#Weber Pulse

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[atcostmag]

RÊVERIE - obsessed

RÊVERIE is the three-piece Amsterdam outfit of Sara-Devika Matyus, Anna Lilith Weber and Stein Petit, who create visceral genre-bending pop music with an air of dark romanticism. With "obsessed", their latest single, the all-girl Dutch trio distill those influences into a quick, minute-and-a-half auditory abstract. Racing through its quickening diminish, "obsessed" pushes through punky bass line riffs with its pulsing synths and wispy narration percolating through. A call to arms against instant celebrity and a return to personal vision and authenticity, RÊVERIE's manifesting anthem is a fitting commentary on the global, cultural zeitgeist.

"obsessed" is short but sweet, but you can satiate your thirst for more of RÊVERIE with the wispy punk of "blood on your lips"; the breathy haunt and punishing synth-wave sound of "sinner"; the sweet grunge of "end of the world" and the scintillating synthesized-tipped shoegaze of "one heart":

"obsessed"

"blood on your lips"

"sinner"

"end of the world"

"one heart"

[gomensbrainrotsyndrome]

I'm back with another aria! (Sorry, I think my opera singer is peeking through... actually no, I'm not sorry about that at all). You gave me permission to come at you with classical music, so here we are >:)

This one needs a translation, so this ask going to be rather long. Also, I feel like I should provide context, because it's too funny if you think about it long enough/too long.

So, the aria is Agathe's scene/aria "Wie nahte mir der Schlummer ... Leise, leise" from Der Freischütz by Carl Maria von Weber. It’s in German, so here is my best attempt at a translation of the weird ass grammar in this aria (I'll add a short summary of the opera afterwards, there definitely is a 1941 thing going on here):

How did slumber approach me before I saw him.

Yes, love tends to go hand in hand with grief. Does the moon laugh (as in shine) over his path? What a beautiful night!

Softly, softly, my devout tune, fly up towards the circle of stars. Song, resound, celebrating my prayer may waft to the heavenly hall.

Oh, how bright the golden stars! With what pure light they glow! Only there, by the distant mountains, a storm seems to be brewing. There, by the forest, a host of dark clouds is floating, dull and heavy.

To you I turn my hands, Lord without beginning and without end. To protect us from dangers, send your angelic hosts!

Everything is at rest. Beloved friend, why do you delay? Even if my ear eagerly listens, only the pine is rustling. Only the birch's leaves in the grove whisper through the serene silence. Only nightingale and cricket seem to enjoy the night air.

But how? Is my ear not deceiving me? There, it sounds like footsteps, there from amidst the pines, something emerges - It's him! The flag of love may stream! Your girl is awake even in the night!

He doesn't seem to see me yet.

God, if the moonlight doesn't deceive me, flowers adorn his hat! Certainly! He did the best shot! That means good fortune for tomorrow!

Oh, sweet hope! Newly revived courage!

All my pulses beat, and the heart is beating brashly, sweetly delighted towards him!

Is it not deceit? Is it not delusion? Heaven, accept the tears of gratefulness for this favour of hope!

And here is the promised summary:

Agathe is the forester's daughter. She and Max are engaged, but he is only allowed to marry her if he wins a shooting contest to prove that he is capable of taking over her father's business. He's a good marksman, but lately, he's been too nervous to land his shots (yes, this opera can be read as a metaphor for erectile dysfunction. No, I did not make that up). So, he strikes a deal with a demon, Samael: he gets seven bullets that will always find their target.

The catch Samael doesn't tell him about: the first six will hit whatever Max wants them to. The seventh one though will hit what Samael chooses.

The next day, the day of the contest, arrives, and Max wins. With only one bullet left, he wants to shoot a dove in celebration. However, Samael chooses Agathe as his target. But, by the power of being a Good Girl (tm), she miraculously escapes (no, I did not make that up, either. She's literally too good and too pious to be hit by the devil's bullet. Also she got a blessing from a hermit).

In the end, the hermit appears and tells her dad to stop it with the contests, poor boy was so under pressure he literally couldn't shoot without help from the devil. And it was a dumb tradition, anyway.

Max and Agathe are allowed to marry, everyone's happy, the end.

The aria is set while Max is in the woods making his deal with Samael. Agathe sits at home, waiting for him, because he said he'd go practice and then come back and visit her.

Have fun with this one!

Don’t know about that summary and it is literally about other blorbos BUT lyrics wise this serves up all the good gomens flavour like heaven lord even a nightingale, the pining’s real good, i suppose the bullet thing is 1941-ish, excellent submission overall!

[1morey]

Every known Rainbow operator past and present (and NIGHTHAVEN operators)

GIS

Adriano “Maestro” Martello (2018-Present)

Antonio Maldini (1999-2012)

Aria “Alibi” de Luca (2018-Present)

GIGN

Alain DuBarry (1999-2012)

Emmanuelle “Twitch” Pichon (2015-Present)

Gilles “Montagne” Touré (2015-Present)

Gustav “Doc” Kateb (2015-Present)

Julian “Rook” Nizan (2015-Present)

Olivier “Lion” Flament (2018-Present)

1º Batalhão de Forças Especiais

Alejandro Noronha (1999-2012)

Spetzgruppa “A”

Aleksandr “Tachanka” Senaviev (2015-Present)

Genedy Filatov (1999-2012)

Lera “Finka” Melnikova (2018-2022 (defected to NIGHTHAVEN), rejoined in or before 2025)

Maxim “Kapkan” Basuda (2015-Present)

Shuhrat “Fuze” Kessikbayev (2015-Present)

Timur “Glaz” Glazkov (2015-Present)

AFEAU

Ana “Solis” Valentina Díaz (2022-Present) 

Special Air Service

Andrew Burke (1999-2012)

Eddie Price (1999-2012)

Geoff Bates (1999-2012)

James “Smoke” Porter (2015-2022) (Defected to NIGHTHAVEN)

Mark R. “Mute” Chandar (2015-Present)

Michael Walter (2008-2012)

Mike “Thatcher” Baker (2015-Present)

Paddy Connelly (1999-2012)

Peter Covington (1999-2012)

Scotty McTyler (1999-2012)

Seamus “Sledge” Cowden (2015-Present)

Steve Lincoln (1999-2012)

National Task Force

Annika Lofquist (1999-2012) (Under ONI)

NIGHTHAVEN

Anja Katarina “Osa” Janković (2021-2022)

Apha “Aruni” Tawanroong (2020-2022)

Charlie Tho Keng “Grim” Boon (2022-Present) (NIGHTHAVEN only)

Håvard “Ace” Haugland (2020-2022)

Jaimini Kalimohan “Kali” Shah (2019-2022)

Ngũgĩ Muchoki “Wamai” Furaha (2019-Present)

Belarusian Ground Forces

Arkadi Novikov (2001-2012)

Mossad

Ayana Yacoby (1999-2012)

David Peled (1999-2012)

Sharon Judd (2010-2012)

APCA

Azucena Rocío “Amaru” Quispe (2019-Present)

United States Army Rangers

“Bishop” (Unknown-2012)

United States Navy SEALs

Brian Armstrong (Unknown-2012)

Craig “Blackbeard” Jensen (2016-Present)

Meghan J. “Valkyrie” Castellano (2016-Present)

Miguel “Mike” Chin (1999-2012)

Garda Emergency Response Unit

Brianna “Thorn” Skehan (2021-Present)

FES

César Ruiz “Goyo” Hernández (2019-Present)

707th Special Mission Group

Choi Byoung-Ryang (2003-2012)

Choi Jae-Hoon (2003-2012)

Choi Youn-Suk (2003-2012)

Chul “Vigil” Kyung Hwa (2017-Present)

Grace “Dokkaebi” Nam (2017-Present)

Hong Min-Hyun (2003-2012)

Jung Park (2009-2012)

Jung Sang-Yub (2003-2012)

Kim Jae-Ho (2003-2012)

Kim Sung-Gun (2003-2012)

Kim Yu-Jin (2003-2012)

Lee Won-Ho (2003-2012)

Lee Youn-Jung (2003-2012)

Pak Suo-Won (2001-2012)

Seo Young-Lan (2003-2012)

United States Secret Service

Collinn “Warden” McKinley (2019-Present)

FBI Hostage Rescue Team

Daniel Bogart (1999-2012)

United States Marine Corps

Daniel "Bear" Malloy (1999-2012)

GSG 9

Dieter Weber (2001-2012)

Dominic “Bandit” Brunsmeier (2015-Present)

Elias “Blitz” Kötz (2015-Present)

Jorg Walther (1999-2012)

Marius “Jäger” Streicher (2015-Present)

Monika “IQ” Weiss (2015-2022) (Defected to NIGHTHAVEN)

CIA

Domingo “Ding” Chavez (1999-2012)

John Clark (1999-2000 (as operator))

Beredskapstroppen

Einar Petersen (2001-2012)

GEO

Elena María “Mira” Álvarez (2017-Present)

Ryad Ramírez “Jackal” Al-Hassar (2017-Present)

FBI SWAT

Eliza “Ash” Cohen (2015-Present)

Jack “Pulse” Estrada (2015-2022) (Defected to NIGHTHAVEN)

Jordan “Thermite” Trace (2015-Present)

Miles “Castle” Campbell (2015-Present)

JW GROM

Elżbieta "Ela" Bosak (2017-2022)  (Defected to NIGHTHAVEN)

Kazimiera Rakuzanka (1999-2012)

Zofia Bosak (2017-Present)

Delta Force

Erik “Maverick” Thorn (2018-Present)

George Tomlison (1999-2012)

Hank Patterson (1999-2012)

Homer Johnston (1999-2012)

Julio “Oso” Vega (1999-2012)

Logan Keller (2005-2012)

Mike Pierce (1999-2012)

Renee Raymond (1999-2012)

United States Army

Fred “Freddy” Franklin (1999-2012)

Mortimer “Sam” Houston (1999-2012)

Royal New Zealand Air Force

Gary Kenyon (2010-2012)

BATF International Response Team

Gerald Morris (1999-2012)

1st Special Operations Wing

Harrison (1999-2012)

Royal Air Force

Jack Nance (1999-2012)

GSIGR

Jalal “Kaid” El Fassi (2018-Present)

Sanaa “Nomad” El Maktoub (2018-Present)

Unit 777

Jamal Murad (2001-2012)

CSIS

Joanna Torres (2010-2012)

Jaeger Corps

Karina “Nøkk” Gaarddhøje (2019-Present)

EKO Cobra

Karl Haider (1999-2012) (under GEK Cobra)

MI5

Kevin Sweeney (1999-2012)

ELDYK

Kure Galanos (2001-2012)

Pyrotechno GmbH

Lars Breckenbauer (1999-2012)

Special Duties Unit

Liu “Lesion” Tze Long (2017-Present)

Siu “Ying” Mei Ling (2017-Present)

DGSE

Louis Loiselle (2001-2012)

Special Assault Team

Masaru “Echo” Enatsu (2016-Present)

Yumiko “Hibana” Imagawa (2016-Present)

STAR-NET Aviation

Mina “Thunderbird” Sky (2021-Present)

Metropolitan Police Service

Morowa “Clash” Evans (2018-Present)

COT

Nayara “Brava” Cardoso (2023-Present)

REU

Neinke Meijer (2020-Present)

Special Forces Group (Belgium)

Néon “Sens” Ngoma Mutombo (2022-Present)

Joint Task Force 2

Roger McAllen (1999-2012)

Sébastien “Buck” Côté (2016-Present)

Tina “Frost” Lin Tsang (2016-Present)

NSA

Sam Bennett (1999-2012)

Fourth Echelon

Samuel Leo “Sam” Fisher (2020-Present)

UEI

Santiago Arnavisca (1999-2012)

40 Commando

Shawn Rivers (2010) (KIA)

BOPE

Taina “Caveira” Pereira (2016-Present)

Vicente “Capitão” Souza (2016-Present)

Inkaba Task Force

Thandiwe “Melusi” Ndlovu (2020-Present)

FBI

Tim Noonan (1999-2012)

Paul Bellow (1999-2012)

SASR

Max “Mozzie” Goose (2019-Present)

Timothy Hanley (1999-2012)

Tori Tallyo “Gridlock” Fairous (2019-Present)

LAPD SWAT

Tracy Woo (1999-2012)

MI6

William “Billy” Tawney (1999-2012)

Unaffiliated

Kana “Azami” Fujiwara (2022-Present)

Saif “Oryx” Al Hadid (2020-Present)

Santiago Miguel “Flores” Lucero (2021-Present)

Unspecified

Brody Lukin (2010-2012)

“Deimos” (Unknown-On or Before 2012)

Emilio Narino (2001-2012)

Gabriel Nowak (2005-2010) (Defected/KIA)

Harry (1999-2012)

Kan Akahashi (2010) (KIA)

Monroe (2005) (KIA)

Directors

John Clark (1999-2010)

Domingo “Ding” Chavez (2010-2012)

Aurelia Arnot (2015-2019)

Harishva “Harry” Pandey (2019-2023) (KIA)

Unknown (2023-)

[clockworkcourier]

It starts with an earache at school.

Frau Meyer asks him if he's alright after he crawls onto the bench by the apple trees and rubs at his ear until it's sore on the outside, too. He says he doesn't know.

Did he get something in it? It'll only hurt worse if he keeps rubbing it.

He doesn't know, he says again.

Ich weiß nicht.

But then his head hurts after recess and into the next period when Herr Nowak points to outlines of countries on the overhead screen. Wer ist unser Nachbar? he asks. Who is our neighbor? He points to the twisting country below Germany, and Max's head swims trying to make out all the wobbles of the border, as though Herr Nowak is asking about those and not the name of the whole country.

Herr Nowak calls his name.

Ich weiß nicht, Max says again, because his head hurts and he feels sick. He doesn't know the name of the shapes on the border.

Some of the other kids laugh, and those sounds pierce his head. Little broken glass shards swept into a pan, rattling around, jabbing at all the soft parts of his brain and making him wince and shudder.

But Herr Nowak doesn't laugh. He frowns, then walks up to Max's desk and kneels beside him. He asks if he's alright, if he needs to see the school nurse.

Ich weiß nicht.

Max doesn't know, and that's all he remembers before his mom picks him up before the last bell rings.

---

They go to the doctor. Her office is nice, with pictures of cartoon animals on the walls, six Mainzelmännchen sitting outside a doctor's office with various bandages on their knees, hands, and foreheads. Max imagines he's one of them, wearing an over-sized bandage on his head as it throbs and pulses and his ears feel like they're full of wool.

He doesn't remember going into the examination room with his mother. He only remembers the cold press of a stethoscope on his bare back, then his chest, and then bright lights in his eyes.

Doctor Weber turns off her light and looks concerned. She asks him questions, about his family, his friends, how school's going, how much homework he has, what he wants to be when he grows up. But his words come out funny, like he needs to practice them before he says them. They jitter out from between his teeth, and he stutters and pauses to try to gather them back up.

The questions change.

What year is it? What month? What season? Who's the current Chancellor of Germany? (It's okay if he doesn't know the last one, Doctor Weber says to his mother, but she says it so strangely—like she feels sorry for her.)

Ich weiß nicht, Max ends up saying more often than not. Es tut mir leid.

I'm sorry.

---

The hospital, then. A little visit, his mother says. Just an examination, maybe a few pokes. He can be a good boy, of course. He's always a good boy.

The doctors tell him it'll only be a day or two, just to keep an eye on him. He might be a little sick, but he's so brave that it'll be over before he knows it. They let him watch cartoons from his bed, and he gets an extra slice of strawberry cake from a nice nurse with a pink bandaid on her forehead.

Like the Mainzelmännchen, he says.

She asks him what he means, but Max feels too dizzy to explain. He tries to get some cake onto his little plastic fork, but it falls back onto the plate three times before his mother has to help him. The nurse gives him a sad look, but with a smile—he doesn't understand what that means.

More doctors and nurses come throughout the day and night. More pokes, more bandages. He's so brave. He's so strong. It'll be over soon, they all say.

When? he wants to know.

Ich weiß nicht.

No one knows.

---

He dreams.

He dreams about his sister taking him for a walk down the hill by their house. Oberkochen is surrounded by hills, and Leonie always says she'll take him over this one, then another, and another until they're in Austria. How many hills until Austria?

He dreams about Michael, his friend from school. Michael is from France, originally. He wants to go back all the time, but his father works for a big company and they can't leave until he's done working there. Sometimes Michael cries at recess, tugging at the teacher's shirts and asking when he can go home. And Max dreams that he asks Michael the same question. When can he go home?

He dreams about Oma and Opa's house in the Jura. Opa calls it their fairytale house, and tells Max about how the big pond behind the house was made because two giants were wrestling and fell on the ground. They were so big that it left a huge dent in the dirt, and the dent filled with rain. Where did the giants go?

He dreams about his mother and father in the kitchen at home. They argue, quietly. His mother smokes cigarettes even though she promised a long time ago that she would quit. His father takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. They argue more, and then they look at him and ask a question. How could this happen?

There's only one answer to all of these questions.

---

How many hills until Austria?

When can he go home?

Where did the giants go?

How could this happen?

What's a nervous system?

What does 'meninges' mean?

Why is everyone crying?

Why can't he hear the cartoons anymore?

---

Ich weiß nicht.

Niemand weiß.

Es gibt keine Antwort.

[burlveneer-music]

My WVUD playlist, 3/29/2023

(filling in on Java Time)

Alison Eales - Ever Forward ANONA - The Boy and the Lion Pulse - Love Is Like the Sea Tiptons Sax Quartet & Drums - Untrapt Avalon Emerson - Sandrail Silhouette Ursa Major Moving Group - Welcome to the Noosphere The Beatles - ComeTogether Kate Bush - Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God) The Proclaimers - I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) Tears for Fears - Everybody Wants To Rule the World Coldplay - Viva La Vida World Party - Ship of Fools Claire Hamill - I Got My Mojo Back Sunny War - No Reason Supreme Beings of Leisure - Body Corduroy - Saturday Club Pixy Jones - There's Something Wrong Segarini - Danger Guy Melbourne Ska Orchestra - Perfect Storm Peter Gabriel - Playing For Time Lonnie Holley - None Of Us Have But a Little While M83 - Earth To Sea Dutch Uncles - Slave to the Atypical Rhythm Ese & The Vooduu People - How to Spot a Sociopath (feat. Jay Phelps) Rolling Stones - Sympathy For The Devil Simrit - Clandestine (Live) Gary Burton Quintet wiht Eberhard Weber - Unfinished Sympathy

[potterybarn]

Enjoy a delicious and healthy twist on traditional falafel with these Baked Falafel Burgers. They're easy to make and perfect for a quick, satisfying meal.

Ingredients: 1 cup dried chickpeas, soaked overnight. 1/2 large onion, roughly chopped. 2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley. 2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro. 1 teaspoon salt. 1-2 cloves garlic, minced. 1 teaspoon cumin. 1 teaspoon baking powder. 4-6 tablespoons flour. Vegetable oil for brushing.

Instructions: Turn on your oven and heat it up to 375F 190C. Chickpeas that have been soaked, onion, parsley, cilantro, salt, garlic, and cumin should all be put in a food processor. Push and pull until well mixed but not pureed. Toss in the flour and baking powder, then pulse a few times. The dough should be able to form a small ball without sticking to your hands after adding enough flour or bulgur. Adding more flour might be a good idea. Make 4 to 6 patties out of the mixture and put them on a baking sheet that has been lightly greased. Put vegetable oil on top of the falafel patties. The falafel burgers should be baked in a hot oven for 15 minutes on each side, or until they are firm and golden brown. Put it in a bun and top it with your favorite sauces and toppings.

Rose Weber

[vidstudiosworld]

Discover Heidelberg's Historic Heart

Heidelberg radiates romance and has an idealized persona, but it's also a victim of tragedy. You can find brass plaques (Stolpersteine or "stumbling block") close to the ruin at the Thingstatte that are dedicated to Jewish families who were exiled during World War II. Heidelberg University is famous for its areas of study which include theology, philosophy and law, as well as medicine Modern languages, philosophy, and social sciences. Robert Bunsen was a pioneering chemical scientist. Max Weber is a well-known sociology professor. Hans-Georg Gadamer is a philosopher of understanding. Take a tour of the Old Town Heidelberg's Old Town is like a trip into postcard-like images. The window boxes decorated with flowers, the ornate fountains, and tall church spires bring a sense of whimsy to the main street for shopping (Hauptstrasse) and is regarded as being one of Europe's most crowded pedestrian zones. The most notable is the Old Bridge, a spectacular engineering feat that spans over 200 metres across the Neckar River. Walking over the bridge framed by homes of the past on each bank and the castle that looms overhead is like stepping into an epic fairytale. Explore the Old Town’s historic district as a side trip. You'll find the seat of Germany's first university, the Ruperto Carola. The university attracts students from across the globe and creates a lively young and international vibe. Take in the view from Neuenheim To enjoy stunning views of the city and Neckar River, head across the bridge into Neuenheim. Explore the cobbled streets, grab an afternoon meal at a charming cafe or traditional restaurant, take a break in the green areas and parks that dot the region. The Old Bridge is a picture-perfect architectural wonder. This red sandstone bridge often referred to as Karl Theodor Bridge, connects the Old Town and the Neuenheim district. This charming structure has survived the test of time despite its predecessors being destroyed by ice and fire. Many tourists come for a stroll along the Philosophenweg the scenic path that looks out over the castle, Old Town and Neckar River. The long, sloping walk at night to view the twinkling lights that illuminate the Old Town below. You can also board one of the cruise boats docked at the south end of the bridge. Rubbing the bronze monkeys across the bridge is said to bring good fortune, and touching its mirror is believed to bring prosperity while rubbing the tiny bronze mice ensures fertileness. Stroll the Streets of Heidelberg University

Heidelberg University significantly characterizes the city's culture identity. The renowned university draws students from around the globe. Its famed programs and disciplines have shaped the academic world and shaped intellectual inquiry over the past six centuries. Discover the University's rich past at landmarks such as the Student Prison (Studentenkarzer). The walls that are graffiti-covered offer an insight into the life of students from bygone times. The Old Bridge (Alte Brucke) is a must for its stunning views and historic architecture. Walk along the Philosopher's Walk, which is a terrace-like path once used by university professors. Heidelberg is a city that's romantic however, it's not without a few tragedies. A bronze plaque honors Durlacher's family, whose home was destroyed in Kristallnacht. The city's heart is also pulsing in research and education. The renowned university is known for its groundbreaking discoveries. It has also made significant contributions to the areas of medicine, natural science as well as the humanities. Its prominent alumni include Robert Bunsen, the pioneering chemist who invented the Bunsen burner; Max Weber, a notable sociologist; as well as philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer, a leading expert on hermeneutics. Discover the story of your city The castle was built in 1200 and has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times. The present structure on the top of the Konigstuhl was built between 1545-1693. The ruins of the first castle were utilized as a quarry and even used as building foundations for other buildings within the city. Louis XIV claimed the castle as a part of the inheritance he received from the Electoral Palatinate because the husband of his sister was the Elector. The Old Bridge (Alte Brucke) was built in the 18th century by the Prince of Theodor, the Elector Karl Theodor after several floods destroyed previous wooden bridges. The bridge is still a magnet for tourists to Heidelberg even today. Take a sip of a latte macchiato, and savor Apfelstrudel in one of the cafes in either the main square or a quiet side street. While you linger over your dessert and watch the people as you stroll around, you could hear music by street musicians at the designated Strassenkunst Locations. It's a great way to experience the local culture! Original video here

[vanderdoeshs]

VanderDoes Home Services

Nestled in the heart of Weber County, our business has become synonymous with unmatched *Dishwasher Repair* excellence in Ogden and its surrounding communities. Reflective of the hometown values our clientele cherish, we bring a wealth of expertise to the repair of some of the most esteemed dishwasher brands such as Bosch, Electrolux, GE, Maytag, Samsung, LG, Frigidaire, Amana, Whirlpool, Westinghouse.

Understanding that a dishwasher is more than just an appliance—it's an integral component to the pulse of a busy household or thriving business—we stand poised to respond with prompt service that ensures minimal disruption to your routine. Our technicians bring profound knowledge paired with genuine care for each service call they undertake. Every technician is adept at navigating the complexities of various models from high-end Bosch units boasting advanced technologies to the reliable robustness found in Maytag machines.

CONTACT US 

VanderDoes Home Services

ADDRESS: 1052 25th St ,Ogden , Utah 84401, US

Phone (local):  801-731-7150

comapany mail : vanderdoespdm@gmail.com

Company website : http://www.vanderdoeshs.com

Hours of operation: Monday-Friday : 09:00 - 17:00

External Links :

Blogger

Gravatar

Pinterest

Sites.google

Youtube

Coub

[ascendantgb]

NYC's PR Powerhouses: Crafting Narratives and Shaping Perceptions

In the bustling heart of New York City, where skyscrapers define the skyline and ambition pulses through the streets, the role of Public Relations (PR) has never been more crucial. Here, amid the vibrant chaos of the business world, some PR firms stand out as true powerhouses, redefining the art of strategic communication. From global giants to boutique gems, these top PR firms in NYC weave narratives, shape perceptions, and navigate the complex dance of media and messaging with finesse.

1. Edelman: A Global Standard of Excellence

Edelman, a behemoth in the PR industry, sets the global standard for excellence. With a presence in over 65 cities worldwide, their NYC headquarters serves as the epicenter of innovation. Edelman's integrated approach combines traditional and digital strategies, creating narratives that resonate. Authenticity is their hallmark, and navigating the evolving media landscape with finesse has solidified their position as leaders in the industry.

2. Weber Shandwick: Masterful Storytelling on a Global Scale

Weber Shandwick is celebrated for its mastery of storytelling, captivating audiences across industries and continents. With a client roster that spans the globe, the firm excels in shaping narratives that leave an indelible mark. Whether in crisis management or brand building, Weber Shandwick's strategic prowess ensures their clients' stories are not just told but heard, resonating with authenticity and impact.

3. Rubenstein: Boutique Excellence in a Diverse Landscape

Amid the giants, Rubenstein stands out as a boutique PR firm, specializing in luxury lifestyle, real estate, and corporate communications. Their personalized approach sets them apart, with tailored strategies and hands-on client relations. In a city where trends are set and lifestyles defined, Rubenstein crafts narratives that capture the essence of its clients' brands.

4. DKC: Building Relationships, Amplifying Voices

DKC places a premium on relationship-building, positioning itself as a force to be reckoned with in the PR arena. With a client base spanning diverse industries, DKC excels in amplifying voices and fostering connections. Their adaptability to different sectors while maintaining a personalized touch has earned DKC a spot among the best PR firms in NYC, making them a preferred choice for brands seeking strategic communication solutions.

5. 5W Public Relations: Agility from Startups to Fortune 500

Navigating a broad spectrum of clients, from startups to Fortune 500 companies, 5W Public Relations is known for its agility and results-driven approach. The firm's comprehensive suite of services, including media relations, influencer marketing, and crisis management, positions it as a versatile player in the NYC PR scene, addressing the unique needs of diverse industries.

[swazzzy42p]

A.I Story concept 10 pt 1

The year is 1945. Franz Weber is a former Nazi spy who defected to the Assassin Brotherhood after discovering the truth about the Holocaust. He has been secretly hunting down and killing the leaders of the Templar Order, who are the masterminds behind the Nazi regime and its search for the ancient artifacts known as the Pieces of Eden. His final mission is to assassinate Adolf Hitler, the Führer of Germany and the most powerful Templar in the world, who is hiding in his bunker in Berlin.

Franz manages to infiltrate the bunker with the help of a fellow Assassin, Elsa Schneider, who pretends to be his lover and a loyal Nazi. They make their way through the underground complex, avoiding the guards and the fanatical followers of Hitler. They finally reach the room where Hitler is supposed to be, guarded by two elite soldiers.

Franz and Elsa quickly dispatch the guards with their hidden blades, and enter the room. They see Hitler's body lying on a couch, with a pistol in his hand and blood on his temple. Franz approaches the corpse and checks for a pulse. He finds none, and confirms that Hitler is dead. He also notices a strange device on Hitler's neck, a small metal disc with wires attached to it. He recognizes it as a mind control device, a tool used by the Templars to manipulate their puppets.

He realizes that Hitler was not the real leader of the Templars, but a pawn controlled by someone else. He also suspects that the body is not the real Hitler, but a look-alike, and that the real Hitler has escaped with a Piece of Eden, a powerful relic that can alter reality. He tries to communicate this to Elsa, but before he can say anything, he feels a sharp pain in his chest. He turns around and sees Elsa holding a gun, with a cold smile on her face. She shoots him again, and he falls to the floor, bleeding.

She reveals that she is a double agent, working for the Templars, and that she has been deceiving Franz all along. She tells him that she was the one who planted the mind control device on Hitler, and that she helped him fake his death and flee to Argentina, where he will continue his plans for a new world order. She also tells him that she has been eliminating the other Assassins in Europe, one by one, and that Franz was the last one. She says that she is sorry, but that she has to do her duty to the Templar cause.

She leaves Franz to die in the bunker, and reports to her Templar master, who congratulates her on her success. He tells her that Hitler is safe and sound, and that he has a new assignment for her: to find and destroy the remaining Pieces of Eden in the world, before the Assassins can get to them. Elsa accepts the mission, and boards a plane, leaving behind a trail of blood and betrayal.```

[seoproject2023]

how to get more views on YouTube

content creators can unlock new opportunities, enhance visibility, and ultimately achiIn the dynamic world of online content, YouTube stands as a powerful platform for creators and businesses alike. However, the challenge lies in getting noticed amidst the vast sea of videos. In this quest for visibility, leveraging the expertise of top PR agencies becomes crucial. This article explores effective strategies on how to get more views on YouTube, with a spotlight on the top PR agencies in India and the US.

The YouTube Viewership Conundrum:

Getting more views on YouTube requires a strategic approach that goes beyond simply creating quality content. Enter Public Relations (PR), a game-changer in the digital landscape. PR agencies specialize in crafting compelling narratives, building brand presence, and engaging with target audiences – all essential elements for YouTube success.

How to get more views on YouTube:

Strategic Content Creation: To capture attention, your content must be tailored to your audience. PR agencies excel in understanding the pulse of the market and can assist in creating content that resonates with your target viewers. Whether it's through storytelling, trending topics, or educational content, PR professionals know how to make your videos stand out.

Optimized Video Titles and Descriptions: Crafting captivating titles and descriptions is an art. PR agencies are adept at creating attention-grabbing headlines that not only improve click-through rates but also enhance search engine visibility. Strategic use of keywords is crucial, and PR firms understand the nuances of optimizing content for maximum impact.

Engagement and Community Building: PR agencies excel in fostering meaningful connections. Building a community around your YouTube channel involves engaging with your audience on social media, responding to comments, and collaborating with influencers. This not only boosts your video's visibility but also creates a loyal fan base.

TOP PR AGENCY IN INDIA:

PerfectPitch PR: Renowned for its innovative campaigns and client-centric approach, PerfectPitch PR has a track record of elevating brands to new heights. Their digital expertise makes them a go-to choice for YouTube content creators looking to amplify their reach.

Adfactors PR: A powerhouse in the Indian PR industry, Adfactors PR boasts a diverse portfolio and a team of experts capable of tailoring strategies for YouTube success. Their holistic approach encompasses traditional and digital PR, ensuring a comprehensive brand presence.

Best pr firms in the US:

Edelman: A global communications firm, Edelman is synonymous with excellence in PR. With a focus on storytelling and content creation, they are ideal partners for YouTube creators aiming to expand their audience and influence.

Weber Shandwick: Recognized for its innovative campaigns and strategic communication, Weber Shandwick is a leader in the US PR landscape. Their digital prowess extends to YouTube, making them a top choice for creators seeking unparalleled visibility.

Conclusion:

Navigating the competitive landscape of YouTube requires a multi-faceted approach, and top PR agencies play a pivotal role in this journey. By aligning with these industry leaders, eve the coveted goal of getting more views on YouTube.

[rusocialpod]

Worst Company Disasters Subscribe here: https://goo.gl/9FS8uF Check out the previous episode: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxotOEZCh8g Become a Patreon!: https://www.patreon.com/ColdFusion_TV Hi, welcome to ColdFusion (formerly known as ColdfusTion). Experience the cutting edge of the world around us in a fun relaxed atmosphere. Sources: Excite http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2013/03/excite-had-a-chance-to-buy-google-for-750k-but-turned-it-down/ Kodak http://mashable.com/2012/01/20/kodak-digital-missteps/#bTwoOZCuzZqV https://www.google.com/patents/US4131919 Nasa http://edition.cnn.com/TECH/space/9909/30/mars.metric.02/ Blockbuster http://www.cnet.com/news/blockbuster-laughed-at-netflix-partnership-offer/ Nokia https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/nokia-ceo-ended-his-speech-saying-we-didnt-do-anything-ziyad-jawabra http://www.theinquirer.net/inquirer/news/2465691/nokia-to-make-smartphone-comeback-with-duo-of-android-70-nougat-handsets Xerox http://www.businessinsider.com.au/xerox-was-actually-first-to-invent-the-pc-they-just-forgot-to-do-anything-with-it-2012-2 http://history-computer.com/ModernComputer/Personal/Alto.html //Soundtrack// JMSN - The One (Stwo Remix) Baths - Somerset Gavin G - Refresh French Horn Rebellion - Won You Over (Jamie de Von Remix) Seba - Painted Skies (Oscillist Remix) Front 242 - Happiness [Underworld Dub Mix] 1995 Chasing Dreams - I See You From The Clouds (feat. moshimoss) Chase Dobson - Sombriata Autograf - Future Soup (Ferdinand Weber Remix) Jakatta - American Dream [Afterlife Mix] (Beatless Version) Underworld - Jumbo 1999 Uppermost - My Beloved Soul Grifta - Extinct Haven - Remember » Google + | http://www.google.com/+coldfustion » Facebook | https://www.facebook.com/ColdFusionTV » My music | t.guarva.com.au/BurnWater http://burnwater.bandcamp.com or » http://www.soundcloud.com/burnwater » https://www.patreon.com/ColdFusion_TV » Collection of music used in videos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOrJJKW31OA Producer: Dagogo Altraide Editing website: www.cfnstudios.com Coldfusion Android Launcher: https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=nqr.coldfustion.com&hl=en » Twitter | @ColdFusion_TV

[toxioinc]

Lois Weber: 'The day is past when the public asked only for the simple little romance or poorly spun yarn on the screen. They want new ideas—big, serious, broad-minded themes. They want educational pictures—they want pictures which stimulate the soul as well as appeal to the heart and the senses. They are like little children, eager to learn by precept and example.

I have always felt, even when pictures were in their infancy, that the day would come when every public school in America would have its own projecting room and the classes studying history, botany, physiology, religions of different countries, geography, and literature could learn more from the actual film visualization than from a thousand text books of scientific description.

The moving picture theater, once it reaches heights far above the limitations of today, will not only be a school but a church, for is there anything that brings us closer to the Creator than the wonderful divinity of the created world, its titanic mountains and its life-pulsing cities?'

From 'Personalities I Have Met: Lois Weber' 1916

[sizzledad]

Bestes Pulled Pork vom Weber Pulse Elektrogrill - Pulled Pork Burger mit Carolina Mustard BBQ Sauce

Kann man auf einen Elektrogrill ein leckeres Pulled Pork zubereiten? Die Antwort ist eindeutig ja kann man. Wie einfach und mit wenig Aufwand das geht, zeige ich heute auf dem Weber Pulse 2000. Das Ergebnis ist mega und als Pulled Pork Burger mit selbst gemachten Brioche Buns, Coleslaw und der selbst gemachten Carolina Mustard BBQ Sauce einfach umwerfend gut. Das Video findest Du hier:https://youtu.be/dvvTJHf88pY

Das Rezept für das beste Pulled Pork findest Du bei uns im Blog: 

https://daughter-dads-sizzlezone.de/recipe/pulled-pork-das-beste-pulled-pork-vom-gasgrill/

[geekanoids]

MEGA DEAL! 57% OFF Weber Pulse 1000 Electric BBQ Grill with Stand • UK

MEGA DEAL! 57% OFF Weber Pulse 1000 Electric BBQ, Grill with Stand.

Porcelain-enamelled, cast-iron cooking grates

Grease management system

Removable components and front control panel

Integrated clip for safe routing of cord

Digital thermometer with LED display

BUY HERE