a storm, golden light rippling under his skin, power thrumming through the air in waves that made the ground tremble beneath their feet. His fists shattered concrete, sent enemies flying, tore through walls like paper.

And when his gaze flickered to hers—just for a heartbeat, just a second too long—her breath caught in her throat.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, pounding too fast, too hard.

She didn’t know why.

⸻

They fought like they were made for it.

Back to back, breath to breath.

Her magic carved a path for him, tearing through obstacles, clearing the way. His strength shielded her from falling debris, fists hammering down on anyone who got too close.

It was effortless.

It was dangerous.

It was too much.

Y/N could feel the heat of him when they stood close—an electric hum that seeped under her skin, burning in her chest, her stomach, her bones. Her hands shook when she wasn’t careful, sparks flaring between her fingertips like they were reacting to his presence.

And she couldn’t look at him for too long.

Couldn’t breathe when he was near.

Couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.

That she had lost something.

⸻

After the mission, the team gathered in the debriefing room, the air heavy with exhaustion and something else—something unspoken.

Y/N sat at the table, her fingers twitching restlessly, the phantom heat of Bob’s hand still lingering on her arm where he’d steadied her earlier.

Bob sat across from her, his eyes dark and distant, his expression unreadable.

The rest of the team watched them like they were waiting for a bomb to go off.

Yelena leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her eyes sharp and uneasy.

Bucky sat stiffly, jaw clenched, gaze darting between them.

Alexei paced, muttering under his breath.

John tapped his fingers on the table, a subtle, steady beat that betrayed the tension in the room.

No one said it aloud.

Not yet.

But it was happening again.

———

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Y/N stood in the training room, hands raised, palms glowing faintly as she focused on the target in front of her. The air shimmered, heat warping the space between her and the target dummy. Energy crackled in her veins, barely contained.

She exhaled slowly, trying to steady her breath.

But her hands shook.

Her magic pulsed, wild and unsteady.

Her eyes drifted.

To him.

Bob stood across the room, arms crossed, golden light flickering along the veins in his forearms like a living storm. He wasn’t looking at her—he was focused on the data pad in his hands—but she could feel him.

The weight of his presence.

The pull.

Her pulse raced, a flush rising in her cheeks. She clenched her fists, trying to will the magic away, but it sparked at her fingertips anyway—tiny bursts of energy that danced across her skin and left her breathless.

She didn’t know why this kept happening.

Didn’t know why every time she was near him, her powers felt like they were trying to tear her apart from the inside out.

Didn’t know why her chest felt tight, like she was holding back a scream she didn’t understand.

And then he looked up.

Their eyes locked—just for a second.

Just long enough.

It was a lightning strike.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her hands flaring with a burst of uncontrolled magic that cracked against the walls. Bob’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening—but he didn’t move away.

For a second, it felt like the room around them faded.

Like it was just them.

Like it had always been just them.

And then it was gone.

The moment snapped like a rubber band, the sound of Yelena’s voice breaking the tension.

“Y/N!”

Y/N flinched, the energy sputtering out in a flash. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she looked away, heart racing in her chest.

Bob’s eyes lingered on her for a breath too long before he finally turned back to the data pad.

⸻

That night, Y/N couldn’t sleep.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around her, the faint hum of the building’s generators thrumming in her bones.

Her mind spun in circles.

Bob. The missions. The way her hands burned when he touched her. The way her heart stuttered in her chest every time his eyes met hers.

It was familiar.

It was wrong.

It was dangerous.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the thoughts away. But when she finally drifted off, her dreams were a storm of images—blinding light, whispered promises, the faintest echo of a touch.

And him.

Always him.

⸻

Across the compound, Bob sat alone in his room, the lights dimmed, the golden glow in his veins pulsing faintly. He stared at the wall, jaw tight, his hands flexing restlessly.

Something was happening.

He could feel it.

A pull. A thread, tugging at him from somewhere he couldn’t see.

Every time she was near, it got worse.

He didn’t know why.

And the others… they were watching.

Careful. Silent. Like they knew something he didn’t.

Bob’s eyes narrowed, a faint crease forming between his brows.

He didn’t like the way it felt.

Like something important had been stolen from him.

Like a story he couldn’t remember the ending to.

——

The mission was supposed to be simple.

In. Out. Clean.

The intel said minimal resistance—just a handful of rogue operatives in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Y/N had a job to do: secure the target, neutralize the threat, get out. She moved fast, her boots light against the concrete, her hands buzzing with quiet energy.

Bob was at her side, as always—close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the crackle of his power bleeding into the air between them.

They moved like a unit. Like instinct.

She didn’t think about it.

Didn’t let herself.

But when the ambush hit—when the alarms blared and the walls exploded inward, sending a shockwave through the building—she was alreadyturning toward him.

“Bob!”

His eyes snapped to hers, gold flaring bright and wild.

Y/N stumbled, her back slamming into a support beam, her hands sparking violently as the surge of energy ripped through her. The air distorted—heat and light and something else swelling between them like a growing storm.

And then—

Their hands brushed.

Just a flicker of skin against skin.

It was enough.

The world split.

A blinding flash erupted around them, a pulse of raw energy radiating outward in a shockwave that tore through the warehouse. Steel beams twisted like paper, the roof caved in, and the floor cracked beneath their feet.

Alarms screamed.

Y/N couldn’t breathe.

Her vision blurred.

Her hands burned.

Bob’s eyes were wide, wild, golden light pouring from them like a sun breaking through a storm.

They had lost control.

⸻

The rest of the team scrambled to contain the damage—Yelena dragging civilians out of the blast zone, Bucky barking orders, John and Alexei trying to hold up collapsing walls.

It was chaos.

It was exactly what they had been afraid of.

And when the dust settled—when Y/N and Bob stood there in the wreckage, panting and shaken, their hands almost touching—nobody said a word.

They didn’t have to.

The others knew.

It was happening again.

⸻

That night, the compound was silent.

Y/N lay in her bed, her heart pounding in the dark, flashes of the mission replaying behind her eyes—Bob’s face, the warmth of his skin, the storm that had exploded between them.

She didn’t understand why it hurt.

Why her chest ached like she’d lost something precious.

Why she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Across the hall, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, hands buried in his hair, his skin still faintly glowing, the memory of her touch burned into his palms.

He didn’t know why it felt like this.

Didn’t know why the thought of her—her voice, her face, her eyes—consumed him.

⸻

In the common area, the Thunderbolts gathered.

Yelena sat rigid on the couch, her fingers twisting nervously. Bucky stood by the window, arms crossed tight over his chest, his jaw clenched. John leaned against the wall, arms folded, staring at the floor. Alexei paced in tight circles, muttering in Russian under his breath.

No one spoke for a long time.

Until finally—

“It’s happening again,” Yelena whispered, her voice barely audible.

Bucky’s gaze darkened, his mouth set in a grim line.

“We have to stop it.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, the weight of it pressing down on them like gravity.

John exhaled slowly. “We can’t keep doing this.”

But they would.

Because they had no choice.

⸻

That night—while Bob and Y/N slept, restless and tangled in dreams they couldn’t understand—the team moved quietly through the compound.

Yelena slipped into Y/N’s room first, her heart tight in her chest as she stood over her sleeping friend. The candle on the nightstand flickered, casting soft shadows over Y/N’s peaceful face.

Yelena hesitated—just for a moment.

Then she lifted the small device in her hand, her fingers trembling, and pressed it against Y/N’s temple. A faint pulse of light flashed, barely visible.

Across the hall, Bucky did the same to Bob—his jaw tight, his hands steady, his eyes hard.

When it was done, they stepped back into the hallway, the weight of what they had just done sinking into their bones like lead.

They had erased it.

Again.

———

When Y/N woke up the next morning, the world felt… off.

Her head ached, a dull, persistent throb behind her eyes. The ceiling above her was familiar, the pale, industrial gray of the compound. Her sheets felt the same, the air smelled the same, the faint hum of the building’s systems buzzed just like it always did.

But there was something—

Missing.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples, her fingers twitching faintly as if they expected something—someone.

Her heart raced, but she didn’t know why.

She shook it off, forcing herself out of bed, dragging on her boots like it was just another morning, like the mission yesterday hadn’t left her shaken, like the way her hands had ached when Bob had been close wasn’t still buzzing under her skin.

She ignored it.

She had to.

⸻

Across the hall, Bob woke up with a sharp breath, his hands clenching into fists against the sheets.

There was a taste in his mouth, metallic and bitter, like he’d lost something vital.

He sat up, the light in his veins flickering faintly, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the wall. His room was the same. The world was the same. The compound was the same.

But he wasn’t.

He couldn’t explain it, but his chest felt hollow, like there was a weight pressing down on him that he couldn’t shake. His skin felt too tight, his heart too loud in his ears.

And when he closed his eyes, he could almost see her.

Not her face—he couldn’t remember her face. But the feeling. The heat. The ache.

Something was missing.

⸻

Downstairs, the team watched them move through the compound like nothing had changed—because to Bob and Y/N, nothing had.

Yelena sat at the table, her hands curled tight around a mug of coffee she didn’t drink. She watched Y/N walk in, stretching her arms over her head like she hadn’t just lost everything.

Yelena’s stomach twisted.

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his jaw clenched tight as Bob entered the room—quiet, calm, unreadable. But the way Bob’s eyes lingered just a little too long when Y/N brushed past him told them everything.

They still felt it.

Even if they didn’t know what they were feeling.

John rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily.

Alexei sat silently, staring at the table.

It was happening again.

The cycle had reset.

⸻

And as the days passed, Bob and Y/N kept getting closer.

Y/N found herself sitting next to Bob in the common room without thinking, their shoulders almost brushing.

Bob’s gaze always seemed to drift to her, his fingers twitching slightly when she was near.

Her hands sparked when he laughed, a quiet, low sound that she felt in her chest like an echo.

They didn’t know why.

But the pull was there.

It always was.

———

Two weeks.

That’s how long it took this time.

Two weeks from the memory wipe—two weeks from the quiet, uneasy mornings when Y/N and Bob barely glanced at each other—to the moment everything began to slip again.

It started small.

A glance in the hallway that lasted too long.

Bob’s fingers brushing Y/N’s when they passed each other a file.

The way her breath hitched when his voice dropped low during a mission briefing.

Y/N tried to ignore it—tried to focus on the mission at hand, on the target’s location, on the tension in her team’s shoulders—but the pull was unbearable.

And Bob—he was worse.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

Couldn’t stop the way his chest ached when she smiled.

Couldn’t explain why her laughter felt like a memory he couldn’t grasp.

⸻

On the next mission, it snapped.

They were moving through a crumbling underground lab, smoke and sparks filling the air. Y/N’s hands were already glowing, her palms hot with barely-contained magic.

Bob moved ahead, scanning the room, golden light pulsing under his skin.

The floor shook.

A beam fell.

Y/N shoved Bob out of the way—her hands catching his chest.

For a heartbeat, they were tangled—her body pressed to his, her fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, her breath catching in her throat.

His hands came up—reflex, instinct—curling around her waist, steadying her, holding her like she was something precious.

They froze.

And in that moment, the world fractured.

The energy snapped—bright and blinding.

The ground split, a shockwave tearing through the building.

The team shouted, scrambling for cover as debris rained down around them.

Y/N barely heard it.

All she could feel was Bob’s hands on her waist, the crackle of power between them, the ache in her chest that felt like it had been there before.

Her fingers curled tighter into his suit.

And Bob—he was staring at her like she was the center of the universe.

⸻

Back at the compound, it was silent.

Yelena sat in the common room, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. Bucky leaned against the counter, eyes dark and stormy.

John’s voice was a quiet growl. “It’s happening again.”

They knew what they had to do.

⸻

That night, while Bob and Y/N slept—separate, alone, but restless and aching—the Thunderbolts gathered.

The room was heavy with guilt.

No one wanted to say it.

But they all knew.

Yelena’s voice cracked when she whispered, “This is the second time.”

Bucky nodded grimly.

John exhaled, his hands tightening into fists.

Alexei’s jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“We have to wipe them again.”

⸻

The third wipe was faster.

More precise.

More brutal.

Y/N didn’t stir when Yelena pressed the device to her temple—just twitched slightly in her sleep, a soft breath catching in her throat like she knew something was being taken from her.

Bob’s hands flexed in his sleep, golden light sparking faintly under his skin—until it blinked out in an instant.

⸻

Two weeks.

That’s how long it took the first time.

This time, it was ten days.

⸻

Bob and Y/N locked eyes in the hallway, and it was like a thunderclap—louder, sharper, faster.

Their hands brushed on a mission, and the shockwave was worse.

The aches were stronger.

The dreams more vivid.

The pull—inescapable.

They didn’t remember.

But their souls did.

———

The compound was quiet.

The team had left earlier that afternoon—Yelena dragging Bucky to a supply run, John grumbling about needing more protein bars, Alexei muttering something about pickles. The silence in the compound felt different somehow, but Y/N had shrugged it off when she stirred from a restless nap in her room, the edges of a dream slipping away before she could catch them.

Her chest felt tight. Like she’d been holding her breath for too long.

She wandered down the hall in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, the floor cool under her bare feet. The kitchen lights glowed soft and golden in the late afternoon.

Bob was already there.

He was sitting at the counter, a book in his hands—spine cracked, pages worn. The golden light from the setting sun caught in his hair, haloing him in warmth. His eyes flicked up when she entered, and for a moment, everything stopped.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Bob’s fingers stilled on the page, his eyes darkening, a flicker of something sparking in his chest—an ache that felt ancient and new all at once.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” Bob replied, his voice low and rough like it hadn’t been used in a while.

They stood there for a moment, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small, too quiet, too intimate.

Y/N glanced at the coffee maker. “Mind if I…?”

Bob shook his head, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No, go ahead.”

She brushed past him to reach the mugs, and the second their shoulders touched—

Boom.

A tremor rattled the floor, subtle but sharp. A glass on the counter wobbled, a cabinet door creaked open on its hinges.

Y/N froze, her fingers tightening on the mug. Her breath caught in her throat.

Bob’s eyes were locked on hers, wide, dark, haunted.

“Did you feel—?”

Another boom. Stronger this time. The floor shifted under their feet. The coffee maker rattled. The air between them seemed to vibrate.

Y/N’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Bob moved before he could stop himself, stepping closer, his hand hovering just above her arm—like he knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t stay away.

Her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered.

“Me either,” Bob said, his voice barely above a rasp. “But I can’t—”

His hand brushed her skin, and the world shattered.

The ground split. The lights flickered. The plates in the cabinets clattered.

And then—his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was urgent, desperate, like they were drowning and the only way to breathe was through each other.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. Bob groaned low in his chest, the sound raw, as if it had been trapped inside him for too long.

The kitchen shook.

A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the floor. The windows rattled in their frames.

Somewhere in the city, Yelena dropped a carton of eggs in the middle of the grocery store aisle. She froze, her head snapping up.

Bucky dropped the protein bars.

John’s eyes went wide.

Alexei cursed in Russian under his breath.

They knew.

They knew.

“Shit,” Yelena hissed, already sprinting for the door.

The Thunderbolts abandoned the cart, the store, everything—running full-speed back to the tower.

⸻

Back at the compound, Bob and Y/N broke apart, gasping for air.

Y/N’s hands trembled. Her lips felt swollen, her breath shallow. Bob’s eyes were wild, glowing faintly gold, his chest heaving.

Something in her snapped.

“I know you,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Bob’s face crumpled. His hand hovered near hers, like he didn’t know whether to grab her or run.

“I—”

The door burst open.

“STOP!” Yelena shouted, panting, her eyes wide with panic. Bucky and John skidded in behind her, Alexei stumbling through the door last.

Bob and Y/N froze, their hands still so close.

The room was dead silent except for the sound of all their breathing.

Yelena’s voice cracked through the heavy air like a whip:

“It’s happening again.”

The words hung in the silence like a curse, the weight of them sinking into every breath, every glance.

Bob and Y/N stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen—chests heaving, hands trembling, eyes locked like they were the only two people in the universe.

But the universe itself was trembling, too.

A glass shattered in the sink. The floor creaked, a fracture snaking along the tile like a crack in the very fabric of reality.

Yelena’s chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her eyes were wide, haunted—because she knewwhat came next.

Bucky stepped forward, his voice low and tight. “They’re accelerating.”

John was pacing, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck bulged. His fists flexed and released at his sides, like he wanted to punch something—anything—but there was nothing he could do.

Alexei’s eyes darkened, and he muttered under his breath in Russian, shaking his head.

“This is the third time,” Yelena whispered. “The third time this month.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and she scrubbed at her face, as if she could wipe the exhaustion, the guilt, the helplessness away.

Bob finally blinked, his brow furrowing. His hands fell from Y/N’s waist, his chest still heaving, his breath ragged.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice low, rough, confused.

Y/N’s eyes darted between the team, her pulse roaring in her ears. “What’s happening to us?”

No one answered.

Yelena couldn’t look at them. Her hands trembled as she backed away, her voice tight and sharp. “We have to wipe them again.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. A sharp, cold ache gripped her chest, and she took a step back, her voice shaking. “What do you mean, again?”

Bob’s face paled. His eyes searched the team’s faces, something familiarsparking in the depths of his gaze, like a puzzle piece clicking into place—but he didn’t know what.

“Wait,” he rasped, his hands flexing like they wanted to reach for her, like they knew. “Wait, again?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His voice was a low, grim whisper. “I’m sorry, Bob. We didn’t know what else to do.”

Bob took a step forward, but the floor groaned under his feet, the lights above flickering, and Yelena threw her hands up.

“STOP!” she shouted, her voice breaking, pleading. “You’ll tear the compound apart!”

Y/N flinched, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands glowed faintly, that same wild energy crackling at her fingertips—but she didn’t understand why.

“I don’t—” she started, but her voice cracked, her throat tight. “I don’t understand what’s happening—”

John’s voice was rough, like sandpaper. “It’s happening again. You’re in love. And every time it happens, you tear the world apart.”

Bob froze, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

“What?” she whispered.

Yelena’s voice was tight with grief, her eyes glistening. “We’ve wiped your memories twice before. You can’t remember because we took it from you.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and something in his chest seemed to snap—a sharp, agonizing pain that he didn’t understand but felt deep in his bones.

Y/N stumbled back a step, her hands clutching at the counter behind her like she needed something solid to hold onto.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—”

“It’s the only way to keep the world safe,” Bucky said quietly, his voice heavy with guilt.

Alexei crossed his arms, looking away, his jaw tight. John let out a long, ragged breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Bob’s voice was hoarse, broken, when he spoke.

“You took her from me.”

Yelena flinched, her face crumpling.

“We had no choice,” she whispered.

The room was heavy—choked with grief, with inevitability.

Y/N’s hands trembled as she looked at Bob, her chest aching like she’d been punched—like she was missing a piece of herself, like her heart was trying to remember something her mind couldn’t.

“I don’t want to forget again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes shimmering with tears she didn’t understand.

Bob’s eyes filled with tears, his voice wrecked. “Me either.”

But the compound groaned again—louder this time. The lights flickered violently, a deep, low rumble shaking the floor beneath them.

Bucky’s voice was a low, grim whisper.

“We have to do it now.”

Bob’s face crumpled, a broken sound tearing from his chest.

And Y/N—she looked at him like she knew, like she felt it too, like she was on the edge of remembering—of everything.

“Wait,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Please, wait—”

But Yelena shook her head, her voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

Bob’s voice was shaking.

“Can I at least…” His voice cracked, breaking into a rough, choked whisper. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat. She turned to him, her hands trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please—just one second—”

Yelena’s shoulders slumped, her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded—just once.

“Make it quick,” she said hoarsely, her voice strained with guilt.

Bob turned to Y/N, and for a moment, it was like the world stopped—like the weight of the universe paused to let them feel.

Bob’s hands hovered just above her arms, trembling.

“I don’t know why,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “but I feel like I’m supposed to love you.”

Y/N’s tears spilled over. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, her voice breaking. “I think I already do.”

Their foreheads touched.

Her breath was shaking, shallow. His hands found her face, cupping her cheeks like she was fragile—like she might break if he let go.

Bob’s voice was raw, pleading.

“I don’t want to forget you again.”

Y/N’s hands trembled on his chest.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking, her heart shattering in her chest. “Please, don’t—”

The ground shifted beneath their feet. A low, deep rumble filled the room, the windows rattling, the cabinets shuddering.

Bob’s arms wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her closer, like holding her tight might stop the world from falling apart.

Yelena’s breath hitched in her throat, and she snapped.

“*Do it—*now!” she shouted.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. Neither did John.

They hit the trigger.

A pulse of light—bright, sharp, blinding—flashed across the room.

Bob and Y/N’s bodies jerked as the pulse hit them, and then—

They collapsed.

Both of them crumpled to the floor, like marionettes with their strings cut.

Yelena sprinted to Y/N’s side, her hands trembling as she checked her pulse—steady, but she looked so small, so fragile.

Bucky was already lifting Bob, carefully, like he weighed nothing, his expression tight, jaw clenched so hard it might snap.

Yelena and John lifted Y/N, carrying her as if she might shatter in their hands.

“Get them to their rooms,” Yelena whispered, her voice breaking.

Alexei moved ahead, swinging open the doors as Bucky and Yelena carried them, moving fast but careful.

They laid Bob and Y/N in their beds—separate rooms, separate lives—and it felt wrong.

Yelena stood at the door, her hands clenched into fists, her breathing shaky, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“They’ll wake up,” she whispered. “And they won’t remember.”

John’s voice was flat, like he’d used up all his anger. “Yeah. Until it happens again.”

Bucky sat in the hallway outside their rooms, elbows on his knees, hands pressed over his mouth like he was holding in a scream.

Alexei leaned against the wall, silent, his gaze distant.

The compound was quiet again.

But it wasn’t peace.

It was the silence before the storm.

——

The compound was heavy with silence—thick, suffocating, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Bob and Y/N slept in their rooms, oblivious—empty.

But the team—

They were wrecked.

Yelena sat at the table, her hands gripping a mug so tight her knuckles were white, her eyes red-rimmed and distant.

Bucky paced the room, silent, his jaw tight, his steps sharp and restless.

John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his shoulders were tense—coiled like a spring.

Alexei sat in the corner, staring at the floor, lost in thought.

The weight of it was crushing.

Yelena finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper, cracking at the edges.

“How many times are we going to do this?”

No one answered.

The silence stretched, taut and unbearable.

And then Yelena’s voice rose, sharper, her frustration bubbling over.

“We can’t keep erasing them. It’s not working. They find each other fasterevery time.”

Bucky stopped pacing, turning to face her, his voice tight and low.

“So what’s the alternative? Let them fall in love again and blow up the world?”

Yelena’s breath hitched, her hands shaking.

“I don’t know!” she snapped, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know, Bucky! I’m not—”

Her voice broke.

Alexei finally spoke, his voice low, quiet.

“We need help.”

John looked up, frowning. “From who? Who the hell can fix this?”

Yelena’s breath was ragged. Her voice was barely audible when she whispered:

“Doctor Strange.”

The name hung in the air, heavy with finality.

Bucky shook his head, but there was no conviction behind it—just fear.

John let out a breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Shit.”

But no one argued.

Because they all knew—this wasn’t just a problem anymore. This was the multiverse.

And they were in over their heads.

⸻

 Later That Night

The Sanctum was quiet.

Doctor Strange stood in front of the swirling, glowing map of timelines—threads of golden light weaving through infinite possibility.

Yelena’s voice was tight, barely holding together.

“Is there a universe where they can be together safely?”

Strange didn’t turn to look at her. His gaze was locked on the threads, his brow furrowed in concentration, the glow of the Time Stone flickering in his palm.

His silence stretched—too long.

Yelena’s heart sank.

Bucky’s arms crossed, his jaw tight, watching Strange with guarded hope, but the longer the silence lingered, the heavier it felt.

Finally, Strange spoke.

His voice was low, steady—but there was no mercy in it.

“There’s none.”

Yelena’s breath hitched.

Strange finally turned, his expression grave, his eyes dark with regret.

“In every timeline, every universe, their connection threatens the multiverse. They tear reality apart. There’s no version where they can stay together without catastrophe.”

John’s fists clenched at his sides.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do?” he snapped, voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

Strange’s gaze was heavy as it swept across the team, lingering on each of them.

“There’s only one way.”

Yelena’s stomach dropped. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Kill one of them.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Strange’s voice was final.

“If you don’t… the multiverse will collapse.”

No one spoke.

No one could.

The weight of the choice settled in their chests, suffocating, unbearable.

And through the compound walls—oblivious, innocent, in love and doomed—Bob and Y/N slept.

———

Y/N’s hands were pressed to her chest, breathless, heart racing. Her mind felt foggy, her skin electric, her eyes darting around the room.

Something felt wrong.

Something felt missing.

She stumbled out of bed, feet bare, heart pounding.

Across the hall, Bob burst out of his room at the same time, the book he’d been reading abandoned on the floor.

They stopped—staring at each other, breathless, confused.

And then—

It hit.

Like a pull.

Like gravity itself.

Y/N’s breath hitched. Her heart ached in her chest.

“Bob?” she whispered, barely a breath.

He took a step forward—eyes wide, shining with something he couldn’t explain.

“I… I know you,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

Her hands shook at her sides.

And then, as if the universe snapped, the floor rumbled.

A glass in the kitchen shattered.

The team froze in the hallway—watching as Bob reached for her, hands trembling, eyes pleading.

Y/N’s hand lifted, reaching back—her breath shaking.

The team couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

“WAIT—” Yelena choked out, tears brimming. “Can I at least say goodbye before—before we—”

Her voice cracked, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.

Bob and Y/N turned, confused, blinking like they were waking from a dream.

And in that second—that split moment—

The ground shook harder.

Yelena’s breath hitched.

“NOW!”

The device went off—bright, blinding. Bob and Y/N collapsed in an instant.

Again.

Yelena’s scream caught in her throat, her hands shaking as she dropped to her knees.

John and Bucky moved fast—lifting their bodies, careful, silent.

They carried Bob and Y/N back to their rooms, hearts shattering with every step.

Yelena stood in the hallway, tears streaming down her face, whispering the words she couldn’t say to them:

“I’m so sorry.”

———

They sat in the briefing room, the weight of the impossible hanging heavy in the air.

Bob and Y/N were asleep—again—memories wiped, hearts blank.

The Thunderbolts sat in a circle, faces pale, eyes red-rimmed and raw.

Yelena’s voice was barely a whisper, her eyes shining with tears that never seemed to stop.

“Bob,” she said.

It was barely a sound.

John flinched, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t argue.

Alexei was stone silent, staring at the table.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but when he spoke, his voice was broken.

“He’s too powerful. He’s… unstable. We don’t even know what he’s capable of.”

Yelena’s breath hitched, her voice shaking.

“She’s… her. She has more control. She… she can handle it.”

No one argued.

No one could.

Bob Reynolds—The Sentry—had to go.

It felt like killing the sun.

———

Bob woke slowly, rubbing his eyes, the sun warm on his skin. He stretched, yawned, wandered into the kitchen where the team was already waiting.

They were… smiling.

Yelena nudged Alexei, who smirked, while Bucky and John were talking, joking, even laughing.

Bob blinked, confused, but the warmth in the room made him relax.

“Morning, sunshine,” Yelena teased, nudging his arm.

Bob chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey.”

He sat down at the table, and they let him. They sat there for a while—talking about nothing, telling stories, laughing at inside jokes, teasing each other like they always did.

Bob smiled, warm and easy, like this was just another day.

But the team… they were breaking.

Every smile was fake. Every laugh was tight. Every glance at each other was heavy.

Yelena’s hands shook under the table. Bucky’s eyes were glassy.

Alexei looked down at his hands—ashamed.

And then—

Y/N walked in.

Still half-asleep, her hair a mess, wearing an old hoodie, rubbing her eyes.

“Hey, what’s all the noise?” she mumbled, smiling at the group. Her eyes flicked to Bob—brightening when they landed on him, a warmth she didn’t even understand blooming in her chest.

Bob’s smile softened when he saw her—like the sun had come out just for him.

“Morning,” he said softly, and it was gentle, easy, like it had always been.

Y/N grinned sleepily, padding across the floor toward the kitchen island—

—and that’s when Bucky stood.

It was fast.

The device—a small, sharp glint in his hand—pressed right to Bob’s neck.

Y/N froze.

“Wait, what—”

Snap.

The device hissed, fired, and Bob—

Bob jerked.

His eyes went wide, a choked sound caught in his throat, and then—

He fell.

Y/N screamed.

The ground shook, violently, violently enough that plates shattered, glasses exploded, the floor splintered.

Her magic crackled, surging wild and feral, sparks bursting from her fingers as her knees hit the floor beside him.

“BOB!”

His eyes were open, glassy, gone.

Y/N’s hands were on his face, her sobbing, shaking him, her screams raw, shattered.

And then—

The flood hit.

Every memory, every moment, every kiss, every fight, every touch, every night, every “I love you”—it all slammed into her at once.

Her chest heaved, her body shaking.

“NO,” she sobbed, voice wrecked, shaking him like she could bring him back, magic sparking wildly at her fingertips. “NO, PLEASE, PLEASE—”

But he was gone.

And she—

She broke.

Her hands glowed red-hot, power surging, the walls shaking.

Bucky lunged—“Y/N!”—but it was too late.

Her magic exploded.

She screamed, raw and feral, a howl of grief, a wail of loss.

And then—

She collapsed, sobbing, cradling Bob’s body in her arms, whispering his name over and over again, like it was the only word she had left.

———

The compound was eerily quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful. No, this was the kind of quiet that presses against your chest, that aches, that suffocates.

No one had slept. Not really.

Yelena sat on the floor of her room, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the wall with vacant eyes. She hadn’t moved in hours. Her phone buzzed at her side—messages, calls, something—but she didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Bucky sat alone at the kitchen table, unmoving. His hands were folded, fingers clenched tight together, knuckles white. His eyes were dark, sunken, red from the tears he refused to let fall.

John paced the hall like a man waiting for a bomb to drop, every step sharp, every breath strained.

Alexei stood in the corner, staring at the floor, arms crossed tight over his chest like they could hold in the guilt.

Bob was gone.

Y/N…

She had stopped screaming hours ago.

Her sobs had faded into soft, shattered whimpers.

And now…

Now there was nothing.

That silence.

That silence.

Yelena’s hands trembled.

She should check on her.

But she didn’t move.

No one did.

Until the sound came.

A faint clink.

Glass breaking.

A dull, heavy thud.

The air seemed to shift, like the whole compound exhaled a breath it had been holding.

Yelena’s head snapped up, her breath hitching in her throat.

Something was wrong.

She bolted, feet pounding down the hall, heart racing so hard it felt like it might burst.

“Y/N?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, cracking as she called out.

“Y/N?!”

She turned the corner and—

She stopped.

Her scream ripped through the compound, a sound so raw and shattered it made the walls shake.

“NO! NO, NO, NO—!”

Yelena fell to her knees in the living room, her hands flying to Y/N’s shoulders, shaking her, desperate.

Y/N’s body lay slumped on the floor, her skin pale, her lips blue, her wrists bloody.

The knife glinted nearby, a dark red smear staining the floor.

Her eyes were closed, her face soft, peaceful in a way that should have been beautiful—but it wasn’t. It was wrong.

Yelena’s hands were slick with blood as she tried to stop it, tried to undo it, but there was too much.

“Y/N, please!” she sobbed, her voice breaking, her body shaking. “Please, please, come back! Please!”

Her hands pressed down, desperate, begging.

“Wake up, wake up, please… I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Her tears soaked Y/N’s hoodie, falling onto her cheek as she rocked her, whispering her name over and over like it was a spell.

The rest of the team stumbled in.

Bucky froze, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the scene.

John’s face went ashen, his hands trembling.

Alexei pressed a hand to his mouth, turning away, unable to look.

Bucky’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

“It was the only way to save the multiverse,” he said, but the words felt hollow. They hung in the air, a sick joke.

Yelena’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wild with grief.

“No!” she screamed, her voice breaking, her face twisted in agony.

“THIS WASN’T SAVING ANYONE!” she sobbed, her fists slamming against the floor. “THIS WAS MURDER! YOU MURDERED THEM!”

Her voice cracked, her body folding over Y/N’s, arms wrapped tight around her best friend, her sister, her heart.

Bucky’s eyes were wet, his face tight, but he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Bob was gone.

Y/N was gone.

And they…

They were the ones who did it.

The multiverse might have been saved.

But it had cost them everything.

[hamilton-here]

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is a quick one-shot I was able to do. Hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton tries to charm Charles Leclerc’s sister, only for the bet to evolve into a deeper emotional connection. Until the truth about the game shatters the fragile bond.

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

Warnings: angst, mild swearing

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Ferrari motorhome had its usual heartbeat of hushed radio chatter in the background, espresso cups clinking and the hum of engineers dissecting data over breakfast. Drivers filtered in and out, some still waking up and others already halfway through briefings.

In a far corner of the lounge, a few drivers who didn’t have meetings for another hour had clustered at a small table. Carlos Sainz sipped his double shot macchiato with a smirk. “She’s back this weekend.”

Oscar glanced up from his phone. “Leclerc’s sister?”

Carlos nodded toward the glass doors. “Yep. Saw her come in with Charles. Still looks like she wants nothing to do with any of us.”

“She’s smart,” Lando snorted, lounging across two chairs. “We’re a disaster.”

“She’s not wrong to avoid you,” Carlos said. “But me? I’m great.”

“You’re like a brother to Charles,” Oscar pointed out. “It’s different.”

Lando grinned. “What’s the over under on someone actually getting her to smile for more than two seconds?”

Carlos scoffed. “Smile? Try holding a conversation.”

“I could do it,” Lewis said from the far side, where he was stirring honey into his tea. His tone was calm, confident. Too confident.

Oscar blinked. “Wait. You?”

“I’m good with people.”

Lando laughed. “Mate, she looked through you last time like you were part of the wall.”

Lewis set his spoon down slowly. “You’re underestimating me.”

“No one’s doubting your abilities,” Carlos teased. “We’re just saying, not even you could charm Leclerc’s sister.”

A spark of mischief lit Lewis’s face. “Wanna bet?”

Oscar looked at the others, then back at Lewis. “Alright. We’ll make it simple. A proper, casual conversation. More than ten minutes. Voluntary. No PR obligations. And she has to look like she enjoys it.”

“No Charles around,” Carlos added. “We’ll know if it was pity.”

Lando leaned forward. “And if she agrees to get coffee with you? Game over. You win.”

Lewis offered his hand with that signature smirk. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

And just like that, a harmless bet was born.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’d only come to Maranello for the weekend something you did occasionally when work wasn’t drowning you. Charles liked having you nearby, even if it meant dragging you into endless corridors and debriefing rooms.

Ferrari’s compound was more tense than usual. Whispers of upgrades and expectations buzzed through every hallway. Still, you found a quiet corner with a cappuccino and your laptop, determined to get some paperwork completed while Charles prepped with his engineers.

That’s when you noticed him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He’d just walked through the lounge, still in his team polo, greeting staff with a relaxed nod. You’d seen him before, obviously. He was nearly impossible not to notice. But you’d never actually spoken. Your few encounters had been limited to polite nods or a brief smile from a distance.

This time, he walked directly toward you.

You tried not to react.

“Is that legal code?” he asked, pointing to your screen.

You didn’t look up. “No.”

“FIA rulings?”

Still typing. “Nope.”

“Secret Ferrari strategy?”

You sighed, glanced up. “It’s my dissertation.”

He tilted his head, reading upside down. “Criminal profiling. Sounds intense.”

You closed the laptop halfway. “It is.”

“You always complete work in race paddocks?”

“Only when my brother insists I come keep him company and then promptly disappears for four hours.”

Lewis chuckled. “Sounds like Charles.”

You finally looked at him, curious. “You don’t have somewhere better to be?”

“Not really. Thought I’d say hi. I feel like we’ve circled each other for a while without actually talking.”

“That’s not an accident,” you deadpanned.

He laughed like a full, surprised laugh. “Fair. But a little harsh.”

You shrugged, sipping your cappuccino. “You’re just a lot.”

“A lot?”

“Media. Noise. Cameras. Entourage.”

He leaned against the back of the chair across from you, casual and unfazed. “And you don’t like noise?”

“I like peace.”

“You don’t think I can be peaceful?”

You gave him a look. “Do you want to be peaceful?”

His smile softened into something quieter. “More than you’d think.”

That made you pause.

He saw it. The hesitation and the flicker of curiosity. And instead of pushing, he stepped back.

“Nice talking to you,” he said, genuinely. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He didn’t linger. Didn’t press. Just walked off.

And for the first time, you found yourself watching him go.

Over the next couple of days, he kept showing up.

Once, it was at the espresso machine, where he handed you the exact coffee you usually ordered. “Saw you eyeing it yesterday,” he said with a wink.

Another time, he waited beside you while Charles was in a debrief and asked about your thesis. He actually listened.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. He was charming but not in the obnoxious way you expected. He asked questions. He remembered details. He didn’t talk about himself unless you asked.

And God help you, he was funny.

“What would it take,” he asked one afternoon, sitting across from you again, “for you to admit I’m growing on you?”

“You’re not,” you said, typing.

“You paused.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You always pause when you lie.”

Your fingers froze.

He grinned. “Gotcha.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched and he noticed.

Back at the drivers' table, Lewis didn't report his progress. He didn’t need to. They could see it.

“She’s laughing with him now,” Oscar muttered to Carlos over dinner.

Carlos folded his arms. “He’s not even trying anymore.”

“That’s the scary part,” Oscar replied. “He doesn’t have to.”

Lewis barely heard them. His mind wasn’t on the bet anymore. It hadn’t been for days.

He was too focused on you, on the way you’d started sitting next to him at team dinners or how you teased him about his jewellery. Or how you didn’t care about who he was, just how he was with you.

He liked that version of himself. Liked being around you. Liked the sound of your laugh echoing in the sterile walls of Ferrari’s fortress.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

And it didn’t feel like a win anymore.

It felt like a risk.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis wasn’t expecting you to show up at the track that early.

You weren’t expecting him to already be waiting, leaning against a metal railing outside the Ferrari motorhome with two takeaway coffees in hand and that damned smile that made it hard to think straight.

“I guessed right,” he said, handing you one of the cups without asking. “Oat milk, no sugar. You strike me as someone who doesn’t fake their caffeine preferences.”

You blinked at him, amused despite yourself. “Are you trying to impress me with barista intuition?”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes but took the cup. “Only because you got it right.”

“Then yes. I am absolutely trying to impress you.”

He fell into step beside you, easy and unhurried like he had all the time in the world despite the looming media duties and team meetings. You could feel eyes glancing toward you from the corner of the paddock, maybe just curious stares or people already wondering why Lewis Hamilton was spending so much time with Charles Leclerc’s little sister.

Lewis ignored the glances. You didn’t know it, but he'd already caught heat for it in the driver's lounge earlier that week.

“Mate,” Lando had said, grinning into his protein bar, “you’re laying it on thick.”

“It's just friendly conversation,” Lewis said lightly, although even he didn’t believe that anymore.

Carlos, tying the laces of his shoes, smirked. “Right. ‘Friendly conversation’ that now involves bringing her coffee, walking her around the paddock, and quoting her favorite podcast in the cafeteria?”

“Sounds like someone’s catching feelings,” George added, only half joking.

Lewis had brushed it off, but deep down he knew something had shifted. What started as a bet was becoming something else. He didn’t even care if he won anymore.

That thought terrified him more than it should’ve.

Back outside, you were talking about a legal case from your studies something about deception and motive. Lewis found himself listening too intently, laughing at your sarcastic takes, noticing the way your eyes lit up when you were passionate about something.

It didn’t feel like a game.

It hadn’t for days now.

“You always this intense before a race?” you asked, watching him tap a rhythm on the coffee cup with his fingers.

He looked at you for a moment. “Only when I’m thinking about something I can’t quite figure out.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Let me guess - strategy?”

“No,” he said, smile softening. “You.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it, but there was a flicker of something behind your smile. Curiosity. Intrigue.

Maybe a touch of danger, too.

Later, you were in the back of the hospitality suite, curled up with your notes while Charles debriefed. Lewis walked in, talking with a Ferrari comms assistant, but the moment his eyes met yours his conversation trailed off.

“Give me five?” he murmured to the assistant before veering toward your seat.

“You stalking me?” you teased as he leaned against the table near your laptop.

“More like orbiting,” he said. “You’ve got gravity.”

You snorted. “That’s cheesy, even for you.”

“I was aiming for charming.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think, “you’re somewhere between smooth and suspicious.”

He laughed, then took a slow sip of his water. “Let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“What would it take for you to let someone in?”

The question caught you off guard. It was too sincere. Too raw.

You studied him. “That depends. Are they knocking to stay or just to pass through?”

Lewis went quiet. For once, the witty comebacks died on his tongue.

You hadn’t meant it to be personal. But suddenly it was.

“I don’t pass through,” he said quietly.

You nodded, not quite smiling. “Good.”

And the moment lingered - unspoken, electric.

The rest of the weekend became a slow burn.

Lewis kept appearing, sometimes with a joke or sometimes with silence. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t push. But he was always close, always watching, like he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten this deep but didn’t want to leave.

The others noticed.

Pierre nudged him during a break in the media pen. “So, Hamilton. You charming her yet?”

Lewis didn’t answer.

He was starting to hate the sound of the word charming.

Because none of them knew how your laugh made his chest ache, or how you listened to him like he was more than the fame and the headlines. You looked at him like he was real.

He didn’t want to fake anything anymore.

One night, after most of the paddock had cleared out you stayed late with Charles while he wrapped up simulator work. Lewis found you alone in the lounge, feet tucked under you, nose buried in your book.

“You’re always reading,” he said as he flopped onto the couch across from you.

“You’re always interrupting me.”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “We make a good pair.”

You glanced up at him over the top of the book. “Don’t you have a race to win?”

He shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

“Confidence or ego?”

“Both,” he said. “But mostly because I have something else on my mind.”

You shut the book, raising an eyebrow. “Like?”

He hesitated, eyes on yours. “You.”

This time, the silence didn’t feel teasing. It felt honest.

You didn’t run. You didn’t deflect.

You looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you’d been thinking the same thing.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It had become a quiet routine, Lewis showing up beside you like gravity without ceremony, without warning. Sometimes with coffee, sometimes just with a story or a glance that lingered longer than it should’ve. And you had let him.

Because despite the whispers in the paddock, despite the warning bells in your head that your brother would not approve, Lewis had a way of making you feel like the only person in the room.

That day, you were zoning out as Charles’s girlfriend Alexandra was chatting something to you. Lewis had drifted in after a meeting, uninvited but not unwelcome, collapsing beside you like he’d earned that spot.

“Mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?” he asked with a grin.

Alexandra smiled nodding before walking off eyes glued to her phone.

You blinked at him, realising you hadn’t listened to Alexandra the whole time.

“I was distracted,” you admitted.

He tilted his head. “By what?”

You stared at him. “By you.”

That surprised him - his brow lifting, lips parting slightly like he wasn’t used to being seen so plainly. Not for the victories, or the image, or the name. Just him.

“Good,” he said softly, voice dipping into something less performative. “Because you distract the hell out of me.”

The silence between you felt weighted. Not uncomfortable, just full of questions neither of you had asked yet and answers that might hurt if spoken too soon.

Lewis reached out, brushing your fingers with his. You didn’t pull away.

His hand hovered over yours before finally curling around it, warm and careful. You looked down at the contact, then back up at him.

There were footsteps and voices elsewhere in the suite, but here it was just the two of you, in a moment that felt too fragile to last.

“You always this quiet when you're nervous?” you asked gently.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “You’re the first person in a long time who makes me nervous.”

You looked at him like you could read every crack in his armor. “That’s not what people expect from you.”

“People don’t really know me,” he said. “Not like you do.”

His eyes flickered over your face.

And then he leaned in slowly, cautiously, like he was asking permission with each inch. You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t fast or breathless. It wasn’t a fireworks exploding, camera flashing kind of moment. It was quiet. Gentle. Real.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours slid to the back of his neck.

And for those few seconds, nothing else mattered. Not the team. Not your brother. Not the questions that would come.

Only the closeness. The connection. The warmth that bloomed in your chest like the first sun after winter.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You didn’t open your eyes.

“I think I’m in trouble,” you whispered.

Lewis didn’t ask what you meant.

Because he was thinking the same thing.

A week passed like a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

You weren’t labeling anything yet, weren’t telling Charles and weren’t admitting it even to yourself. Butthere was something between you and Lewis now. Something unsaid and growing fast, like ivy creeping through every conversation and glance.

You met in corners of the paddock. In quiet moments between sessions. In his driver room once, when the door was cracked just enough for privacy and too much for deniability.

He held your hand when no one was watching. Brushed his fingers down your spine as you passed each other in hallways. Whispered things that made your stomach flutter and your pulse race.

And maybe, maybe you were falling.

But it was Charles who brought it all crashing down.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It happened on a Saturday, before qualifying.

You weren’t there when he heard it.

He was walking past the Red Bull suite when he caught the tail end of a conversation. Carlos laughing too loudly with Max and Lando saying something about “Hamilton actually catching feelings” and “bet's long done anyway, isn’t it?”

Charles froze.

“What bet?” he asked sharply, stepping into view.

The laughter died.

The silence that followed was damning.

Carlos glanced at Lando, then tried to play it off. “It was nothing, man. Just a dumb joke.”

Charles stepped closer. “What. Bet.”

Lando, uncomfortable now, tried to retreat. “Just…something the guys said a while ago. About Lewis trying to charm -”

“My sister?” Charles snapped, voice going deadly quiet.

Neither of them answered.

He didn’t wait for an explanation.

You were walking through the back hallway of the Ferrari motorhome when you saw Charles striding toward you, jaw clenched, eyes dark with rage.

“Can I talk to you?” he said, voice tight.

You stopped, instantly on alert. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Are you seeing Lewis?” he demanded, not wasting time.

You blinked. “Charles…”

“Just answer me.”

You hesitated, heart pounding. “Yes. Kind of. It’s new.”

He shook his head, furious. “Did he tell you it started as a bet?”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, confused. “What?”

“He and a few of the other guys made a bet, [Y/N]. About whether he could charm you.”

“No,” you said, weakly. “No, he wouldn’t”

Charles’s voice cracked. “He did. I just heard them talking about it.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching like a glitch in your lungs. “You’re wrong. This isn’t some game to him. He, he cares. I know he does.”

Charles looked at you with a rare softness behind his anger. “Maybe now he does. But it didn’t start that way. You deserve to know that.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He reached out, but you pulled away.

“I need to find him,” you said, voice shaking.

Charles didn’t stop you.

You found Lewis by the garage, helmet in hand, mid conversation with his engineer. He looked up the second he saw you, smile fading instantly at your expression.

He excused himself and met you halfway.

“Hey, what’s -?”

“Was it a bet?” you asked, eyes locked on his.

He froze. “What?”

“When you started talking to me. Was it because of a bet?”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t let him look away.

Lewis opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked torn, caught between honesty and regret.

You nodded slowly, the silence louder than any answer.

“I trusted you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You made me feel like I wasn’t just someone’s sister. Like I mattered.”

“You do,” he said quickly, desperate now. “You do. That - that bet was a stupid, shallow thing I never meant to act on. But once I started talking to you…”

“You chose to. Knowing what it was. You let me fall for something that started as a joke to you.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It stopped being a joke so fast, [Y/N]. You have no idea how fast. I didn’t care about the bet, I cared about you.”

You looked at him, eyes full of hurt. “But you never told me.”

He reached out, and for a moment, you wanted to take his hand again.

But you didn’t.

You stepped back, shaking your head.

“I don’t know if I can believe anything you say anymore.”

Lewis swallowed hard, helpless for the first time in a long time.

It was a different kind of defeat than anything he’d felt on track. This wasn’t a lost podium or a poor quali session, this was losing something he hadn’t even realised he was holding so tightly until it slipped through his fingers.

He watched your back as you walked away, every part of him wanting to chase after you. To explain. To fix it. But there were no lap times to improve, no strategy to change, no pit stop that could make this right.

He had done this.

He had let them laugh and push and dare him. He’d told himself it was harmless, that you were off limits anyway, that it wouldn’t matter. And then you'd smiled at him for the first time and everything had shifted under his feet. He’d felt the gravity of you immediately but by then, it was already too late.

You didn’t know it but every day since that first kiss, he’d been trying to make it real. To make it mean something more than how it had started. But now all you could see was the lie. And he couldn’t blame you.

He stayed where he was, hand clenched around his helmet, jaw locked tight. The noise of the garage pressed in around him, mechanics moving, engineers talking, tires rolling across the concrete - but none of it reached him.

Because the only thing he could hear was your voice, breaking in front of him.

“I don’t know if I can believe anything you say anymore.”

And the worst part?

Neither could he.

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 8,8K (sorry!)

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, spanking, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: It's Sunday where I am lol. No real notes, just thank you for coming with me on this journey, it's very weird to bear your soul like this and people reacting well, never happened to me before. Moments like this, I love internet. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It took a long time for you to part on Sunday evening. You stood in the hallway, arms wrapped around Viktor, his arms wrapped around you, and only the sound of breathing surrounded you both. He pulled away first, placed a hand on your cheek, and said, “Think about everything. And let me know.”

You nodded, and a question—the answer to which you so desperately needed—was resolved before you even mustered the courage to ask.

“Come on Friday. I’ll text in the meantime? Or call?”

“I would like that,” you admitted with a relieved sigh, and Viktor offered you a kiss on the forehead. When you finally stepped out through his door, he lingered in the frame until the lift swallowed you.

The week passed in a diluted blur of working, eating, and sleeping, interrupted by little earthquakes in the form of Viktor’s messages and brief calls. Nothing with significant push or pressure—just simple, casual chats that let you know he hadn’t forgotten you, and made sure you wouldn’t forget either. And each one made your face beam in a way that earned you silly and curious “Who is that?” questions, until you were red-faced with a juvenile blush.

It happened every time your phone buzzed. You’d be in the middle of scanning through data, only half-listening to a coworker’s offhand remark, when you’d catch a glimpse of his name on the screen, and suddenly, the rest of the world blurred at the edges.

I am convinced my students are attempting to end me. I asked one of them to justify their methodology, and they said, “I just had a feeling.”

A barely suppressed laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You masked it with a cough, ignoring the glance your colleague shot you from across the table.

Another time, you’d been elbow-deep in paperwork, eyes dry from staring at the screen too long, when your phone lit up with another text:

I hope your day is going well. Eat something before you get grumpy.

You scoffed but still reached for the protein bar you’d left untouched beside your laptop.

And then there were the messages that made your stomach turn weightless, that left you pressing your lips together to fight off a giddy, ridiculous smile.

I dreamt of you last night. It was... pleasant.

It was impossible to focus after that. You stared at your screen for a full five minutes, rereading the words like they might change or disappear. Your mind whirred with possibilities, until the sound of your name snapped you back to reality and you scrambled to act as if your brain hadn’t just short-circuited.

Not once had he asked what you were thinking. Not once had he pushed beyond a sweet Goodnight call in the evening and a Good morning text when you woke up. It made the days more bearable, but it also made new questions rise. Is this trust already? Or just caution?

You faltered on Wednesday, when there was no message to greet you. And then no message to remind you to drink water.

You told yourself it was fine. That he was probably just busy. That this wasn’t some sort of test. But by lunchtime, the silence had settled too deep, turning over thoughts you didn’t want to examine. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he was waiting for you to make the next move? Or worse—what if this was a quiet way of pulling away? Your sanity was wearing thin.

You weighed your options, over and over. If you texted and he didn’t answer, would calling be too much? If you called first and he didn’t pick up, at least you could still send a text after. But would that make you seem desperate?

It took another ten minutes of pacing before you finally pressed the call button, cringing at the way your heart was thundering in your chest. The dial tone felt impossibly loud. One ring. Two. Three—

“Hello?”

And just like that, the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding slipped out of you. “Hi! Oh, um… why are you whispering?” You blurted out the words in a rush, voice pitched higher than you intended.

There was a pause, followed by Viktor’s voice, low and steady, tinged with quiet amusement. “I’m in the middle of a lecture—”

“Oh shit, Viktor, I’m so sorry!” you gasped and started to whisper yourself, as if the class could hear you. You winced, clasped your hand to your forehead and hoped that Viktor didn’t hear the sound of the slap.

“—but I am happy to hear you,” he continued smoothly, the warmth in his tone easing some of the tension gripping your chest. “Let me call you after?”

And he did. And you talked about nonsense until Jayce caught Viktor twirling his hair, hunched over his desk like he was trying to hide.

This was your week—full of insignificant, annoying events that conglomerated into something called life, interrupted by small Viktor moments. And for Viktor, it was small you moments.

And even though a massive weight had been lifted off your chest during that session of helpless sobbing on the couch, nuzzled into Viktor’s neck, you still feel a pang of guilt each time you replay the events of last weekend in your head. It’s hard to pinpoint where it comes from, but it’s ever-present.

Now that it’s Friday, finally, you write it down on a piece of paper filled with bullet points for later this evening. Absolutely convinced you won’t use it, you still write every single invasive thought down—just in case you gather the courage to tell him.

Before leaving, you make a few critical last-minute decisions—hair up or down, skirt or trousers, or a dress? Makeup or none? Take extra underwear, or not tempt fate to make a joke out of you?

You end up in a dress, with no makeup, your hair gathered into a loose updo, and a wishful-thinking extra pair of knickers stuffed into your purse.

You walk to make yourself less giddy. You stop to buy some food for later, glancing nervously at your watch, only to see that you are, in fact, too early. Sitting on a bench to read is futile—you just end up staring at your phone, willing the time to pass.

And when you finally, finally buzz his door, it’s like last time—you are immediately let in, without him checking the intercom. But this time, you almost run to the elevator, jabbing the button over and over for the doors to close and carry you upward. When you step out, Viktor is already waiting by the entrance to his flat, greeting you with a quiet, sweet, “Hi,” as soon as he sees you.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, not even the breathless hi yourself you’ve prepared. The week of waiting, of uncertainty, of second-guessing every moment—was it real? Was he real? Or was this just a fragile illusion, something too good to hold? The part of you that has spent too long in doubt tugs at your resolve, asking if you’re just imagining the warmth in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he wants you here.

But then his fingers brush against yours as he plucks the bag from your hand, and the heat of his touch travels up your arm, quieting the noise in your head. The doubts don’t stand a chance once his hands slide up your thighs, wrapping around your waist, anchoring you to him. Your back thuds lightly against the door as he kisses you. You don’t even get a proper look at him before his mouth is on yours, his hand pulling your updo apart, fingers tangling into your hair.

Your palms clutch at his shirt and slide up his neck, pulling him closer. He muffles a quiet ah against your lips when you tug his hair and nip at his lower lip. His hips press into you, your chests flush together, and he breathes in deeply, catching up with your scent—the one he’s been missing for five days.

When he finally pulls away, he says again, “I said hi.”

“Hi yourself,” you reply, smiling sheepishly against him. You brush your thumbs over his beauty marks, and his eyes flutter closed. Your foreheads touch. Viktor looks relieved.

“I missed you,” he says, feeling stupid for admitting it—five days is nothing compared to the six months you spent apart, yet it still felt like agony. “You smell nice,” he adds, nosing at your neck, his lips curling up at the sensation of goosebumps rising under his touch.

“Thank you,” you whisper, dumbfounded by this unfiltered flood of affection. Viktor chuckles, realizing he’s overwhelming you. He moves away, and you would protest—if not for the fact that he’s still holding your hand. You squeeze it tightly, letting him lead you into the kitchen, where you watch him make tea.

“So,” Viktor starts, setting a cup in front of you before taking the seat opposite. “How was your week?”

“I—” Horrible. A blur. A very long blur. Long. Painful. “Painfully long,” you finally huff out with a chuckle, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck. You lower your gaze to your fidgeting fingers, and soon, in the periphery of your vision, Viktor’s hands creep in, cradling yours across the table.

“And why would that be?” he asks quietly. You don’t have to look up to know his eyes will be hooded and his mouth quirked into a sweet smile.

With a pained sigh, you pull your hands back, stand up, and in a heartbeat, you’re kneeling between his legs, resting your head on his lap, arms wrapping around his hips.

“And whatever is that for?” Viktor giggles, startled by your clinginess, unaware of the quiet, pathetic truth that you feel safest like this—between his legs, wrapped in his warmth. You breathe in the scent of his clothes and whisper, “You smell nice too. I missed you too.”

He places a hand on your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, and you inch your hands toward his belt. Slowly, his palm comes to rest over yours, halting your movement. When you lift your gaze to meet his, Viktor almost melts into a puddle at the sight of you—kneeling at his feet, eyes pleading—but he has to ask, “What is this about?”

“I just really missed you,” you say quietly, fingers twitching at his fly. “May I?”

He studies you for a moment, swipes his thumb over your lips and says a breathless, “Yes,” reinforced with a nod. And then his eyes glue to your fingers undoing his belt and tugging at his pants to slide them down all the way to his ankles, to finally discard them. And then—

Viktor’s breath hitches, but you cannot help yourself. You press your face to his boxers, breathing in his scent and it’s a gesture so full of adoration, he whimpers despite himself. You unroll his waistband and kiss him softly with your mouth open, leaving a slick trail all the way up from his base to the tip. He is still soft, his skin is warm and silky, and he shudders at each and every one of your pecks.

You slide his underwear down and make your way up, starting by kissing his knee, up his inner thigh, to finally take his balls into your mouth and hum at the contact. Viktor’s fingers curl in your hair, his legs straighten out in front of him, head falls back, and he gives out a deep, long moan.

It’s almost crushing to feel so worshipped. You’re being so gentle with him—it reminds him of your first time together. Back when things were easy, full of possibilities. Now, things are a little harder, but the possibilities keep slipping back in, one by one, with each passing minute.

He sags in the chair, eyes glazed, and cheeks reddened when he looks down to you—rubbing your face against his cock with reverence that makes him want to pull you up and kiss you until you can’t breathe. And you hum, and kiss and lick off his pre-cum for the longest time before you give him as much as an actual proper lick to his underside, tracing the prominent vein with the tip of your tongue. And Viktor twitches and writhes under your touch, his cock resting heavily across your face.

When you finally take him into your mouth he shudders, his legs jolt and he scolds himself for acting like he’s being touched for the first time. But after a second, he decides he feels safe enough—to let you touch him like this, to give you this power over him. And as if you catch that split-second hesitation in the way he tastes, you release him with a quiet pop and ask gently, “Is this alright?”

“More than alright,” Viktor slurs, his thumb sweeping over your lip again. The string of drool connecting his cock to your mouth now clings to his hand. He leaves it. “Please, don’t stop,” he adds, a blush creeping beneath his shirt.

With a smile, and God help him, another hum, you take him back in, placing your hand on whatever you can’t fit into your mouth. Viktor sighs, the sensation of being enveloped in warmth flooding over him, when you do something that nearly makes him come on the spot­—your hand flattens at the base of his cock and you push him past your throat, releasing a fresh wave of spit to drip down his length, while you gag, and the sound makes him go insane. He looks down, and oh, there it is—the first tear you shed today as you disconnect from him to catch a breath and stroke him with a slow movement of your wrist.

It’s a small tear that dries out somewhere in the middle of its journey between the corner of your eye and your chin, but it’s there nevertheless and Viktor commits it to memory. So when you kiss his tip again and open your mouth for him, he cradles your face and gives you one, languid roll of his hips. He stops to ask, “Can I?”

Your eyes flutter open, then closed, then open again. You nod, mumbling a sound as close to yes as you can manage with your mouth full, and you hope Viktor won’t retreat because you don’t want to lose the feeling of his hands cradling you and the feeling of his cock pulsing between your lips.

And, oh God, he takes it as it is. And he gives it back to you, with another thrust, careful and slow, his mouth falls open and eyes are fixed on yours. You see the vein in his neck pulsing, and you take your quick breaths through your nose each time he retreats to push back again. His cock keeps hitting the back of your throat, gently, just a touch, just enough to make your thighs clench and your knuckles go white on his thighs.

And you watch him becoming progressively prettier and prettier as sweat pearls up on his forehead and his mouth loses restraint with all the sounds he is giving you. “My good girl,” he keeps whispering. “Fuck, you are so good,” falls out next. “I love you so much, I missed this so much,” is your favourite one and makes your heart jump all the way up to meet the head of his cock in your throat.

He pants out your name, his grip tightening and the last thing that tips him over is when he sweeps your hair away from your neck to gather it in his fist. And he sees them, his own fingertips already yellowing on your skin, a faint memoir of bruises that were once there, from when he had forced you to look him in the eye while you admitted to still loving him.

“Oh, fuck,” is all Viktor can say as he spasms between your lips and spills himself inside and over, even though he wants to tell you how amazing it feels. How amazing you are, how amazing it is to fuck your mouth. How amazing it is that you shed another tear for him and that you swallowed almost all of his cum, and to convey it, he pulls you up just as he wanted earlier.

And you sit across his lap where he is still warm from your touch. And his mouth is on yours, and oh, it’s almost like the first time. The taste of him still lingers heavily on your tongue and he sucks on it with love and care and gratitude, humming and licking into you, caressing your hair and your shoulders. He kisses you like you are worthy of redemption. Finally his head falls into the crook of your neck, skin clings to skin, as he mutters, “Thank you.”

"You taste just as I remember," you say absently, the words bouncing off the shell of Viktor’s ear. Just when he thinks he cannot possibly come undone any further, you take him apart.

"What have I done to deserve this?" Viktor asks weakly, and you huff a quiet laugh at how dramatic he’s being over a blowjob. You take his face in your hands, guiding his gaze to meet yours.

"There are things I have no idea how to tell you. But you deserve this every day," you whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Viktor sits there, dumbfounded, with you perched over his naked lap, foreheads touching, his pants and underwear crumpled in the middle of the kitchen. And as if your thoughts have seeped from your mind into his, understanding dawns.

"Is this your way of repenting?" he asks, trying to catch your gaze.

You say nothing, only scrunch your nose.

"Hey, look at me, please," Viktor says firmly, his fingers tilting your chin up. The warmth of his touch is steady, grounding, but not forceful. His eyes search yours, full of something unknown. "What are you trying to atone for?"

"For… everything," you sigh, pressing yourself down until you sag against him, your body moulding into his like you could dissolve there. The warmth of his skin on yours should be comforting, but it only makes the ache deeper, and you wince at your inability to express yourself.

"And yet, there is nothing," Viktor replies without hesitation. His fingers remain at your chin, keeping your gaze locked to his, as if he won’t allow you to look away, won’t allow you to slip into this spiral.

"Viktor—"

"I do mean it," he interrupts, his voice unwavering. "I do not want any of this. We start anew, sins not forgotten but cleansed. We learn, and we start over. Nothing to repent for."

"But—"

His other hand tightens around your waist, a small squeeze that grounds. "What do you feel?" he asks, softer now, but still insistent. "You have to tell me."

You hesitate. The words feel thick in your throat, soaked in self-doubt. "I—" You inhale sharply, then admit, "I feel shame. Or guilt. Or both, all the same."

"And whatever for?" Viktor presses, patient, his thumb brushing idly over your skin, a subconscious motion of reassurance.

"For how this went before, Viktor," you say, voice strained. "I see it now, and I just can’t—"

His brows pull together in concern, but he doesn’t let you trail off into silence. "What do you need to get over this?" Ever the problem-solver.

You huff out a mirthless chuckle, the sound brittle. "I don’t know. Punishment?" you say, half-joking, half-serious, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lighten. A punishment seems fitting. The insistent heat of tears pricks at your eyes, and you try to blink them away.

"I don’t think you deserve that," Viktor says immediately, voice firm, as if the thought alone is ridiculous. His hand moves to swipe the tear from beneath your eye while he does his best to remain unaffected.

"Hey—" He moves in by an inch, your stuttering breath fanning over his face. "I really don’t," he murmurs, quieter now, more to himself than to you. His grip tightens, like he needs to keep you close to not break. "We’ve changed, and it’s alright. Oh, God," he exhales, as his thumb swipes the tear from your cheek and his expression shifts from worry to adoration in an instant.

Your brows furrow, confused. "What?"

A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. He swallows. "I have my share of shame in me as well, love."

Your stomach twists at the admission. "What? Why?"

He exhales sharply, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice drops lower, as if he is giving away his best-guarded secret. "I… seem to enjoy it when you cry," he admits. "Not in the sense of enjoying your suffering," he clarifies quickly, "but somehow, being cried for, or in front of, makes me feel… loved."

"Oh, Viktor," you whisper and pull away, your hands moving instinctively to cup his face. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the sharp angles of his cheekbones softening under your fingers. "I am doing a terrible job with love confessions if you have to seek confirmation like this," you mumble, a self-deprecating huff of a laugh dancing under your nose.

Viktor shakes his head, pressing his forehead against yours again, unwilling to let you part. "I disagree. I felt just as loved a minute ago." Then he exhales, long and slow. "I think… it’s just a byproduct of everything," he says carefully. "A change." He pauses, then asks, voice softer, "Does it repulse you?"

"Of course not," you answer instantly, faster than a blink. Your thumbs brush over his cheekbones, gentle, reverent. "You could never repulse me."

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, like he’s soaking in your words, like they’re something sacred. When he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that crushes you completely. "The feeling is mutual," he murmurs.

He studies you for a moment longer before speaking again. "So tell me—what do you need to overcome your shame?"

And you hesitate again. It still lingers. Creeps up to coil somewhere around your throat and you can’t possibly bring yourself to say this, can you? The most obvious stupid cliché. Not because of the act itself, but because of the nature of it. Because of the reason for it. You crave to shed it, to start anew, to get all dressed up in your fresh new skin, old one feeling to tight around your bones. But this is Viktor. And of all people, he’s the one you would ask.

So you lean in to whisper your undisclosed desire straight into his ear. "Spank me."

Viktor stills, his mouth falls open, and he covers it with his hand. Not in shock—just to think. He doesn’t let the moment linger, as his brain works fast. He cups your cheeks and sweeps his thumbs under your eyes. Takes a deep breath.

"This is your wish?"

You nod, lowering your gaze and fixing it on the space between you, but Viktor tsks at you. "I will need you to use your words for this and all the way through. Is this what you want, for sure?"

"Yes," you answer, quietly, but audibly enough for Viktor to accept.

"Alright," he says firmly, then smiles and places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, sweet and lingering. "Will you pass me my pants?"

You huff out a laugh but scramble up from his lap, helping him get roughly dressed—underwear left in the kitchen—when he leads you back to the bedroom. And it’s all so very sweet. He leans on you, just like last time. Kisses your cheek and neck all the way through. You manage not to look at the empty spaces this time.

He leads you to the bed, where he sits down, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Holding your hand, he guides you to sit beside him. Without question, you do, heart all the way up in your throat.

"Alright, let’s go over this, yes?" Viktor states, as if this is a project. Safety rules, roadmap, scientific approach. He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze and smiles softly. "I will check how you are doing constantly. If you tell me to stop, I stop immediately. If, for whatever reason, you don’t feel like you can tell me, you tap my thigh three times. If you don’t like it, we never do this again. If you do, we will explore. What do you think?"

"You don’t think it’s weird?" Do you think I’m weird is truly what gnaws at you, but you can’t bring yourself to ask it. You just look at him, waiting, excited and scared.

"Of course not. Peculiar, at best," Viktor smiles again and places a flurry of kisses on your face. "Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes," you answer with more confidence now.

"Then lay across my lap, please," he says, leaning back, hands still on you—grounding and reassuring.

Air gets momentarily knocked out of your lungs when your belly presses across Viktor’s thighs. He runs a hand down your spine, finding himself strangely excited about this. The trust he asked you for last week now lay splayed across his knees—he couldn’t help but think. All he has to do is indulge you.

His hand slides down, cradling your ass. He lifts the skirt of your dress, draping it over your lower back, and runs his fingers under the hem of your underwear. Gently, soothing you with soft sounds as he does, he pulls your knickers down to your knees. Your face burns, heat prickling across your skin in goosebumps with every touch—nails grazing over the inside of your knee, up your thighs, stopping at your core. He palms your naked skin and hums once he realises you are wet.

“Good,” he murmurs, playing between your legs for a while. Your mouth parts and eyes close, while you give him quiet gasps. He spreads the wetness onto your ass cheeks and cradles your bum one last time before starting. And then, without warning, the first slap lands—firm, of medium strength—but still, you yelp in surprise.

The sensation is alien—it both hurts and doesn’t. With the mild pain comes something else, something fleeting, but you can’t quite grasp what it is. Warmth spreads across your skin, and you dig your fingers into Viktor’s thigh.

Viktor, however, receives something entirely different. Nothing flees him—something grows. Both between his legs and in his chest. He has to take a second before he asks, “How was that?”

“Good,” you reply immediately.

So he continues. Another slap echoes through the room, and Viktor watches as the imprint of his hand whitens against your skin before dissolving into pink a second later. How pretty it looks. He checks in with you again. And again, you encourage him.

Slowly, slap after slap, each one interrupted by Viktor’s questions, you feel lighter, warmer. A strange feeling of relief washes over you. At some point, your skin begins to sting, and even that is welcome. Your mouth loses restraint, and you moan each time Viktor’s palm connects with your ass. Your back arches, ribs pressing into his legs, and you feel a drop of slick rolling down your inner thigh.

So debauched. So pretty, Viktor thinks.

He can’t help himself and runs his fingers down between your legs. Gasps at the wetness pooling there. “More?” He asks, voice breathy, eyes completely transfixed on your reddened skin and he almost drools at the sight. All his doing. His hand did this. This, and the drenched state of your cunt, it’s all him.

“More,” you say weakly. The burn feels good. You feel the doubt seeping out with the warmth radiating from your skin. With each touch, something inside you feels lighter. Bigger. Like there is more of you and less of whatever had been gnawing at you.

Viktor gives you three more slaps, and when your thighs quiver with the last one, his hand comes to rest at the base of your spine. “How is that?” he asks, admiration seeping into his voice.

“I think it’s enough,” you reply in a small voice. His hand returns to your bum, a gentle caress spreading from the tops of your thighs to your hips. Slowly, you rise from his lap, only to straddle him and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his skin. Viktor pulls you close, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“Thank you,” he murmurs in return. “Please, lie down on your stomach. I’ll be right back.”

You blink in quiet question but obey. Crawling onto the bed, you curl up on your side, fingers ghosting over the heat still lingering beneath your dress. When Viktor returns, the soft tap of his cane against the floor announces him, and you wonder how he got all the way to the kitchen without it.

“I said on your stomach,” he says gently, placing a hand at the small of your back. You roll over, propping your head on your crossed arms.

“Good girl,” he coos before exposing your reddened ass. The mattress dips on each side of your knees and once again you feel Viktor’s hands on you. Soft, gentle. Callouses gliding over your tired skin with care and love. He presses his face against your cheeks, holding them firmly, hums in appreciation, making your toes curl and your back arch, belly pressing into the bed. Then his mouth joins, as he licks you with a flat tongue. Lips grazing over you, the trail of open mouth kisses spreading all the way from the crease of your ass to the small of your back. You press yourself into him and bury your nose in the sheets, trying to muffle your whimpers.

 And then comes the coolness pressing against you, making you wince at the first touch. A cold compress.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Viktor whispers. His free hand comes to thread gently through your hair. You feel safe. Whole. That sense of belonging blooms within you again—stronger this time—and you are so, so glad it’s with Viktor. You sigh and close your eyes.

He lies beside you, his hand running up and down your spine. When you blink, your eyes meet. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and he looks so in love your heart is about to burst.

“Very good,” you say quietly, offering him an honest smile. You turn onto your side to face him, the compress slipping off. “Better. Empty and whole at the same time,” you murmur against his mouth, kissing him with reverence. “You?”

Viktor thinks for a second before answering. "Knowing you trust me enough to let go like this makes me feel irreplaceable," he says finally, and you are left speechless. Because he is. And it feels great that he knows.

“It’s all very new, isn’t it?” you ask finally, and Viktor gazes at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, your name falling softly from his mouth. “Nothing’s new. It’s still love.”

You nuzzle against his neck and sigh, your eyelashes tickling his skin. The last question gnawing at you slips past your lips before you can catch it.

“Do you hate me less now?”

Viktor scoffs, outright appalled. He pulls you back by the neck, forcing you to look at him, his eyes full of intent as he replies simply, “No.”

Your heart beats only once before stopping entirely. Then Viktor’s expression softens, and he speaks again.

“I never hated you. If anything, I only love you more.”

And your heart resumes beating—hard and erratic. You wrap yourself around him, letting out a shuddering breath. “God, how can this be so good now when we’ve fucked up so badly?”

Viktor picks up what you’ve put down. “Change is inevitable. Sometimes abrupt. Maybe this is where we were supposed to be to get here, miláčku.”

Oh, God. There it is again—dragged up from the pit you were hoping to forget. The one thing that once felt most dear, a treasure Viktor gave freely, only to let it slip into someone else’s hands. Now it’s tarnished, dulled with grime. It doesn’t sound sweet anymore. It tastes bitter, feels wrong. Feels like it doesn’t belong to you.

Your heart drops again. Your voice shrinks to almost nothing as you push him away and plead weakly, “Please, don’t call me that again.” Tears are already pricking at your eyes, and you wonder when you became so quick to cry.

“Wha—Why?” Viktor chuckles, trying to wrap his arms back around you, but you keep your distance, splaying your palms flat against his chest in quiet defiance. And then he sees it.

“Oh, darling. It never happened, I promise you. The note, I—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. Your brows knit together, a tear clinging to your lashes. “It was on the note,” you try again, your voice frail with disbelief. Your lips press into a tight line, and Viktor looks so remorseful that you fear what’s coming next.

“It was on the note,” he says carefully, “because I was fully lying to you.”

It’s so quiet you almost don’t hear him. Your eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, your mouth parting—but nothing comes out. A couple of imaginary pins drop on the floor, the sound echoes in your head.

And then a sob slips through as you blink rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. “No. Viktor, I thought—”

“I’m so sorry.” He tries to cradle you, but you resist. “I knew it was horribly wrong as soon as I saw you that day. I regretted it in an instant, and oh,” he murmurs, pulling you against his chest. He holds you tight through this last, stupid display of jealousy, doing his best to reassure you.

“I would never. I would never call anyone else that. You are the only one, I promise. It’s all yours. Please forgive me. Miláčku, please forgive me,” he pleads, pressing his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck.

You don’t respond—not with words, not yet. Your breath is shaky against his collarbone, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. His heart hammers against your ear. You know he’s afraid.

Viktor shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s willing you to believe him through touch alone. His hand cradles the back of your head, his thumb brushing small, rhythmic circles at your nape.

“Please,” he whispers again, softer now, like he’s running out of words, running out of ways to reach you. “I promise it’s yours. Forever.”

“How do you know it’s forever?” you ask, voice hollowed out. That would be a gift too good to be true. Yet. You dare to have your hopes up.

Viktor winces. Your body grows pliant against him. He hooks his leg over your hip bone and nestles you close, his arm wrapping under your waist, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. His other hand cradles your cheek, his face inching closer. Your noses press together, and when Viktor speaks his quiet truth, your lips brush.

“Because loving you isn’t a feeling that fleets,” he murmurs, pouring the words into you. “It’s a condition. And I will carry it with me always, no matter what happens between us.”

Your breath hitches, and you shudder. You squeeze your eyes shut, searching for something—anything—to say. But instead, you press your salty lips to his, not in a kiss, just a press. Just to steal a breath from him.

“Come back to me,” he coaxes, his knuckles paling against your skin. “Miláčku, come back to me.”

And Viktor doesn’t really believe in any higher form of consciousness controlling the universe. The only thing he believes in is the void, that we scream into like an echo chamber, questions bouncing back to anyone who’s asking. That we only get one life and have to make the very best of it. He doesn’t believe in God, that he has called upon too many times already in the spirit of figurative speech. But if there was one thing he would pray for, it would be this.

To tether himself to you, bind himself to something real, something beyond the desperate loneliness he’s learned to live with before he’s met you. He’s been waiting and waiting for this love to fleet, and it never fucking did, no matter how hard he’s been trying to squeeze it out of himself. So, instead of praying, he offers himself to you, tries to prove in the only way he knows how that he is yours, that he will always be yours—with his needy hands that chased away your shame, with his loving eyes so honest they pierce right through you, with his hot mouth that needs, needs, needs to suck on you so his lungs could expand, and his heart could beat.

And as if gears slowly begin grinding against each other in your head, you give it all back. You kiss him—deep and messy, snot mingling with drool. Viktor sighs in relief, the taste of your tears on his tongue sealing something unspoken between you. He murmurs sweet things between breaths, hands tangling in your hair, legs hooking you closer. And he needs, needs, needs to show you how much he wants you to come back. How nothing else could ever compare. How the thought of anything else is harrowing and empty.

“So we start over,” you slice through his thoughts, stating more to yourself than to him, as if the matter has nestled in your head securely only just now.

Viktor nods brushing his nose against yours and whispers a quiet, “Yes.”

“Yes,” he says again as his shaky fingers begin to unbutton your dress. “Yes,” he breathes when his thumbs brush under your breasts and palms twitch to cup them. “Yes,” comes another murmur when his tongue meets your skin, tits squeezed together so he can lick between them, and then a moan escapes him as you slide your hands to the nape of his neck and tug at the short hair there.

Your back arches, excited and willing when the sensation of his tongue on you mingles with the sounds he makes echoing in your mind, and you breathe out a needy plea, “Do it again.”

Viktor cocks a brow, hums into your skin as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, and asks a playful muffled, “Which one?"

“Oh, God, both,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut and buck your hips against thin air, Viktor’s knee too far for you to reach. Your fingers pull at the base of his skull, and Viktor chuckles, a flush creeping up his body underneath the layers of clothing when he sinks his mouth into your breast and obeys—letting out a quiet, wrecked, “Oh, fuck,” somewhere around your heart.

His thigh finally, finally, comes to your salvation, sneaking between your legs and pressing on your core with a quiet obscene squelch. The thought of a wet stain he will get to see there makes his cock twitch painfully against the half-assed job you did of buttoning up his trousers earlier on. You breath grows short as you rub yourself on him and when a stuttered whimper escapes your mouth, Viktor huffs, “Please, do it again,” through a sharp exhale.

You tug at his hair, forcing him to look at you. "Give me a reason," you whisper in a strangled breath.

Clearly, you have no idea what you’re asking for. The cry that escapes you when his knee retreats is, to say the least, embarrassing. The sound transforms into a quiet gasp, when his hands leave your chest, one finger slides through your slit and Viktor hums, so, so pleased with you, “Baby, look how wet you are.”

“So wet for me, my girl,” he coos, and he sounds almost too grateful as his lips come back to kiss you, and a gush of cold air fans over your nipples. He palms your sickly heat, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit and you blink rapidly as your eyes roll back in your skull. Your hands fumble blindly to unbutton his shirt in a need press yourself flush against him.

And you do a very poor job, jolting and pulling at his buttons whenever Viktor’s hand parts you and his fingers tease your entrance, so his other hand comes to help you, undoing what you can’t with an ease that has you huffing. It’s annoying that he can do two things at once, while you clearly cannot. Your sulking doesn’t last very long, because as soon as his naked chest is free to be roamed, you leech yourself to his collarbone and suck a red glaring love mark into it.

Yours. All yours.

And Viktor slips, figuratively and literally, as his head instinctively falls back to grant you full access to his neck and his two fingers push inside you, where you are so, so hot it almost burns him. As if the mark on his neck wasn’t red enough, you bite on it, trying to muffle a groan. Viktor has nothing to muffle his groan on, so you can feel it crawling up his throat and vibrating under your lips.

When his fingers push in further, the only gesture you can muster is to hook your hands over the waistband of his trousers, mouth choking on his neck. You pull his pants down and he hisses as the material hooks over his cock before it springs back to slap heavily against his lower abdomen. You try to distract yourself by sliding your palms flat up and down the slope of his sharp hips, but it’s futile once Viktor buries his fingers knuckle deep and curls them brushing the sensitive spot within you. He twitches as you moan. Precum leaks out of his slit. No thoughts cross your head, only impressions. Only want and need.

You can’t decide which one it is—want or need—when your fingers wrap around his length and rub whatever weeps at the tip all over the head. He’s silky and heavy in your hand as you trace your favourite vein with the tip of your finger.

“Oh, God,” Viktor whimpers to the imaginary being again, pumping you with a stuttering rhythm of his wrist. Feeling every crevice of your cunt, he pulls you in for a kiss and you no longer know where he ends, and you begin. Attached by the mouth, his hand deep inside you, your needy wanting hands on him, just drawing gasps and moans from each other.

He has to retreat to pull his pants further down and has an audacity to chuckle when you whine in protest. His hand leaves you drawing a wet sound and your thighs fall back together with a sticky smack. “So impatient,” he hums, while doing a shitty job of undressing himself, kicking off one leg of his pants, while the other still entangles around his calf. He hooks his freed leg over your hip, takes his cock from you and aligns it at your entrance. You are completely wrapped around each other—leg pressing on leg, arms hooked around necks, fingers adding to already damp hair.

“Do you want me?” he asks, pressing his cock against your clit, hard. You tie up into thousands of knots, trying to suck him in by the force of your sheer will when you see the question is honest. He really wants to know. Eyes pensive, hooded, mouth parted. So you kiss this mouth, bite his lips until he hisses and breathe into him, “I want you, fuck, I want you.”

A silent moan rips through him, as he enters you, inch after painful inch until you can feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his cock against your walls. At this point you are just clashing mouths and teeth in something that once was a kiss. He fills more of you than was empty as you lose control of the clenching and unclenching of your own muscles. A quiet ah falling from him dies in the sound of a slap as your hips slot together.

He stills for a moment, buried deep, and you swear you can feel his pulse inside you, thrumming in time with your own. Chest to chest, forehead to forehead, he exhales heavily through his nose, his grip on you tightening. And then he moves.

Your mouth falls open so wide your jaw aches, breaths intermingle, brows knit together. Viktor's hands anchor around your ass as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, each movement pounding the shape of his cock into your core. You arch against him, offering yourself, giving him everything you have. Your fingers twist in his hair, and the moment you tug, he groans—a low, breathy sound that coils something filthy at the base of your spine as your skin slaps against his.

And Viktor feels himself melting against your lips, inside you, as your walls squeeze tighter and tighter around him. He loses control of his hands—they just roam, fisting at your dress, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs as he sinks deeper, hitting a spot that has you gasping hiccupped breaths straight into his mouth. He pants, struggling not to be the one who falls first, trying not to look, not to think about your clumped eyelashes, the tears that he is fucking out of you. He tries not to think about how every slap of his hips against yours must echo across your poor ass, how pleasure and pain must be bleeding together inside you.

But it just feels so fucking good for you. Every roll of his hips is a reminder of how his fingers sank into your skin not long ago, heat pouring out of you in waves. You don’t move anymore—it’s only Viktor’s sloppy, determined thrusts guiding you toward the edge. You cross your eyes to focus on his parted lips, the beauty marks dusting his cheek and lip, and when his breath fans over your face, you let your lashes flutter closed, surrendering to it. Letting it build, slow and aching, every deep stroke tightening the coil inside you until you’re cramping around him.

“Fuck,” Viktor pants as you curl into him, whining his name into the crook of his neck, fighting the urge to bite down on his tendon. Your thighs squeeze tight around him, and your cunt grips him like a vice, milking him as you finally break apart. You spasm and clench around him, neck wrenched and jaw tight as you try to catch a breath through your silent shout and it’s almost impossible for Viktor to move in the tightness you’ve created. His sweat drips onto your cheeks, and, at last, he can stop holding back.

He curls his arms around you and rolls you over, pressing you down with his weight. Adding gravity to every snap of his hips, his stomach cramps more and more with each desperate thrust as he fucks you through the aftershocks, chasing his own undoing. His mouth hangs open against yours when he holds you tight enough for his fingertips to whiten, bruises already threatening to bloom where he grips. “I’m so close,” he whispers on a breath, and you thought it impossible, but you clench even tighter at the sound of his strained voice. And when he cums, it’s with a wrenched-out grunt, his head buried in your neck, his body trembling against you.

A few stuttering jolts of his hips, spilling his seed deep inside you, and the sensation of being filled, of being utterly his, has you moaning one last time, spent and breathless. Eyes unseeing, mouth touching mouth when he falls on top of you and just stays.

And then, nothing, for a moment, only your damp stomachs rising and falling against each other.

Until Viktor is the one to move first. He pulls out, his cum spilling from you onto the sheets with a wet spurt, and rolls onto his back, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. A shuddery breath escapes him as he presses a hand to his chest.

“Viktor?” you say softly, gliding an open palm over his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—” he croaks, then pulls you in, guiding your head to rest against his chest. His heart pounds beneath your ear, his breath uneven, and when you lift your chin to look at him, you catch the glistening trail of a tear slipping down his cheek, barely visible.

And Viktor has no idea what came over him. He has no idea whether this is a stupid way of paying back his debt to you or is it just a surge of affection that he cannot hold in, but it feels strangely freeing to pour all this fear into a wet breath. Or maybe his fucked out brain just can’t keep up with the bliss, he doesn’t know.

Gently, you tug his arm away from his face, nuzzling into him as you whisper, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” You press a soft kiss to his lips, and he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding something in for far too long. And to come undone like this is completely unlike for Viktor. You are fairly sure you’ve never seen him cry before, though you’ve heard the legends. And now they all come true, before your very eyes and even though you feel nothing close to arousal watching him spill his emotions over, the feeling you do have in your chest is about to make it burst, nevertheless.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, kissing you back through an embarrassed chuckle. “I guess something is new after all.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose into the hollow of his cheek. “I love this.”

Viktor offers a smile and a squeeze to your neck. Wordlessly, you fall into each other, arms tightening, bodies entwining. The roam of your hands slowly dying to settle on each other’s hollows. The scent of sweat and warmth heavy between you, intermingling, blending—just as you do.

And even though all of this looks hurried and disorganised—your dress half undone, his pants tangled around one leg, brace slid down from his knee, shirt twisted around him, cold compress melting away, dampening his sheets—it feels right. And as you rest against him, your heart slowing in tandem with his, you think of how this is both familiar and new. How you’ve shed the bad and kept the good. How it’s all very fucking new and exciting and frightening, but it’s good, because it’s with Viktor.

At some point, the sun has set as you both drift into sleep. Heavy breaths, calm, bodies still half-clothed. Your dress has rolled all the way up, exposing your lower half, and Viktor, with sleep-ridden hands, pulls it down before throwing a blanket over you both. No dreams interrupt you, only the damp cloister of your shared aftermath.

He’s closed his eyes a second ago, and when he opens them again, the night has turned into a blue morning. No sun yet, but the dark already pales. Carefully, he shuffles from between your legs, pressing the soles of his feet to the wooden floor, blindly reaching for his cane. Then, takes a long breath. His knee is aching—a faint, but present feeling. Slightly annoying. Managable.

He discards his pants to the floor, the outline of the fly buttons pressed into the skin of his calf after clinging to it the whole night. He glances over his shoulder—you, fast asleep, hair clumped into a tangled mess spilling over his pillow. Mouth open, soft breaths coming in and out, the faintest sound nestling in his mind. His hand hovers over your cheek as he dusts away a stray eyelash. Moments pass as he just looks.

Quietly, he stands and expands himself into a slow stretch. Breathes out long and heavy. Then, half-naked, walks toward the kitchen. And there—his underwear on the floor. Two cups resting on the table. He puts his cup in the sink and reaches for yours—half-drunk tea, a once-wet, now dried-out ring left behind. He smiles.

Nothing’s new, comes the thought.

He drinks your cold tea and puts the kettle on.

[learntechsolution]

Implementing a date picker in a React app can be done using various libraries, and one popular choice is react-datepicker. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to implement a date picker using this library

[learn-techsolution]

Implementing a date picker in a React app can be done using various libraries, and one popular choice is react-datepicker. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to implement a date picker using this library

[learntech-solution]

Implementing a date picker in a React app can be done using various libraries, and one popular choice is react-datepicker. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to implement a date picker using this library

[learn-tech-solution]

Implementing a date picker in a React app can be done using various libraries, and one popular choice is react-datepicker. Here's a step-by-step guide on how to implement a date picker using this library