#flutter vpn

[vidpress]

Secure Powerfull D-bug Flutter VPN Unlimited Proxy VPN 2024

D-bug  Flutter VPN is a mobile app Flutter for Android and iOS. It boasts unlimited proxy and a Laravel admin panel for management. However, since it’s a template, it likely requires further development to be a fully functional D-bug Flutter VPN app. Read More...

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || Ch. 32]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s while Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3k🌶️

ao3 link

The billboard across the street shifts from casting a blue glow into Matt’s apartment to a warm purple one. It is bright enough for you to be able to see your keyboard, but low enough that everything is still in shadow. You can maneuver around easily enough, which makes it the perfect level considering you are apparently the only one in your family who needs light to do so. 

Paired with the overall lack of decor, it fosters a nice working environment, with the ambience of the city providing the perfect background noise. 

You have a fair bit of invoicing to catch up on, so you have set yourself up at the dining table as Matt readies himself for his own night of working. Luckily, all the excitement of temporarily moving into a new place left your little Mouse exhausted and getting her down to sleep was as easy as it has ever been. You wish you would be able to go off to Dreamland as quickly as she does, but you know your brain won’t let you drift off without hours and hours of worrying first.

“You don’t need to wait up for me,” Matt says for about the millionth time. He’s changed mostly into his red Devil suit, and it still baffles you how different he looks in it versus his Lawyer suit. It is like he’s been possessed or switched out with a twin - it’s not necessarily evil but it is a completely different aura. All his fun and charm has been replaced with a caged animal ready to rip someone’s throat out, and you just happen to be his keeper who he knows isn’t a threat. He’s of no danger to you, but anyone outside these walls is fair game. 

“I have about forty emails to answer and even more orders to review and this is the only time I’ll be able to sit down and focus on doing all that. These are my working hours, too,” you reply as you finish connecting your VPN. “Plus, I’ll be up worrying until you are home safe. Killing two birds with one stone.” 

“No killing anything,” he chides, his voice dropping an octave. It sends a pleasant shiver up your spine, and you are starting to think you may like this Devil-y side of Matt. 

“You know I can’t even kill a cockroach.” 

He huffs from across the room, then in a few long strides, he’s behind you, putting his large, gloved hands on your shoulders and rubbing at them, “I mean it. If you finish before I’m back, try to get some sleep. You need it.” 

You let your head fall forward and enjoy the way his thumbs dig into your muscles. “I need to make sure I get my work hours logged. When you get home, we can both get some sleep.” 

Behind you, a pleased rumble comes from Matt’s chest. He bends forward and nuzzles just above your ear, whispering in that deep voice that makes your core clench, “call it ‘home’ again.” 

Your eyes flutter shut as your entire being heats up again. It isn’t just his voice and actions - it's the implication of his request - that he wants a home with you. He wants your home to be here with him. You can’t even take a moment to think about it, because you just want to please the Devil behind you. 

“Come home to us.” 

He buries his nose into your hair and inhales deeply while his hands tighten on your shoulders. He nods after a moment, then you feel him have to force himself to step away. 

“I’ll always come home to you. I swear on my life.” 

You resist the urge to follow after him and say something cheesy or dramatic. You stay planted in your seat instead, eyes still closed and breathing through your nose, trying to calm your fast beating heart. 

Matt strides back to where his gloves and helmet wait for him, and you listen as he dons the last pieces of his armor. Only when he has fully become the Devil do you let yourself speak again, hoping to encourage the beast coming to life inside of him.

“Keep the Kitchen safe. For me. For Minnie.” 

----

It’s closing in on three am when you hear the crunch of boots on gravel coming from the roof above you. You expected Matt to be home closer to one in the morning, but that was just a time you made up. 

Your emails are still on your screen, so you close them out and clock out just as the door on the landing opens and the Devil returns to the apartment. There is a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and you scrunch up your nose in confusion as he makes his way down the stairs.

“I thought you would be asleep by now,” he growls out and you can instantly tell the poor man is exhausted. 

You are up and out of your seat in an instant, making your way to him with your water bottle in hand. You hold it out to him as he comes to a stop in front of you and he quickly drops the bag to his feet in exchange for chugging the rest of your water.

“I told you I had a lot of work. Are you okay? What is with the - “You cut yourself off as the light coming from the billboard changes from red to yellow and you see there is a slice of suit missing from Matt’s arm. “You’re hurt!”

You don’t give him the chance to deny or explain - you turn and hurry back to the kitchen to get the first aid kit. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbles from behind you. You hear something thunk on the ground and assume it is his helmet. “It went through and through.” 

The words take a second to process and color drains from your face as they do. “You were shot?” 

“I’m fine,” he insists, a small hint of annoyance in his voice. “I just need to wrap it.”

You yoink the first aid kit down from where it’s hidden in a cabinet and whirl back around the face Matt. He’s removed his helmet and gloves and is in the process of taking off his boots. Your mind swirls into overdrive, flying back to your binder pages about gunshot wounds and you find yourself huffing at the Devil as practicality fills you. 

“Wrap it?” You almost scold as you march back to him. His head jerks up and his brows furrow, but your Mom Mentality is quicker than the Devil. “You can’t just wrap it; it needs to be cleaned and disinfected. Who knows what is dripping off your suit into it. You can’t punch away an infection, Matt.” 

His face slackens into confusion as you move to squat in front of him so you can open the kit and begin to rummage through it. 

“What..?”

“I need to clean it,” you repeat as you inspect the meager contents of the kit. “And disinfect it. I’m not very good at stitches yet, but you have butterfly stripes,” you hold up the pack as you find it and continue your rambling, “and gauze, so we can wrap it, and hopefully that should be good enough. Do you know what caliber it was? Was it a hollow point?”

He doesn’t answer you right away, and you assume he is trying to remember what happened. You focus on reading the different packets you pick up, setting aside wipes and antibiotic ointments. If it was through and through, you shouldn’t have to get out any debris, but you add the tweezers to your pile anyway. Your mind is a step-by-step checklist of everything you need and you really hope all your studying has prepared you for your first real wound cleaning. You are a pro at scraped knees and paper cuts, but a bullet wound is a completely different level. 

“What?” Matt repeats and you look up to see he looks completely dumbfounded. “You…aren’t angry?”

It is your turn to be confused. 

“Why…would I be angry?” you ask slowly, trying to understand why he is asking. “You..didn’t mean to get shot, did you?” He shakes his head slowly, and your lips turn down into a frown. “Then..I’m not angry.” 

You slowly sit yourself down and cross your legs, trying to process your own feelings around your Fix It and Make Things Better thoughts, “I’m scared that you got hurt. And I’m worried..I worry about you every night when you go out, but this…this is small, right? It’s through and through and in your arm and you aren’t bleeding everywhere, and you are standing on your own. You’re…you’re okay. You’re hurt. You’re hurt. But you’re okay…you’re okay and I just need to make sure you stay okay.” Tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, and you shake your head to chase them away. “Please let me make sure you are okay.”

Slowly, Matt kneels in front of you and takes your face in his hands. He thumbs away a tear that managed to escape before leaning in to press his forehead to yours. 

“I’m okay,” he whispers, the Devil gone from his voice, and he sounds so so tired. “I’m okay, my darling. Let me get out of this and you can clean it, yeah? Then we can go to bed.” 

You press into his touch, needing it to ground you and help you keep your emotions in check. 

Matt’s hurt, but he is okay. It’s just a little wound, something you can handle. You know he is going to get hurt, going out and acting as a vigilante, and it isn’t always going to be bruises and split knuckles. 

People shoot at him. They try to stab him. They might have weird fire breath or laser beams. 

He’s going to get hurt, but right now he is okay. He just needs to be patched up and that is something you can do. 

You’ve been practicing and studying to make sure he will stay okay. 

You take a shaky breath and center yourself, then let your lips turn up into a small smile, “You’re all sweaty, you need a shower before bed. Or Minnie will complain that you are stinky in the morning.”

Matt huffs a small laugh and tips his head up to kiss your forehead. “Well, according to her my whole apartment is stinky and dusty and cold.”

“That’s why we are playing housekeeper tomorrow,” you whisper as he pulls away. 

You allow yourself to wipe your eyes with your nightshirt as Matt removes the rest of his armor, leaving him in just his boxers. You then focus on double checking all the items you’ve gathered, letting your mind go back into Practical mode versus Emotional. 

“Why do you have a duffel bag?” you finally ask, curious as to what he had been up to all night and why he has a new accessory. 

Matt gives a quiet groan, then begins to explain as he sits himself in front of you. “I found an abandoned…lab is the only way I can put it, in one of the utility tunnels. I guess it got flooded out with all the rain and whoever was running it was clearing it out. When I got there, there was only one guy.” As he talks, you begin to clean his wounds, and you are not surprised at how stoic he remains despite the stinging of antiseptics. “I think he was just grabbing files, and that is what is in the bag. Paper files and what I think are thumb drives. I’m not too sure.”

You look up in time to see him turn his lips down into a hard scowl. “The whole place reeked of human blood, though. Not fresh - stale. And there were cages. It was just a few rooms, but someone was definitely up to no good down there.” He flexes his fingers, then says your name softly. “I think it was some sort of government agency. The gun the guy had was standard issue for the FBI and the way he moved was in line with their training, but it didn’t feel like the FBI. It felt more advanced and after everything with Fisk I don’t think they’d try something twice here so close together. But in my gut, it’s telling me this isn’t something like the Hand or something underground.”

You turn to look at the simple bag laying on the floor, your heart sinking as you take it in. You trust Matt’s gut with this - this is not his first rodeo, and he has so much more information about all of this than you ever will. 

“Do you want me to read them for you?”

He shakes his head, “No. Well.. yes, but no. I think this is something I need to take to everyone - Foggy, Karen, Frank, Jessica. Another piece of the puzzle of what has been going on lately. I think we all have different parts, and we need to start looking at what fits together.” He pauses, rolls his lip between his teeth. “I’d like for you to be there, too..if you’d like. I don’t want to keep you in the dark. You aren’t out there, like we are but..I’m dragging you into this just by being with you. I…” 

He stops, and turns to fully face you, pulling his bicep from your grasp so he can cup your jaw with his other hand. He runs his thumb over your lips. 

“I can’t risk losing you. If you being in the know and understanding everything that is going on is what is going to keep you safe - keep Minnie safe - then I can’t lie to you and I can’t hide anything. But I need you to understand that there is a risk of knowing what lurks in the shadows. It is your choice; I want it to be your choice. I need you to be okay, too.” 

You don't need to let the words turn over in your mind - you know your answer. “I want to be there. I want to help, even if it is just helping you talk through things. You don’t need to hide things from me. I…I understand what you are doing.”  You mimic him and reach to cup his cheek, rubbing your thumb so lightly over his lower lip. “I just want you to be safe, Matt. I want you to come home at night.” 

You purposefully use the word, knowing it triggered a reaction before. 

It does again.  

His eyes flutter close, and he kisses your finger gently. 

“I’ll always come back to you,” he breathes out before swallowing thickly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and you wonder if he wants to say more.

Do you want him to say more?

You don’t know.

You don’t know and you don’t want to think about it. 

You just want Matt to be safe and right now that means finishing wrapping his bicep. You let your thumb linger on his lip for a moment before pulling away, “I’m almost done with your arm. I..I think it doesn’t need stitches. Everything here should be plenty.” 

“Okay,” he whispers as you hand drops, and he turns so you can apply butterfly strips to the holes in his bicep. 

You let your mind fall back to your guides as you wrap the gauze, mentally picturing exactly what you need to do while also making mental notes about directions you need to change and products you need to buy to fill out Matt’s first aid kit. While he has apparently been so much better at taking care of himself, his supplies are a bit lacking. 

As you finish, you hesitate before leaning in and placing a small kiss over the entrance wound, mumbling as you do, “Minnie would admonish me if I didn’t add a kissie for extra healing.” 

“She is the Doctor,” Matt replies gently, and you can’t help but smile.

You start to repack the first aid kit as Matt pushes up into standing to gather his own gear. You both clean in a comfortable silence and only once everything is put away, does Matt come back to you. 

“Shower with me?” He asks, his voice soft and low and your whole body quivers for him.

You don’t reply with words. You take his offered hand, and he leads you to the small room. 

The two of you can barely fit in the shower together, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as you are under the water, you are one.

Matt cups your jaw with both hands as he kisses you like he is savoring every microsecond. It is slow and languid, and you melt together so easily. Your hands are in his hair, pulling his closer, like you want to absorb him because maybe you do. Maybe you want him to absorb you, because you are safe in his arms, and nothing will ever hurt you or make you cry if he is there. 

You have Matt Murdock, and you have the Devil and he has you.

You don’t know if it's hours or minutes or days that pass before one callused hand drops to your thigh and with the lightest of touches, urges it up. Once it is around his waist, Matt rocks forward and slides into you with no resistance.

His pumps are as slow as his kisses and you lose yourself in him. If you could think, you would imagine he is lost in you as well, but the only thing on your mind is the pleasure he is bringing you and how perfectly full you feel.

His name is falling from your lips over and over, breathless and needy, but not for a release - just for him and it is like he knows that. His head drops to your shoulder, and he buries his nose into your throat, his lips moving in words barely heard above the spray of the shower.

Your name.

Mine.

Yours.

Perfect. 

Please.

God.

Love. 

((“I love you.”))

((“I love you, too.”))

---

:) <3

---

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[lolobeey]

Crash and Burn (1) - Partnered

Because juggling one WIP clearly wasn’t chaotic enough: please enjoy a grumpy/sunshine buddy cop duo with murder, trauma, and sexual tension in equal measure.

Pairing: Detective!Bucky x Partner!Reader

Series Summary: You just made detective. Your first case? A cold one — missing woman, dead cop, and a cover-up that smells worse than precinct coffee. Your new partner is James Buchanan Barnes: metal arm, resting murder face, zero interest in teamwork. You talk too much, he broods too hard, and together you’re one bad day from a workplace incident report. But the case isn’t as cold as it looks. And if you don’t start trusting each other soon, you won’t live long enough to solve it.

Warnings: slow burn, buddy cop romance, angst, eventual smut, a bit of grumpy x sunshine, mentions of death / off-screen character death, strong language - stronger jawlines

Word Count: 4.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

You’re halfway through a suspiciously warm donut and pretending not to panic over the new department-issued laptop that hates you on a cellular level.

The thing keeps making a sound like it’s struggling to breathe and refusing to recognize your password like it's personally offended you made detective. Which, fine — maybe you're a little offended too. Not about the title, but the timing. First day in Homicide, first time sitting at a desk with drawers and your name on a placard, and this is how it starts: with passive-aggressive technology and a lopsided jelly filling trying to escape down your wrist.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and try not to look too obviously lost.

You’ve been on the force long enough to earn this seat. Your stats are clean. You’ve got the de-escalation record of a hostage negotiator and the kind of instinct that once made a guy in Vice call you a "crime whisperer" — right before you tased him for getting in your face during a domestic dispute call.

Still, none of that keeps your stomach from flipping like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

You shift in the chair that’s technically yours now. Not borrowed, not loaned. Not somebody else's.

It’s weird.

Across the bullpen, people glance your way — some congratulatory, others speculative. You know how it goes. Every promotion comes with eyes. Some waiting to see you fail, others waiting to see if they can ride your coattails. You give a two-finger wave to no one in particular and return to whispering threats at your laptop like that’s ever helped anyone.

It’s not just the promotion that’s making your pulse flutter. It’s the weight of change. The rhythm shift. You spent your whole career building trust, beat by beat, post by post. Patrol. Vice. Now Homicide. You worked your way up like a damn mountain goat — not pretty, not smooth, but determined.

Your desk still smells like the last person who sat here. Carter, probably. Cigarettes and menthol lip balm. There’s a hairline crack in the corner of the monitor and a sticky note half-peeled from the edge of the drawer that just says "FUCK OFF HOSKINS." No idea who or what that is. Might be a warning. Might be an inside joke you’re not yet inside of.

The hum of the bullpen is familiar and not. Phones ringing, someone muttering about reports, the mechanical sound of the printer you already hate.

That’s when Captain Sam Wilson opens his office door and says your name in That Tone™.

The “I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day-but-with-love” tone.

You freeze with your fingers still mid-type (or mid-prayer, honestly, trying to remember if you turned on the VPN). Then you push away from your desk and follow him in.

You hurriedly brush powdered sugar off your shirt and wipe your hands down the thighs of your slacks. Sam doesn’t care about your donut crimes, but you care. First impressions in Homicide matter. Even with someone who’s technically been your boss for a while.

His office smells like cheap coffee and responsibility. The blinds are half open, slats angled to slice sunlight into soft bars across the floor. His desk is clean — unnervingly so. A few commendations hang on the wall, none of them flashy. Just… earned. Quiet power.

He gestures to the seat across from him. You sit, pulse picking up.

“Congrats,” he says. “Promotion’s official. You’ve earned it.”

You open your mouth to say thanks, maybe throw in a joke to cut the tension, but he lifts a finger.

“You’re getting a head start on your caseload.”

A beat.

“Unofficially,” he adds, carefully sliding a thin folder across the desk.

You blink. “Already?”

“Think of it as a welcome gift.”

You hesitate. Then pick up the folder.

“Cold case,” he says. “Not in rotation. Disappeared into storage years ago. Someone recently sent this to my desk.”

“Anonymous tip?”

“Anonymous photo.”

You open the folder and pause.

Avery Thompson.

Missing eight years. Legal aid clinic. Lived alone. No body. No leads. A dead case if you ever saw one. But paper-clipped to the front is something new.

A recent photo. Blurry. A crowd shot at a street fair — but in the middle of it, almost missed in the movement, is her face. A little older. A little more tired. But it very well could be her.

Your eyebrows lift. “You ever promote someone just to drop them in the deep end?”

“Only the ones I like.”

You smile despite yourself. And you’re still processing that when there’s a crisp knock at the door.

Sam glances over your shoulder. “And don’t worry, you’re not working it alone.”

The door squeaks open behind you.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in air pressure. The sudden heaviness, like the oxygen was reconsidering its contract.

James Buchanan Barnes.

New badge clipped to his belt, shirt tucked like it had never dared wrinkle. Hair tied back. Jaw set. One glove on — the left hand. Metal underneath, if the rumors were true.

He’s taller than you expected. Broader too. His face is sharp in that movie star, old-photo kind of way — all angles and quiet. And when his eyes land on you — briefly, coolly — it’s like you’re furniture. Like he’s assessing exit points and blind spots, and you don’t even register.

Your brain, ever the traitor, short-circuits for one hot second.

Of course, he's hot.

Cool.

Captain Wilson gestures between you. “Detective Barnes is returning from extended medical leave. He’s got history with the file.”

“History,” Barnes says, voice low, unreadable. “My old partner caught the original report.”

You already know the name before Sam says it.

“Steve Rogers,” he confirms. “He and Barnes worked the early leads until the file was closed.”

Your stomach tightens.

Steve Rogers. A legend. A loss. That name still lives in this building like a ghost — spoken soft and careful, like people are scared it’ll echo too loud.

Sam looks between you both. “I want this quiet. Off the books for now. No press, no noise. You two are the only ones working it. If anything smells off—”

“We bring it to you,” you say.

“Exactly.” He stands. “Don’t let him scare you off.”

You snort. “I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s why I picked you.”

You rise, folder in hand. Barnes is already halfway out the door — no handshake, no greeting. Just gone.

You stare after him, then mutter under your breath, “Well. If I’m gonna get ignored, might as well be by a man who looks like he could casually bench press the department’s vending machine. Fully stocked.”

Sam chuckles behind you but says nothing.

The bullpen doesn’t go silent when you walk out after Barnes, but it shifts. The noise thins. Conversations soften. You feel eyes moving toward you — then quickly away, like no one wants to admit they’re curious.

Not about you. About him.

Detective Barnes walks like someone who was made, not born — precise, heavy, locked-in. He doesn’t move like a cop. He moves like a weapon that learned how to walk upright. Three steps ahead of you, hands at his sides, jaw set like a trap.

He doesn’t need an introduction. He’s been here before. Every cop on this floor knows his name. Half of them probably have theories about why he left. The other half probably have nightmares about why he’s back.

You’re the new one. Technically promoted as of 9 am, given a badge with your name on it, and a chair that still feels like it belongs to someone else. You're aware of every eye that slides toward you and then pretends it didn't.

Your footsteps sound too loud behind him. Your file feels too thin. Your shoulder holster itches like it doesn’t quite fit. You’ve worn it for years — but never in Homicide.

You find your desk and slide into the seat like it doesn’t matter that it squeaks or that the monitor is cracked at the corner. You belong here now. Probably. Maybe.

Barnes doesn’t sit. He just stands at the desk across from yours like he’s guarding a perimeter. Shoulders squared, weight evenly balanced, spine too straight to be comfortable. Rigid silence and haunted war-veteran posture.

You glance up at him, trying for casual. “You good?”

No response.

He doesn’t even blink. You’re not even sure he heard you.

You glance at the file in your hands, then back up at him. Still nothing.

Okay then.

Before the awkward can go nuclear, a voice cuts through the static.

“Barnes, welcome back. You still brooding or did you pick up a new hobby in physical therapy?”

You turn.

Darcy Lewis is leaning over a file cabinet like she owns it. Granola bar in one hand, lanyard looped three times around her wrist, and an expression like she’s already read every file in the building and memorized the parts that matter.

She’s technically forensics and records, but everyone knows Darcy’s real specialty is data with attitude. If there’s something weird, something buried, or something half-whispered, she’ll find it and probably make a spreadsheet about it.

Barnes gives her a barely-there nod. It might be hello. Might be a death threat.

Darcy, unfazed, grins wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Then her gaze flicks to you. Her eyes brighten, a little mischievous spark lighting up her entire face.

“You must be the newbie. You’re different than I pictured.”

You blink. “You pictured me?”

“Sure. Everyone’s been talking.” She tears off another bite of granola bar and waves it vaguely in the air.

“You’re the rookie from the Hot Dog Cart Incident. Crash, right?”

You groan. “I was hoping that name would die in Patrol.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that,” Darcy says, delighted. “Not after you wrecked a patrol car, two scooters, a newspaper stand, and a man’s entire lunch business.”

Barnes turns his head toward you. Slowly. Methodically.

You glance at him, then back to Darcy. “And still made the arrest.”

“I heard you were covered in mustard.”

“And glory,” you shoot back.

Darcy snorts. “Yeah, well. Nice to meet you, Crash.” She winks.

“Catch ya later, Barnes.”

And just like that, she vanishes, slipping into a nearby records room like a caffeine-fueled witch.

You’re left sitting beside a man who hasn’t said a full sentence to you since you met, but is now definitely aware you were once taken out by a hot dog cart.

You glance at Barnes again.

He’s now sitting in his chair, but barely. Upright. Back straight. Hands on his knees like he’s waiting for the next drill sergeant’s command. Not twitchy. Not anxious. Just… contained.

Like whatever lives in his chest has been locked up and labeled Do Not Open.

The silence stretches.

You open the file Sam gave you, mostly just to look like you’re doing something. Names, addresses, incident reports. Paperwork you should be diving into with your full attention.

But your eyes keep flicking up.

You wonder if he remembers your name. Or if he even cares. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t think you’ve earned your place at this desk. Maybe he’s still seeing Steve Rogers every time he looks at that file.

You hate that your brain keeps circling back to how good he looks — in that cold, ex-military, do-not-engage kind of way. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. That stubble like he shaved yesterday and immediately resented it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s not the point.

Still, there’s something about the way he sits. Like he hasn’t rested in years.

It’s not like you haven’t worked with guys like this before. Usually they crack a joke eventually. Try to test you, push your buttons, see if you’re tough enough to sit at the table. You know that game. You’ve played it and won.

Barnes doesn’t push anything.

He just doesn’t see you. Not really.

And for some reason, that makes it worse.

You tap your pen against the edge of the file and try not to take it personally. Maybe he’s not an asshole. Maybe he’s just rusty. Or tired. Or broken in ways that don’t heal.

You’re just about to speak again when a voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard:

“Well, look what the wind dragged out of the evidence locker.”

You don’t need to look up.

That voice is permanently etched into your brain like a poorly done tattoo.

John Walker.

Of course.

You resist the urge to groan. Barely.

“Didn’t know they were letting Patrol mascots into Homicide,” he says, strolling up with that signature smugness and way-too-clean uniform.

“Didn’t know they were letting insecure men wear that much hair gel on duty,” you shoot back.

He grins like you complimented him.

“Crash. Still got the mouth. Good to know some things survive promotion.”

You fold your arms. “Still got the superiority complex?”

“Please. I earned it.” He flashes a badge with gold trim. “Seniority.”

Of course.

You knew he’d bring it up. He’d been your Field Training Officer when you first joined the force, before being quickly promoted out of the department. He likes to boast how he’s the one who trained a star officer, but in reality, he sat in the passenger seat and made you get him coffee for a month.

He turns to Barnes with mock surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you back, Barnes. What, you run out of dark corners to lurk in?”

Barnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at him, stone-cold.

Walker’s grin grows when he notices the file in your hand and Barnes sitting across from you.

“Wait a second—don’t tell me.” He points between the two of you. “You’re partners now?”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

He laughs. “Man, they really just threw you in the deep end, huh? Hope you brought floaties.”

You open your mouth — something sharp, something just this side of fireable — but Barnes beats you to it.

“Let’s go.”

His voice is low and even, but there’s an edge to it. Not anger. Not threat. Just final.

You glance at him. He’s already standing. Already moving.

You look back at Walker and smile, all teeth.

“See you at the top.”

And then you follow Barnes out of the bullpen — shoulders square, file tucked under your arm, stomach burning with something that feels suspiciously like adrenaline.

Let the cold case begin.

---

Barnes doesn’t tell you where you’re going.

You try — casually at first.

“So… are we headed to a specific lead, or is this just a scenic tour?”

Silence.

No grunt, no side-eye. Just the steady click of the turn signal and the hum of the engine.

You glance at him, trying to read the profile — stone-cut jaw, stubble like he shaved yesterday with regret, expression locked somewhere between deadpan and “don’t ask.” His hand is tight on the wheel. The right one. The other’s gloved and motionless, resting near the gearshift like it’s not entirely his.

You try again.

“Blink twice if we’re about to break into a place I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t know about.”

Still nothing. Not even a muscle twitch.

He drives like he’s on a clock only he can hear — precise, no wasted movement, every lane change premeditated. Windows cracked just enough to let in the October air, cold and dry.

You settle back in your seat, staring out at the city as it scrolls by.

The silence stretches so long you start to spiral a little. Maybe he actually doesn’t talk. Maybe this is a test. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who communicates only in nods and quiet guilt.

Maybe Sam is punishing you for something.

Finally, just to fill the space, you mutter, “For the record, I’m fun on stakeouts.”

Nothing.

“I bring snacks. I ask insightful questions. I don’t hog the radio.”

Still nothing.

You glance sideways again. He’s not tense exactly. But contained. Coiled. Like someone wound too tight for too long.

You sigh, give up, and slump deeper into the seat.

“Cool. Hot and broody. Love that for me.”

That gets you something.

A subtle shift of his mouth. Not a smile. Not really. But close enough to make you feel stupidly victorious.

You decide that’s a win and open the case file.

There’s not much. A few witness statements from her old neighbors, all dated within the first week of her disappearance. Two of them contradict each other. One says she was seen getting into a car around 9:40 pm. The other insists she came home alone, groceries in hand, around the same time.

There’s a flyer for her missing persons alert. A note in the margin: 

No official suspect. No forensic hits.

And that’s it.

You blink. This is it? No deeper file? No full casebook, no internal review?

Barnes pulls into a narrow side street in Sunset Park, slowing in front of an old hardware store with half the letters burned out on the sign.

He cuts the engine.

The silence hangs for a second longer. Then he finally looks at you.

“Don’t say anything weird.”

You blink. “Define weird.”

But he’s already out of the car.

The hardware store smells like grease and dust and memories that don’t want to be stirred. Barnes walks in like he’s been here before. You follow, still unsure where you’re going until he stops at the back counter.

The man behind it doesn’t flinch — doesn’t smile either. He’s built like a blunt object and has the posture of someone who doesn’t want to talk.

“Ernie Delgado?” Barnes says.

The man sighs. “Figured I’d see you again someday.”

“Last time you talked to Steve Rogers. You told him something off the record.”

“Yeah. And then he died.”

Ernie doesn’t say it like an accusation. More like a warning.

“Avery Thompson. Your old tenant,” Barnes presses. “She was asking the wrong questions. You said that back then.”

Ernie shakes his head. “Poor girl. Caught the scent of something and thought she could do it smart — document everything, build a file, push it through legal channels. But she didn’t realize who she was circling.”

“Did you?” you prompt, earning a casual glare from Barnes.

Ernie hesitates. “She… she met with someone. Not often. Once, maybe twice. He never gave a name. Government type. Not local. Steve asked me about her meeting spots. I told him the guy drove a dark town car and never got out when he picked her up. Like he didn’t want to be seen with her.”

“What else?” Barnes presses.

“He wasn’t the only one watching her. I saw a second car tailing them once. Plates were swapped. Military decals. I told Steve and he got this look… like he already knew. Or was afraid he was right.”

“And then?” you ask.

Ernie shrugs. “He left. Said he had one more conversation to have before he dropped it.”

You and Barnes both freeze.

Barnes speaks, voice flat. “He said that to me too.”

“I didn’t hear from him again,” Ernie says. “Didn’t know what happened until it was too late. Didn’t want to know, if I’m being honest.”

You study Ernie’s face — the guilt, the years weighing on him. You know that look. You’ve seen it in your own mirror.

“It never stops mattering,” you say softly.

He looks at you.

“What?”

“The thing you didn’t say. The thing you could’ve done. Doesn’t matter if it would’ve helped or not. You still carry it. Every day. Every time you look at your reflection or the hole someone left behind.”

Ernie goes quiet.

Barnes does too.

You’re not even sure why you said it like that. Maybe because it’s true. Maybe because you know what it’s like to feel like you’re five minutes late to the moment that mattered.

Ernie finally nods toward a shelf. “There’s a box under that cabinet. Steve left it with me. Said not to open it unless someone came looking for him. I kept it. Couldn’t bring myself to toss it.”

You retrieve the box. It’s small. Heavy. Unlabeled.

“Thanks,” Barnes says, already turning away.

You nod. “For what it’s worth… you did more than most.”

“Yeah,” Ernie mutters. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

---

The box sits between you and Barnes on the center console like it might explode. Small. Heavy. Unlabeled. A presence all its own.

He hasn’t touched it since Ernie handed it over. Just let it sit there like a bomb someone else might defuse. He’s staring out the windshield, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

You sip your terrible gas station coffee. Bitter. Burned. Just enough to keep your mouth busy while you try to figure out what to say next.

Five seconds of silence pass. Then ten. Then twenty.

You cave.

“So… are we gonna open it, or are we pretending we’re on a stakeout with an incredibly tense paperweight?”

Nothing.

“Seriously,” you prod. “Is this a brooding exercise, or are you waiting for it to hatch?”

Still no response. Not even a twitch. The silence from him is so practiced it almost feels cruel.

You sigh and reach for the latch. His voice slices through the air, low and sharp.

"Don’t touch it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Pretty sure Ernie gave it to both of us."

His glare cuts over, cool and lethal. But you hold it. Don’t flinch.

Finally, he moves. Opens the latch himself, slow and deliberate, like it costs him. The lid creaks. The contents inside are aged but carefully packed: a black spiral notebook, an old precinct group photo, a flash drive in a cracked case, a manila folder labeled A.T., and a faded sticky note, curled at the edges.

Barnes stares at it.

You lean in. “What does it say?”

He doesn’t answer. Just picks it up and hands it to you like it burns.

The note reads: Check shift logs. Nov 2. Cross-ref 721-B. Red ink = wrong name.

You frown. “What’s 721-B?”

“Old witness form template,” he mutters. “Filed in cold cases before the department went digital.”

You flip the note over. Nothing else.

“So Steve thought one of the original witness names was fake.”

“He knew it,” Barnes mutters.

“And this was his backup plan? A breadcrumb trail?”

He nods, jaw tight. “He thought someone would care.”

You glance at him. “You mean you.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.

You reach into the box and pull out the notebook. The cover is soft from use, corners bent, the spiral a little rusted. You flip through it — Steve’s handwriting, neat and compulsive. Names, arrows, dates, short phrases, and patterns that loop back in on themselves like he was trying to catch something too slippery to hold.

“He was building something,” you murmur. “Trying to reconstruct her last few weeks. Clients, locations, conversations. He’s got a dozen entries for ‘H.M.’ and ‘S-26.’”

Barnes leans in slightly, reading over your shoulder.

“H.M. is probably Harold Marks,” he says. “Avery’s last known client. Worked private security. Got stabbed three days before she vanished. Refused to press charges.”

You glance at him. “How do you remember that?”

“I don’t,” he says. “Steve did.”

There’s a bitterness in his voice that cuts deeper than you expect. Guilt woven through every word.

You shut the notebook. Let the weight of it rest in your lap.

“You know,” you say lightly, “this whole thing would go a lot faster if you stopped treating me like a stranger who wandered into your grief party.”

His head snaps toward you. “This isn’t a party.”

“No kidding.” You meet his eyes. “But you’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone. And I’m not here to steal your tragedy. I’m here because Sam asked me to be. Because something about this case doesn’t add up. And maybe — just maybe — Steve trusted you enough to think you’d know what to do with this. But he didn’t lock it in a vault. He left it with a guy who sells bolts by the pound. That doesn’t scream ‘classified.’ That screams ‘findable.’ Eventually.”

He stares at the windshield again. Long inhale. Like the air tastes different now.

Then, “You’re loud.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated. Guess we’re even.”

His mouth twitches — barely — but it’s there. The first crack in the wall.

You pause.

“Sam put us together for a reason, you know. I talk. You glower. Classic partner setup.”

He glances at you sideways. Not quite a glare. Almost amusement. Almost.

“This isn’t some good cop/bad cop shit.”

You shrug. “That’s fine. I prefer chaotic good and emotionally repressed.”

He gives you a confused look.

You beam. “We’re gonna work great together.”

He sighs a long sigh.

"Sure, Rookie."

Your nose wrinkles at the name, but you let it slide. For now.

At least it's better than Crash.

You tap the sticky note. “November second. That’s two days before Avery’s missing persons report was filed.”

He pulls the manila folder out of the box. Opens it. Inside: photocopies of old witness statements, interview transcripts, surveillance stills, and a printed street map with five addresses circled.

“That’s her apartment,” he says, pointing. “The other four? No clue.”

He flips to another page. You see Steve’s handwriting again.

Only one witness testified. Two people reported the incident. Second report vanished. Name mismatch. File logged at 4:17 a.m. by ‘S. Barnes.’ I wasn’t on shift.

Your stomach twists.

“Someone forged your name?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

He leans back in his seat, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer’s written in the liner.

Taking a deep breath, you finally ask the question that's been plaguing you since Sam's office this morning.

“What really went down that night you guys got hit?”

His voice is quieter now. Raw. “It wasn’t just a hit. It was scripted.”

You frown. “Scripted how?”

“The call came through dispatch like any other. Said there was a lead on one of our cases. Attached to a real case number — one that had already been closed.”

You feel the chill start to settle in your spine.

“We didn’t know it was fake,” he says. “Whoever set it up had clearance. Routed it through our precinct. Scrubbed the logs afterward. Picked a location with no cameras. No comms. No way to call for backup.”

“And backup didn’t know you were out there.”

He nods. “By the time they showed up, it was just me. Steve was already gone. And the place was clean — like someone came through right after to erase whatever trace they could.”

You exhale slowly. Your hands feel too tight around your coffee cup.

“And right before that,” you say, “Steve told you he had one more conversation to have.”

“He wouldn’t say with who. Just said it wasn’t solid. Didn’t want to jinx it.”

You nod. “And then…”

You don’t say the rest. You don’t have to.

He lost more than his arm that night.

The quiet stretches long again. Then you speak, voice soft but firm.

“You think this lead — the fake witness — that’s what got him killed?”

“I think someone didn’t want him following it,” he says. “And they made sure he couldn’t.”

You glance at the box again. At the map. At the tangled list of clues.

Then back to him.

“How deep does this go?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you both already know — it’s not just about what happened to Avery Thompson.

It’s who’s still making sure no one ever finds out.

[darksturnioloqueen]

Sadistic!Matt x Belt

**This Fic Series will NOT be for people with triggers. This Fic Series will have very descriptive moments of Sadism.**

Sadistic (Sadism - The Act Of Being Sadistic)

Deriving (getting) pleasure from inflicting (causing) pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.

Please Read At Your Own Risk.

⚠︎Trigger Warning: dark web, girl getting cut, blood, getting edged, buying a submissive, getting hit with a belt (obvi), some rough fuckery, lastly being choked unconscious with (you guessed it) a belt⚠︎

Matt was restless. He couldn't take it anymore. He needed to find something to help with the constant images flashing through his mind. He had been watching basic porn for the past hour. He slowly became erect, and then he fell flaccid again. After repeating this process enough times, he knew that the fake moans were not going to suffice. He opened his laptop and sat down bare-ass on the seat. He turned on his VPN blocker and connected his headphones. With his headphones on, he opened up his special browser. He typed in the one-time use code to allow access for thirty minutes. He was in. The dark web. He was no stranger on here. He went to his favorite porn site. It wasn't basic. He clicked on what was happening live right now. A girl tied to the bed. She was terrified. He felt himself twitch. He sat back and got more comfortable. A man in all black appeared, and the girl started screaming. Matt grew harder. He had a knife and lightly touched her thigh. Matt could feel flutters rush to his tip, swelling his penis. He wrapped his hand around it and started stroking it.

"Please, no. Stop!" She begged and cried. Matt pumped harder. The man with the knife used the pointed tip to cut a small seam into her breast. The blood ran down her chest. She screamed in excruciating pain and fear.

"Fuck." Matt's head flung back as he listened to her terrified cries. He could feel his orgasm reaching its peak. He needed more, though. "Fucking cut her." He yelled at the screen. His headphones amplified her pain in his ears. "Yes." He pumped himself hard. He was almost there. He looked at the screen, and just as the man raised the knife to cut her again, it timed out. "Are you fucking kidding me!?" He slammed his fist down on the desk. It was his own setting he coded into the program to make him more challenging to detect. But here it was, ruining his perfect orgasm. He sighed and felt himself start to go limp. "Edged. How wonderful." He muttered. He clicked back on and scrolled, trying to find the live stream he just had, but it was already gone. He received a message. It was from the creator of the livestream. It was a link to a dark web forum. He knew he didn't have to hesitate because his computer was completely safe from any potential hacking or tracking. Besides, if someone hunted him down, he'd be excited about it. Finally, getting to hurt someone would probably relieve the build-up he just made inside his balls.

He clicked the link, repositioned his headphones, and watched the page load. It contained several profiles, but there wasn't much context as to what the profiles were for. He clicked a random girl with long, sleek black hair. Her stats made it seem as if she was a model. He clicked another one, a different girl with the same layout. He scrolled all the way down to the bottom of the page.

"In submission, there is power."

His eyes widened, and he realized what he had just been sent. This was a page for paid submissives. He started looking at the profiles harder. None of them really appealed to him. Of course, he liked his girls petite and easy to dominate. He kept clicking profile after profile. Some of them were really expensive, and others were so cheap that he wondered how clean they would even be. He grew tired of trying to find his perfect girl and decided to pick one he didn't care about. After all, wasn't he just going to torture her anyway? He then changed his thinking and looked for the opposite girl to his taste. There you were, all pink and lacey. He hated it. He clicked your profile and smirked. "Stupid bows." His judgment was based on the fact he felt like it was all just for show. No one dressed or looked like this in their daily life on purpose. He clicked the purchase button. There were several ways to purchase you. He clicked on the credit card option and prepaid. He felt himself twitch. He was excited to be the guy with the knife from the livestream. His message bar pinged.

When do you want to meet up?

He was surprised that your response was almost immediate. His fingers tapped his keys without typing. He wasn't really sure how to answer.

Now?

He waited for your response, hoping it was what he wanted to hear.

Brixton Hotel Room 238

Matt jumped up and grabbed his jeans, which still had the belt looped through them. He didn't care that they had already been worn for the day. He was going to need them off when he was with you anyway. He drove to the hotel with his anticipation growing along with his nerves. He knew the dynamic a dominate and a submissive had, but that wasn't him. That wasn't what he wanted, what he needed. As he neared the hotel door, he tried to figure out how to explain his intentions. He knocked on the door. Once you opened the door and he looked at you, his apprehension disappeared. Your hair was down and wavy. You had taken them out after the last guy tugged on them and ruined their sleekness. Matt stepped in and closed the door. He turned to see you sitting on the bed, waiting for his direction.

"So you just do anything I want?" he asked, wanting to make sure this wasn't some sick prank or, worse, a setup.

"Yes." You nodded slightly. He walked over and stood before you, taking your stature in. You were the perfect size for him to dominate.

"Take it all off." You stood up and were inches in front of him. You stripped everything off. You looked up at him. This guy was different, as you could see. He was younger than most, possibly your age. He didn't look like he knew what he was doing, but looked like he knew what he wanted. It was attractive. "Bend over the bed." His voice was cold. Something was flipping in him. The control was starting to taste good. You bent over the bed, bracing yourself for his penetration.

Thwack.

Your toes curled, and you arched your back.

"Oh my god." You yelled out. You looked back to see him with his dick in his hand. In his other hand, he held the leather belt once looped in his now discarded jeans. He flicked his hair to the side and smirked.

"Back down." You were wet. The sting from the belt slapping your bare skin was tingling your clit. You happily laid back on the bed. Now, knowing what to expect, you bit your lip, already wanting to moan.

Thwack. Thumbp.

He smacked you twice this time.

"Agh fuck." You heard him moaning. You were starting to understand he liked it rough. You were excited about this time—finally, someone to understand what you wanted.

"Are you just going to hit me?" You asked. It wasn't very submissive of you, but you could tell he wasn't following basic rules either. He was different.

"No." He pressed up against you on the bed's edge and slipped into you with ease. He was taken aback by how wet you were. Instead of being distracted, he grabbed your hair and shoved your face down into the mattress. It was hard to breathe. You moaned, muffled by the fabric being sucked into your mouth. He started thrusting into you. He felt different. He felt better than the others. Maybe it was because you were wet this time, but either way, he felt good.

"Oh god." You immediately felt terrible for being loud. You aren't supposed to be loud.

"Louder," he demanded. You gave him what he wanted. He groaned and pulled your head up. "On the bed." You crawled on the bed, and he rested his knees on the mattress to align in the perfect doggy-style position. He let go of your hair, and you let your head fall.

"Harder." You begged. You wanted him to hurt you. He rammed his hips into yours and gripped your sides, pushing and pulling your body opposite of his to make the collision hurt more.

"Fuck!" He yelled out. This was better than any porn he could have watched tonight. There was only one thing missing: more pain. He needed to hurt you. He didn't have a knife, but he had his belt. There was no way he could smack you with it in this close proximity. He grabbed the belt in his hand and slowed his thrusting to focus on the metal clasp.

"Wha -" You barely turned around to see what he was doing before you felt something choke the words before they could form. It tightened and constricted your air. Your neck was tugged backward to force you to look at the same ceiling you looked at earlier.

"Fucking choke." He demanded. You made involuntary gurgle noises as the last little breath came squeezing out. He continued to pound into you while your body started going limp; the only thing holding you up was the leather necklace he made for you. You felt it. Your body shivered, and your walls released all the cum building up. Matt felt your body's pulse and followed. As soon as he was done filling you up with his enormous load, he let go of the belt, but it was too late. Your head was fuzzy, and you fell onto the mattress, deprived of oxygen. Matt, unsure of what he had just done, put his clothes on and left you lying there.

[keisgirl]

hii! its my birthday today so i was wondering if you could whip up a oneshot story of a f!reader x kenma, ill leave the plot to youuu, but i love physical affection and words of affirmation, aaand i LOVE cats,, again ill leave everything to ya, thank you!!♡

HI UM HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY IM SOSOSOSOSOOSSO SORRY CAUSE I WAS ON VACA AND MY VPN STOPPED WORKING 😭😭😭

hope you had an amazing day and kenma loves you smsmsm ❤️‍🩹😝

it was your birthday, but honestly, you felt like you were celebrating kenma more than yourself. he was curled up on the couch, looking like a lazy cat, his phone in hand as his gaze lazily flickered over the screen. you sat nearby, surrounded by birthday cards and gifts, but your attention was entirely on him.

“what’s wrong?” kenma’s voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur, but he wasn’t even looking at you, already sensing the shift in the air.

“nothing,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “just... thinking about how much i love you.”

he didn’t even lift his head, but his lips quirked up slightly. “i know.” his voice was flat, but there was warmth there, too. “you’re annoying, but i love you too.”

you laughed, reaching out to mess with his hair. “so affectionate,” you teased.

kenma’s eyes flicked over to you for a split second, and for the briefest moment, you caught a soft look in his gaze. “i’m here because i want to be. it’s your birthday, but... i’d be here anyway,” he said, almost like it was a secret.

your heart did that fluttering thing again. “you’re really here with me on my birthday?” you asked, leaning in a little closer to him, feeling all the warmth he gave off.

he shifted, sitting up and moving his phone out of the way. “yeah, of course.” his voice was low, but sincere. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he reached out then, his hand finding your cheek, his thumb brushing over it like he was memorizing the way you felt. “happy birthday,” he said, almost shyly, his words like a soft purr.

you smiled, a little breathless from the tenderness of his touch. “kenma...” you whispered, your heart pounding.

“stop looking at me like that,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning a light pink, but he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours.

you felt the steady beat of his heart, and everything around you seemed to fade. it was just the two of you, close and quiet. you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slow, like he was savoring it. when you pulled away, you couldn’t help but smile. “you’re like a cat, kenma,” you said, teasing a little. “always quiet, always close when it matters.”

he rolled his eyes, but there was a soft, affectionate smile on his lips. “i’m not a cat.”

“you totally are,” you giggled, your fingers tracing his jaw gently. “always curling up, always purring when you’re happy.”

kenma’s eyes softened, and for once, he didn’t deny it. “guess i can’t argue with that,” he mumbled, and you both just sat there for a while, enjoying the quiet.

eventually, he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer to his side. you snuggled in, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. you could hear his breathing, slow and even, as he held you, content and close.

“happy birthday,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, his cheek resting on your head.

you smiled, completely at peace in his arms. “thanks, kenma. i’m glad you’re here.”

“me too,” he said quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “me too.”

[sgiandubh]

The Couple Next Door - a very, very short overview and my 50 cents, in the process

With as little spoilers as possible. My first plan was to make a post per episode, but I quickly realized that would be useless (so much talking, already, plus a very plethoric press ) and risky (the more you write about it, the less able you are to avoid spoiling it and no, that is not this page's editorial line). You will have to do with this short review, instead.

This is the story of a botched swinger coupling experiment, somewhere in the middle of a non-descript, Truman Show-esque Midlands suburbia. Where nothing is what it seems to be and curtains always flutter for a reason. Adjacent storylines complement this sexy & risqué core, which I personally found more interesting than S puffing and panting on top of Tomlinson. Corruption, life crisis situations, lost late pregnancies, a hidden child, bigot parents looking not unlike Grant Wood's American Gothic odd couple (especially the mother, enough spoiling it), voyeurism and privacy violations - this is a LOT to take in. With a bit more tact when it comes to script writing (sometimes things are really in your face and almost didactic: never a good thing), it could have been BAFTA material. It is not, and no, Disgruntled Tumblrettes - not because of S, but because of numerous plot holes, useless plot devices that could have been gags but totally miss the mark (walking little old lady, anyone?) and an overall superficial approach. It's like trying to cram half a dressing into a carry on: burst at the seams it will or you will end up with odd bits and pieces that do not necessarily make sense.

So if you set your bar very high or are poised to watch it in contempt, this is not going to be fun at all. If you have no expectations and also no idea about the rest of the cast, you will find it interesting and enjoyable. I personally think Enoch is a perfect cast, as is the very intelligent Jessica de Gouw: she knows how it's done and she knows where and especially when to stop. Tomlinson, eh - not so much. I have zero idea about how she fared in Poldark, but here I found her inattentive, formulaic and totally cliché. She has some good intuitions, but she fails to deliver, especially at the end. So, that's a 4/10 for me.

Now for S, as I am sure you are all interested to know. After all, this is why I even bothered watching and getting a paid VPN for it. I will say only this: there is a before Episode 3 and an after Episode 3, by far superior. You'll get my point when you watch it. It's not OL, but thank Heavens, it's not Where the Starlight Ends, either. With all the indulgence in the world, I'd say 8,5/10 - not his fault, the script was brutal to Danny ('Take a good look' is a major, MAJOR eyeroll and it did make me spit my Coke). Also, that intergalactic arse makes it on screen for about 5 minutes, which is nothing- so long for Mordor's honest reviews. Last but not least: he tried, bless his heart, to help Eleanor, but to no avail. Sorry.

The most interesting secondary storyline is Alan's, by far. The press shite - meh, that was there just to give Enoch's character a job, I suppose. And the child - it left me completely hungry and there was definitely room for more.

Rewatch? Christ, no.

Overall? a solid 7/10.

Recommend? not to my mum, but to my best -offline shipper- friend, for sure. She'll watch for S and we'll cackle over the phone.

Potential springboard? I hope so, but he still needs a real, well written role. This is decently good, but still not good enough to showcase what I know he is perfectly able to deliver.

Home eye candy takeaway? Oh, come on, the one involving this item:

I mean, what is more sexy than a bear of a man carrying a washing machine like I would carry my purse?

[maroon-book-dragon]

I'm often skeptical of these kinds of things that flutter around on social media, because of how outrageous they seem. I don't want to contribute to the echo chamber by reblogging false information. That doesn't help the causes I stand for.

However, this time it's real. The censorship, at least from the US end, is legitimate. I don't have a VPN to test the claim that it is available in Australia but the most important part, that users cannot search for "donald trump rigged election" on TikTok, is correct.

I don't have the mental energy right now to delve into what this means for our country. All I know is that this is a very ominous beginning to a presidency that already strikes fear into many people in the country that it is supposed to serve.

oh my god...

so the first screenshot is trying to look this up on tiktok normally, "donald trump rigged election" and it says that search violates community guidelines.

the second screenshot is looking up the same exact thing, but with a (australian) vpn on. canadian vpn didn't fix it fyi.

THIS is exactly the type of censorship to be looking out for on tiktok. this actually is crazy.

[braininventoryusa]

Hire Remote Developers in India from Brain Inventory for Global-Standard Digital Solutions

In today’s digital-first world, businesses are expanding their development teams beyond geographic limitations. With access to global talent and increased flexibility, the remote hiring model has become a strategic choice for startups and enterprises alike. If you’re looking to enhance productivity, cut costs, and deliver high-quality solutions, the smartest move is to hire remote developers India.

India has firmly established itself as a global tech powerhouse, offering a rich pool of highly skilled software developers. At Brain Inventory, we make remote hiring seamless, secure, and scalable. Whether you need developers for frontend, backend, full-stack, or mobile app development, our team ensures results that align with your vision and goals.

 Why Should You Hire Remote Developers in India from Brain Inventory?

1. Highly Skilled & Experienced Talent Pool

Our remote developers bring strong technical expertise in technologies like React, Angular, Node.js, Laravel, Python, PHP, Flutter, and more – ready to handle complex, cross-functional projects.

2. Cost-Effective Without Compromising Quality

When you hire dedicated remote developers, you gain access to world-class development at a fraction of the cost compared to hiring locally in the US, UK, or Europe.

3. Timezone Compatibility for Smooth Collaboration

Our teams work in flexible shifts to match your business hours, ensuring clear communication and round-the-clock productivity.

4. Agile and Scalable Development Teams

Need to scale up or down quickly? Brain Inventory provides remote developers on-demand, offering flexibility in hiring models to suit your project scope and budget.

5. Transparent Communication and Real-Time Updates

We believe in complete transparency – our developers maintain regular updates, task tracking, and collaboration through project management tools like JIRA, Slack, and Trello.

6. Secure, Compliant, and Confidential

From secure VPN access to signing NDAs, we protect your intellectual property and ensure 100% data confidentiality throughout the development lifecycle.

🚀 Conclusion

Hiring remote developers in India is no longer just a cost-saving strategy – it’s a smart business decision. With Brain Inventory, you can build a global tech team that delivers excellence, drives innovation, and stays aligned with your business goals.

If you’re looking to hire remote developers in India, trust Brain Inventory to provide vetted professionals, seamless onboarding, and high-performance outcomes.

👉 Ready to scale your team remotely? Hire dedicated remote developers from Brain Inventory and transform your project success.

[krunal-vyas]

Hire Dedicated Developers in India: A 2025 Guide

The shift to remote work has transformed how businesses build and scale their software development teams. If you’re looking to hire dedicated developers in India, you’re tapping into one of the world’s largest and most skilled IT talent pools. Indian software engineers offer expertise in cutting-edge technologies at highly competitive costs, making offshore development teams a strategic choice for businesses worldwide.

This guide explores remote work trends in 2025, why companies prefer outsourcing software development to India, the benefits and challenges of remote hiring, and how to build a successful offshore team.

By the end, you’ll understand how IT outsourcing in India can drive innovation and efficiency for your business.

The Evolution of Remote Work

1. How Technology Has Enabled Remote Work:

Remote software development has flourished due to advancements in:

Cloud Computing: Platforms like AWS, Google Cloud, and Microsoft Azure enable secure and scalable remote operations.

Virtual Collaboration Tools: Slack, Zoom, Microsoft Teams, and Asana enhance seamless team communication.

Enhanced Cybersecurity: VPNs, multi-factor authentication (MFA), and encrypted data storage protect sensitive information across distributed teams.

2. The Impact of COVID-19 on Remote Hiring:

The pandemic accelerated global adoption of remote work, forcing businesses to rethink traditional hiring practices. Key takeaways:

Companies realized the benefits of hiring globally without geographical constraints.

Remote and hybrid work models became the new norm.

The demand for remote developers for hire, especially in tech hubs like India, increased significantly.

3. The Shift to Distributed Teams:

The rise of offshore development teams has led to:

Cost savings on office infrastructure and operational expenses.

A broader talent pool with access to niche skill sets.

Continuous development cycles across different time zones.

Why Hire Dedicated Developers from India?

1. A Vast and Skilled IT Talent Pool:

India produces over 1.5 million engineering graduates annually, with top-tier talent emerging from institutions like IITs, NITs, and IIITs. Indian developers specialize in:

AI, blockchain, cloud computing, cybersecurity

Full-stack development and DevOps

Mobile and web application development

2. Cost-Effectiveness:

Cost of hiring developers in India is significantly lower than in the US or Europe, often 50–70% cheaper, without compromising on quality. Companies also save on office space, benefits, and infrastructure.

3. Time Zone Advantage in Outsourcing:

With India operating in GMT+5:30, businesses benefit from round-the-clock development cycles and real-time collaboration with teams in North America, Europe, and APAC.

4. Strong English Proficiency:

Indian software engineers rank high in global English proficiency, ensuring smooth communication with international clients.

5. Thriving IT Ecosystem:

India is home to global IT giants like TCS, Infosys, Wipro, and HCL, as well as a flourishing startup ecosystem, making it a preferred destination for IT staffing solutions.

Key Benefits of Hiring Dedicated Developers from India

1. Scalability & Flexibility:

Scale teams up or down based on project needs.

No long-term hiring commitments, reducing risks.

2. Access to a Diverse Tech Stack:

Indian developers excel in multiple technologies, including:

Front-end: React, Angular, Vue.js

Back-end: Node.js, Python, Java, C++

Mobile: Swift, Kotlin, Flutter

Cloud & DevOps: AWS, Kubernetes, Docker

3. Reduced Overhead Costs:

No office rent, equipment costs, or employee benefits.

Competitive rates while maintaining top-tier quality.

4. Increased Productivity:

Dedicated development team benefits include focused, agile-driven work.

Faster time-to-market with optimized workflows.

Challenges & Solutions in Remote Hiring

1. Time Zone Differences:

Solution: Establish overlapping work hours and use tools like Jira and Trello for real-time collaboration.

2. Communication Barriers:

Solution: Implement structured stand-ups, weekly check-ins, and comprehensive documentation.

3. Finding the Right Talent:

Solution: Use trusted hiring platforms like Upwork, Toptal, and Clutch, or collaborate with leading Indian IT outsourcing firms.

4. Security & IP Protection:

Solution: Sign NDAs, use encrypted cloud storage, and enforce strict access control measures.

How to Hire Dedicated Developers in India

1. Define Your Project Requirements:

Outline the tech stack and experience level required.

Decide between full-time, part-time, or contract-based developers.

2. Choose the Right Hiring Model:

Direct Hiring: Best for long-term projects.

Outsourcing Companies: Ideal for managed services.

Staff Augmentation: Great for short-term or specialized projects.

3. Best Platforms to Find Remote Software Developers in India:

Freelance Portals: Upwork, Freelancer, Toptal.

IT Outsourcing Firms: Infosys, TCS, Accenture India.

Job Portals: LinkedIn, Naukri, Glassdoor.

4. Interview & Vet Candidates:

Conduct coding tests and behavioral interviews.

Evaluate problem-solving skills and communication abilities.

5. Set Up Communication & Collaboration Tools:

Use Slack, Zoom, Microsoft Teams for seamless communication.

Manage code repositories with GitHub, Bitbucket.

The Future of Remote Work & Offshore Development

1. Trends Shaping the Future:

Remote work trends in 2025 indicate global hiring will continue to rise.

AI and automation will further streamline remote workforce management.

2. AI & Automation in Remote Work:

AI-driven tools will enhance project tracking and performance monitoring.

Smart hiring platforms will optimize talent matching.

3. Predictions for the Next Decade:

More businesses will integrate remote developers for hire into their core operations.

Offshore hiring will become a mainstream strategy for global tech companies.

Conclusion:

Hiring dedicated developers in India provides businesses with a skilled, cost-effective, and scalable workforce for software development. With expertise in AI, cloud computing, full-stack development, and cybersecurity, Indian developers offer world-class solutions while significantly reducing operational costs, making offshore hiring a strategic advantage.

Looking to build a high-performing remote software development team? iQlance connects businesses with top-tier Indian software engineers for seamless offshore collaboration. Contact us today to start hiring your dedicated team!

[williamsmith12]

How to Hire and Manage Remote Mobile App Development Teams: A Strategic Guide

In today's digital landscape, remote work has revolutionized mobile app development, offering access to a global talent pool and enhanced flexibility. This blog provides actionable insights on hiring and managing remote teams effectively, leveraging custom mobile app development services, and selecting the right custom mobile app development company.

1. Define Your Project Needs: Start by outlining your project requirements, including objectives, timeline, budget, and technology stack preferences. Determine if you need specialized custom mobile app development services tailored to your app's unique features and functionalities.

2. Choose the Right Hiring Platform: Utilize reputable platforms like LinkedIn, Upwork, or industry-specific job boards to find and hire mobile app developers with the required skills and experience. Look for candidates who have expertise in technologies such as Swift, Kotlin, React Native, or Flutter.

3. Screen Candidates Thoroughly: During the hiring process, evaluate candidates based on technical proficiency, previous projects, and remote work experience. Conduct virtual interviews to assess communication skills and cultural fit with your team and custom mobile app development company.

4. Establish Clear Communication Channels: Effective communication is crucial for remote teams. Set up regular video conferences, use collaboration tools like Slack or Microsoft Teams for daily updates, and ensure transparency in project management and progress tracking.

5. Define Roles and Responsibilities Clearly: Clarify roles, responsibilities, and expectations from the outset. Document workflows, project milestones, and deadlines to ensure alignment among team members and with custom mobile app development services.

6. Foster Collaboration and Team Building: Promote a sense of camaraderie and teamwork among remote developers through virtual team-building activities, knowledge sharing sessions, and collaborative problem-solving. Encourage regular feedback and open communication channels.

7. Monitor Performance and Provide Feedback: Establish key performance indicators (KPIs) to track individual and team performance. Provide constructive feedback regularly to improve productivity and ensure quality deliverables from your custom mobile app development company.

8. Ensure Security and Data Privacy: Implement robust security measures to protect sensitive data and intellectual property. Use secure communication channels, VPNs for remote access, and adhere to industry standards to maintain confidentiality with hire mobile app developers.

Conclusion: By following these strategies and leveraging custom mobile app development services and hire mobile app developers, businesses can effectively manage remote mobile app development teams. Embrace the benefits of remote work while fostering a collaborative and productive environment that drives success in mobile app projects.

[iqos-heets]

Nerd VPN Nulled 4.1 Flutter VPN App for Android with IAP Sick of dealing with complicated VPNs? ...

[filetheme]

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[imomomi]

  A Long Time Coming  

Summary: Miya Atsumu was a missed chance. But, it doesn’t have to be that way...

Word Count: 1762

Warnings: Slight Language

         “Get your feet off the desk,” you say, kicking the back Miya Atsumu’s chair. His brother—the twin that everyone says is the better of the two, but curses and fights just as much—snorts with laughter.

           “Oy, don’t touch me, ya scrub.”

           “Sit properly then. You might be okay with eating dirt, but I ain’t.”

           “Miss Goody-two-shoes,” he mocks. Heat rises to your neck, but you don’t bother responding. For as long as you’ve known the twins, any chance to disrupt class is readily taken. You’re already tired, having stayed up late studying for an exam later on in the day and the idea of fighting with Atsumu is exhausting. He glances over his shoulder, eyes hot on your face before he turns with a sigh.

           “You know,” he mutters, head falling into the palm of his hand. His gaze is heavy, lids blinking with a deliberate slowness that has you holding back a shudder, “You’d be a lot more interesting if you actually put up a fight, Y/N-chan.”

           “I don’t care about your opinion, Miya-san.”

           He grins, leaning close enough that you can smell the mix of laundry detergent and crisp, cologne coming from him. Osamu scoffs quietly, but doesn’t look away from his bento.

           “That’s why I like ya,” he says. You don’t like how he says it. It’s too sincere and earnest for a boy who frequently lies to you. Frustrated you roll up your notes and smack him on the head with it. Eager to escape the too-small classroom, you stand up, digging for some coins. He shouts the name of his favorite tea brand as you leave, but you pretend not to hear it.

           You don’t want to be pulled in the Miya’s circle—Atsumu’s circle because you know that years in the future, it’s him who’s going to be on T.V. doing that ridiculous pre-serve ritual. It’s better to avoid him now, than to have to forget him then.

           Crying is the last thing you expect to do on graduation day, but the tears are heavy and keep flowing despite you’re attempts at quelling them. Mitsu and Hana are lost in the crowd, calming down their nervous juniors who declare that they’ll keep the cheer team running seamlessly in honor of them.

           “Why the hell are you crying?” Atsumu asks. He leans back, looking at you with a mixture of confusion and disgust. A watery laugh leaves your mouth and for once, you can admit to being glad to see him.

           “I’m going abroad,” you explain, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. A streak of black follows that has you snorting at the idea of waterproof mascara.

           “Shit, really?”  

           “Yeah. Got into university in the US. You’ll have to find someone else to bother while I’m gone,” you say with a smile that falls flat in an instant.

           Atsumu rubs the back of his head, eyes boring into your face. You don’t have the courage to meet his gaze head on.

           He pulls you close and traps you between his arms. You stand shell-shocked, arms hanging awkwardly by your side at the hug. Atsumu’s chin falls onto of your head. Skin itchy, tears pricking behind your eyelids, you swallow hard. You don’t have a name to this feeling that you’ve spent the past two years denying, but you know what it is. The warmth crawling through your chest blossoms. You want to be brave and rash like he is, but Atsumu is chasing his dreams without a care of the people he leaves behind. He makes you feel small for wanting to latch on and never let go.

           “Don’t complain. I’m just gonna miss you, you stupid idiot,” he says, pulling away. He rests his hands on your shoulder and for a moment you’re worried he’s going to try and kiss you. His eyes rack your face, committing it to memory. If it’s the last time he sees you, he wants to remember how ugly you look with mascara streaming down your face and cheeks blotchy from crying.

           “You really need to work on your vocabulary, that’s redundant.” You pull his hands from your shoulders and walk away. He watches you go, wondering for the first time exactly what it was that you wanted to do. He’d never asked before. Volleyball was as much a passion as it was an obsession. He knew he was an asshole and selfish to the bone. It’d always been a far-fetched hope that you’d look his way.

           Osamu finds him a while later lingering by the school entrance, quieter than he’d ever been.

           “What’s wrong with you?”

           “Samu, I think I got rejected.”

           “Y/N? She’s too smart for you anyway.”

           “Shut up, you lazy scrub.”

           “Don’t yell at me for telling you the truth, jerk,” Osamu shouts. The back of his hand connects with Atsumu’s head, the familiar sting is a welcome relief from the odd tightening in his chest.

           The court is already packed by the time you make it in. Ticket held tightly in your hand; you wonder if you have enough time to grab some food before the game starts. It’s been years since you’d watch a volleyball match live. The time difference often meant waking up at odd hours and using a VPN to get a stream straight from Japan. Nerves flutter in your stomach, but you know the chance of actually seeing Atsumu is low. Even if you did, your lives have been diverging for so long, there wouldn’t be anything to say.

           Deciding to take a chance at getting food---you haven’t had proper onigiri in so long that even half-assed attempts make your mouth water—you wait in line. Brows furrowing, you tilt your head at the sign in front of the stand. Miya Onigiri? Surely, Atsumu wasn’t bullish enough to go plastering his name on everything?

           “Y/N?” a voice greets as you near the front of the line. You can’t help but stare at Atsumu’s face—but it’s not him, too soft, too polite to be him.

           “Osamu?” you ask hesitantly.

           “What the hell? I have seen you in forever.” He jerks forward, almost as if he was going to hug you but the counter stops him from getting to far.

           “I just got back to Japan. I…This isn’t actually that surprising. You always did have the best bentos in class,” you say, smiling warmly. Osamu matches it. He looks down the line, eyes tightening in frustration at the number of people. He wants to catch up, wants to take a picture and send it Atsumu just to screw with him, but he has work to do.

           “What do you want? It’s on the house,” he asks.

           “That’s a bad way to run a business,” you scold, lightly.

           “If it was going to fail, it would have by now,” he counters, shoving a box of onigiri into your hand. You walk away, slightly stunned as his voice chases you demanding that you meet up after the match.

           If he was a goddamn scrub like Osamu or that loser Kageyama, he’d admit that the sight of you left him breathless. But, he’s not so what comes out of his mouth instead is:

           “Couldn’t stay away?”

           You nose crinkles and the sight sends a jolt through him. He feels like he’s back in high school, doing stupid shit just to grab your attention. He’s not lucky enough to know what you’ve done the past seven years, but you’ve probably seen all the dumb articles about him.

           “To be honest, I wanted to how an Olympic setter played in person,” you say, nodding towards Kageyama. Both of you know the words aren’t true, but he scowls anyway.

           “Stick around for a bit and I’ll show ya, sweetheart.”

           “Ugh, you haven’t changed a bit.”

           “I’d say the same, but you look like you’re at least a c-cup now.”

           He expects you to yell or pull your sweater tighter, but you throw your head back and laugh. The sound warms his blood, burrows into his hollow chest, and lingers there. It hadn’t been love, not even close to the thing, back in high school. There was always that slight chance, the idea that maybe he could love you that fascinated him.

           But now, he can’t look away, can’t shake the hope that tightens its grip on his heart. It’s worth all the waiting, all the frustrating time spent pretending that he didn’t care that he was alone just to have this chance. Before where there’d been a cold, unmovable wall, there’s a slight crack just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Maybe you didn’t even realize it, maybe it wouldn’t work but, you’d come here for a reason.

           “Are you staying?”

           “The game is over.”

           “In Japan, you idiot. I know the game’s over, I played in it.”

           “I know that,” you scowl, flushing fiercely, “and yes. I…I’m living in Tokyo.”

           “Good. Come out with me on Saturday,” he stops, looking you over once more and adds, “On a date.”

           “We haven’t seen each other in years,” you protest.

           “Come on, Y/N,” he whines, hands swinging in the air, “Can’t we just skip the whole friend’s part and get to the good stuff?”

           “I could have a boyfriend. You shouldn’t just assume, I’m available for you.”

           “Well, dump him.”

           “You’re insane. Honestly, get help. And don’t beg, it makes you look like more of a loser than usual.”

           “So yes? Or yes?”

           “I’ll think about it,” you tease. Atsumu’s done playing though and before you realize what’s happening, he’s pulled you close to him. Rough hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head up as he presses his lips against yours. It’s rough and too long to for a first kiss, but Atsumu’s reason flew out of his mind the moment he saw you. He’s drinking all of your movements, the small hand burrowing in his hair, the flingers clutching at this shirt, the way you tongue slips between his lips eager and all too fleeting as you pull away.

           “What?” asks Atsumu, wide-eyed. You point at Osamu behind him, whose busy wheezing with laughter as a child stood watching the two of you in disgust.

           “Awww man, why’d you have to go and ruin the moment?”

           “Pay attention to your fans, you disgusting pig.” Osamu says. The little boy is still there, pen hanging in his hands as he shyly offers the jersey.

[unholyhelbig]

Workplace au: Beca is a new software engineer at the office and is extremely quiet. She doesn’t participate in any office activities, happy hours, or parties. When she doesn’t go to a mandatory meeting management pulls in Chloe from HR (whose already noticed the pattern and is worried) to speak with her

A/N: It’s been a while! I’ve been working a lot, but I’m going to get back to writing. This is literally the 60th time I’ve written Bechloe! 

Read on Ao3 | Request prompts here 

Beca looked around the office through the thick lenses on her glasses. Whoever had summoned her here had a flare for comfort; there was a leather office chair with a fuzzy turquoise pillow. A vase of lilies sat at the edge of the wood next to photos that Beca couldn’t decide were family or friends. She scrutinized the smiling faces and tried haplessly to guess which one was running late to their own meeting.

Beca picked up one of the stress balls that were on the edge of the desk and gave it a squeeze. It was well worn, and practically putty in her hands. She flipped it over and read the advertisement for some dentist downtown before she set it down and lowered herself in the seat even further. Her stare found a gold plated name: CHLOE BEALE

It was embarrassing, being called to the marketing floor, like this. She cared about the interworking’s of their projects, not the shiny ads that they printed on the sides of buses, or the giant PR parties that quickly followed a new release. No one else in her department had been phoned, but they all watched as she walked, red-faced, to the elevator.

The door creaked open and she found herself straightening her posture with a heavy breath. She had no one to impress here, not a single person, but still- she wanted to make a solid impression. Maybe one with a firm handshake and a questioning stare.

“I am so sorry I’m late.” The woman spoke before showing her face. She set down a big mug of what looked like chocolate, or maybe Coffee that wasn’t actually coffee. Her features were shrouded with copper locks, barely tamed. She let a large stack of flyers hit the desk with a muted thump. “You’re probably confused. I would be too.”

The woman sat down in the chair and smiled brightly. She had soft features cut with startling blue eyes. It was a nice smile, Beca decided. She was confused, however, but mostly intrigued. “That’s okay,”

“I’m not very punctual. I put out the fires that are burning the fastest, you know?”

“Sure,” Beca shifted herself in the chair “Does that make me a fire?”

“Mmm, a sparkler, maybe. Controlled.”

A controlled fire, that was better than nothing. Beca hadn’t seen a title on this woman’s door. Maybe she was the supervisor for PR, or just in Human Resources. She was comfortable, taking a sip of her drink and then cringing away from the heat.

“That wasn’t the right way to start. You’re not a fire.” Chloe grimaced and pulled a file out of the bottom drawer of her desk “It looks like you’re the most talented coder on your floor. Graduated Yale with a 4.0, which is super impressive. You’re efficient, Beca.”

She lifted a brow at this. She knew all of this, she stayed late into the night to make sure that she had the best numbers in her quadrant, even if it did sacrifice most of her personal time. Even still, hearing her accomplishments come out of this woman’s mouth made her stomach flutter. She wished she hadn’t put the stress ball back.

“Thank you,” She said.

“On paper, you’re perfect.”

“And not on paper?”

She sighed and threw the file onto the desk without reading the rest. “Frankly, we’ve gotten a few complaints.”

What was that supposed to mean? Sure she kept to herself, often eating her lunch in the corner of the break room with her headphones in. Sometimes, if it was warm enough, she would sit in her car and flip through whatever book she had forgotten to haul back up to her apartment. But she never caused trouble.

“You missed the last meeting,” She tried gently “Which raised a couple of red flags.”

Beca scoffed and sat forward “It was about the Christmas party. It didn’t’ seem important. The app did.”

“The app could have waited.”

“Funny, considering the whole company depends on the newest technology possible. If you all would rather play pin the tail on the Hanukah Donkey, that’s fine.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and schooled her expression like she couldn’t feel her heart in her throat. The way Chloe stared at her could stop a train dead on its tracks. She still couldn’t’ read the expression, and maybe that was a little scarier than being able to.

“You’re determined, and I like you.”

“I’m sensing a but.”

“But this company is based on inclusion. We try to make sure that everyone feels welcome. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been invited to Happy Hour multiple times and you refuse every effort.”

“This is about my social life?”

“Lack thereof,”  

Beca leaned forward again, this time not hesitating to grab the neon yellow ball. She squeezed it twice without consequence. Chloe took three more gulps of her drink before pushing it to the side. She cupped her hands together as if to pray “people are concerned.”

“Well, they shouldn’t be. I like to keep to myself. It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t even go to birthday parties!”

“I didn’t know there were any.” She shot back.

“You’ve worked here for three years, Beca. Do people just not age?”

She smiled at that, but then let the grin drop to a scowl. This was about principle. The company that she worked for shouldn’t have a say in what she did after hours, because they already controlled what she did from 9 to 5.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Beca sighed heavily “I’m listening.”

Chloe grasped one of the flyers on the desk and slid it towards Beca. It was glossy and overdone. The background was a dark red with sharp gold writing. A masquerade ball to advertise the new VPN that they had been developing for months now. It was a little too on the nose.

“You have to come with me to this ball.”

“Do I, now?” She glanced up from the paper, stare heavy “Look, Chloe, even if I was into social interaction, which I’m not”

“Cleary.”

“I wouldn’t start dipping my toes in with a classy masquerade ball where all of these big execs are going to mix drinks. I don’t even think programmers are invited to these things.”

“Which is why you’re my plus one. I planned the entire thing. The way I figure it, if you can fake your way through one night of glam and glitz, you can at least pretend to like sharing cake in the break room.”

She let out a long sigh and squeezed the stress ball a few more times. The woman across from her was staring expectantly. Maybe she had been a little standoffish since she started here. Right now, she cursed herself for not agreeing to one drink every once and awhile.

“One night?”

Chloe nodded with exaggeration “One night, and we’ll never bother you again.”

Beca narrowed her eyes “I don’t have a dress.”

“I do.”

[itstittycitybaby]

From the Ashes We are Born (Part 5)

a/n: take fucking two of posting this bc tumblr likes to fuck me over djdjjdjd. something that always bothered me with evey is the fact she left V?? I get not wanting to be stuck with a stranger for an entire year but you were the one who maced the cop. you decided to do it not v. he did not ask u to. now v torturing her there's not rlly a jusitifed excuse even though i can see why but it's still not justified either way. anyways as always enjoy.

Summary: V is away tending to his daily anarchist duties, which leaves you facing the wake of a treacherous thunder storm alone! Fluff ensues.

a/n 2: oh my god. i finally got the fucking gifs to work. had to navigate back and forth i stg I'm gonna dethrone the Tumblr god.

The music from your phone played throughout the deafening silence of the gallery. The infamously known masked criminal had left the gallery to commit his “righteous duties”. That’s how your friend, V, put it anyways. London was weeping over its people, at least, that’s what V had said once he heard the rain slapping the roof. Why can’t he just say it’s pouring, you thought to yourself as V fluttered about the house. “Dramatic as always V,” you snickered as you stood there watching him preparing to leave. You had been staying in the Shadow Gallery for a few months now. You weren’t very stoked to having to stay here for a year, but you had to. After all, you had sealed your fate after macing that cop. Even though you were upset about having to be stuck here away from your paints and gaming consoles, you understood. It was your decision to save him, he hadn’t asked you too.

  V’s underground home was deadly quiet as he got ready. The playful aura and laughter was now gone. It felt lonely and cold, something you guessed V had felt before you arrived. “Hey V,” you asked, fidgeting with the flowy skirt you wore. “Yes?” The man in question picked up his notorious black hat and put it on top of his head. He smoothed his hair and turned to you after looking in the mirror once more. “C-can I,” you started, cheeks flushing a bright pink, “Can I have a hug?” You felt awkward as you stood there playing with your skirt. V didn’t say anything as he stared at you. The smiling mask was unsettling to look at with the awkward air and embarrassment you felt. “Y-y'know what, forget I asked,” you stammered, starting to turn before throwing a “good luck and goodbye” kinda thing. You heard him sigh. V wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to his chest. The scent of lemon and the smell of pine made you hum. Your arms snaked around his middle as you stood there, together in front of the T.V. You were thankful V couldn’t see your beet red face. His mask rested atop your head and you shivered at the rumble of his chest as he spoke. “Forgive me, I was taken aback is all.” You pulled away a bit looking at the eyes of his mask. “It’s alright, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” “Nonsense my dear, you have yet to do so.” Oh we definitely have a crush. You pulled away giving him a smile. “Be safe okay V? I mean it. If you come home almost dead on the porch again, so help me, your bullet wounds won’t be the thing killing you.” V laughed, the sound of it making your heart giddy. “Of course, mademoiselle.” The tension between the two you was thick, neither of you breaking eye contact. Feeling bold, you grasped V’s shoulder with your hand and stood on your tippy toes. “D-dove-,” he started. You interrupted him, though. Your soft lips placed themselves on the cheek of his mask. “A good luck charm,” you said softly as you pulled away. Giving V’s shoulder one last squeeze, you let him go. “I shall return soon,” V said as he left. You scolded him again about being reckless, and to be safe . Your heart sank as V’s echoing footsteps faded away leaving you standing alone and cold.

“ I love you baby , and if it’s quite alright I need you baby,” you sang as you grabbed the acrylic paint V had gotten for you. The clock read 1:54 on the wall while the rain continued to pour outside into the night. V had yet to return from doing god knows what in the streets. The smears of white and red paint were splattered across your arms and thighs. The scent of paint and V’s musky smell mixed together as you painted. Your arms and body tingled from the warm embrace he had given you. Thoughts of V took over as your paint brush made graceful strokes on the canvas. Did he even like you back? “As if,” you huffed. “He’s a man with taste.” But what about the pet names? And the flowers! He brings us flowers once he comes back.  “He’s british, being called love and darling is something normal here. The flowers don’t mean anything. It’s not like an obvious red rose or anything,” you told yourself. Stop daydreaming and just accept the fact that V doesn’t like you like in that way. 

 4:33 . “Where the hell is he,” you muttered. The rain continued to pour outside. Your canvas was set drying on the table and you flipped through your phone to entertain yourself.  Thank god for a VPN. You laughed at a funny meme as you scrolled through your feed. The lights flickered. You sucked in a breath and waited. CRASH! You jumped at the loud bang of thunder. Trying to calm yourself down, you continued to scroll through Twitter. The anxiety in your stomach wouldn’t stop eating away. V was out there in this godforsaken storm. What if he got hurt? What if he died? “Stop,” you told yourself sternly. “He’ll be fine.” 

Pop! Darkness embraced you as you sat there. The lights are out. Your breaths became shallow; the dim white light of your phone providing some kind of light source. “Calm down,” you whispered. “We’re gonna be fine.” Turning on your phone’s flashlight and using it as a torch, you crept to the bedroom. Loud crashes and noises made your hair stand up on end. Loud noises meant trouble. Loud noises meant a tantrum from your dad had started or something was here, waiting . Silence meant peace. Silence meant safety.

There was some sense of relief as you made it to the room and closed the door. Diving under the blankets, you whimpered as lightning struck. You curled into yourself and laid there. Hoping that the storm would pass, or V would come home. His scent on the sheets was the only solace you had. He will come home, eventually. You wished for V’s arms to hold and comfort you like the very few times he did before. Usually after a panic attack or when you were at the lowest of your lows. You wanted him to finish reading Lord of the Rings to you and help lull you to sleep. But V wasn’t here. V wasn’t going to hold you, or read you to sleep. He was out saving the country he so loved from it’s awful dictator. You’re weak. V wouldn’t want someone weak. He wants someone brave, and courageous. Someone who’s willing to die for what they love.

A sob bubbled up in your throat and tears threatened to escape from your eyes. You couldn’t breathe; you felt suffocated under the sheets, but if you moved you’d be open, vulnerable. Vulnerability is a weakness, being sad and scared is a weakness. How disgusting you must have looked. Hiding like a small child from the scary monster in their closet. How disgusted would V be if he found you here, under his sheets that were now wet with tears. We need to calm down. We need to stop crying. How pathetic we must look right now. He should’ve left you in that station to die. You deserve to die, you deserve to- .

“Love?” V’s voice broke your thoughts. He sounded so soft and gentle. You cursed at yourself for not noticing the door opening. Now he was going to see how pathetic you really were. V’s black boots slid across the floor when he made way into the room.You felt the bed dip beside you as you laid there. Your breath caught in your throat as you laid there silently under the sheets. Please go away, please don’t uncover the sheets. The cool air hit you as V pulled the sheets back. Cursing at your luck, you took a peak. Funny how creepy the smiling mask was in the dark. V’s hat was still perched on his head, you realized. His gloved fist was curled around something in his hand. A rose. 

“My songbird, what is the matter,” V asked as he took in your tear stricken face. The moonlight shone onto your beautiful face, revealing the wetness of your cheeks. How beautiful you were. V felt guilty once he saw you huddled under the covers, hiding from something. Could it be from yourself? “You’re late,” you croaked, “it’s almost 5 am.” “I apologize my dear, something went a bit south.” You didn’t say anything. Your eyes clenched shut and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip from trembling. V’s head cocked to the side, his lips pulled into a frown underneath the mask. He called out your name. The softness and caring tone made your eyes snap back at him. Suddenly, a crash of thunder hit. You flinched and wormed yourself underneath the sheets even more. V simultaneously realized, at that very moment, how terrified you were of thunder. He felt stupid as he sat there, staring at your shaking form. Of course you would try to seek out comfort whenever you were scared or moody. Hiding was your last resort if there was no comfort to be found. A hand stroked your head causing you to tense up.

The leather of the glove felt cool, and smooth. Brows drawn, you looked up at V. His right arm extended to you, with the gift he had brought. “V,” you whispered as you stared at him with shock. You gently wrapped your hand around the stem, taking it from his hands. “An apology for returning so late…and to ask for a courtship. With you,” V stammered. Even with the mask, you knew V was flustered. “It’s about time,” you joked, your voice a bit hoarse. “Ah yes, well you see I was so nervous and I-I've never-” You cut him off with your lips. The odd but smooth material of the mask’s lips felt foreign against your soft, warm ones. 

V didn’t even have to feel your lips to know they were the softest thing to exist. He just knew. You pulled away slowly, your cheeks warming up a bit. You were bashful, a gentle smile swept across your lips. “Thank you for the rose, it’s beautiful.” “My beautiful maiden, it is quite dark in here. You could not be quite sure of such a thing.” “I’ll kiss you again, V.” You giggled, as he shut up.

“Close your eyes and keep them closed,” V said. You looked at him confused, “Why?”  “I have another gift.” A brow was raised in his direction. He just gestured at you, waiting patiently. “You’re acting pretty sus not gonna lie, but ok.” Your eyes fluttered shut. Time seemed to pass by awfully slow as you waited. Not to mention, the dark that encased you as your lids closed. “V?” “I’m right here love.” You heard something untying and felt something being placed on the bed. How badly you wanted to open your eyes, but you would not betray V like that. The smoothness of his gloves grasped both of your cheeks softly. His fingers stroked them and held cupped your cheeks. You screwed your eyes shut, fighting the urge to open them. What was he doing? Your breath stopped at a halt; his breath was on your lips. He’s going to kiss me! His mask is off! You swallowed nervously as you waited. That’s when you felt it. 

V’s lips were rough and felt scarred. The texture was very different from your own, but you didn’t care. In fact, you cherished it. A sigh escaped your lips as your fingers clutched his cloak, pulling him closer. Teeth nibbled at your lips playfully. V’s scent filled your senses and you felt your head starting to become dizzy. You almost whined once his lips pulled away from yours. Eyes still closed, you waited for the signal to open them again. Your ears perked up as you heard the rustling of cloth and a little grunt from V. “Thank you darling, you can open your eyes again.” There were little dots and squiggles as you opened your eyes, moving in the air. You were a little sad to see the mask on again, but knew better than to press. V would give you the world, but he was still insecure about his skin. You were curious to see him, especially after the glimpse of damaged skin you had seen on his hands. But, you knew better than to ask, let alone force him to show you.

V placed his hat on the bedside table next to him. He was surprised to find you had fallen asleep, though it was quite late. He quietly shimmied out of his cloak and set his knives down on the nightstand. A sigh escaped his lips as he got into more comfortable clothing, followed by discarding his gloves on the table beside him. You had wrapped V around your finger; encasing him with your humour and your kindness. He was at your mercy. You had captivated the man who thought he could no longer feel love. Oh how wrong he was. V wrapped his arms around you and held you close. His art swelled a bit at the sleepy hum you gave him. Your head rested lightly on V’s chest and his arms snuggled you tightly. Your soft snores filled the room once again and V couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Eventually, the masked vigilante fell asleep; the comfort of your love and beauty keeping him warm at night.