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Car Service and Maintenance in Reservoir
Providing professional car service to Northern Melbourne suburbs since 2012, Automotive Instincts is your local family owned and operated independent workshop in Reservoir. Qualified Log Book Servicing. Now offering AfterPay finance options.
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Experience top-notch German auto repair services in Georgetown at Euro Garage. Our expert technicians specialize in servicing Audi, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, and Volkswagen vehicles. From routine maintenance to complex repairs, we provide exceptional craftsmanship and personalized care for your luxury car. Trust Euro Garage for reliable diagnostics, precise repairs, and unparalleled customer service. Visit our website to schedule an appointment or call us today for a premium automotive experience.
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Top 10 Luxury Car Maintenance Tips Every Owner Should Know
Luxury cars are not just vehicles; they are investments that require careful maintenance to retain their value and performance. Whether you own a sleek Mercedes-Benz or a powerful BMW, proper upkeep is essential to ensure your luxury car continues to deliver the utmost sophistication and power. And when you entrust your precious vehicle to the expert care at "The Gearbox" you can rest assured that it will receive the exceptional service it deserves. Here are essential maintenance tips every luxury car owner in Dubai should know to keep their vehicle running smoothly.
Regular Oil Changes: Schedule routine oil changes at a reputable car repair centre in Al Quoz to keep your luxury car's engine well-lubricated and functioning optimally.
Tyre Maintenance: Ensure proper tyre inflation and alignment to enhance fuel efficiency and prolong tyre lifespan. Visit a nearby car service centre for tyre rotations and inspections.
Brake System Checks: Don't overlook brake maintenance. Regularly inspect brake pads, rotors, and fluid levels at a trusted car repair shop in Al Quoz to ensure safety on the road.
Fluid Inspections: Keep all fluid levels, including coolant, transmission, and brake fluid, topped up and clean. Schedule fluid checks near a convenient car service to prevent engine overheating and component wear.
Battery maintenance: Make sure the connection is tight and inspect the battery connections for corrosion. Consider battery testing and replacement services at a nearby car repair centre to avoid unexpected breakdowns.
Air Filter Replacement: Maintain engine efficiency by replacing dirty air filters regularly. Seek professional assistance from The Gearbox car service centre in Al Quoz to ensure proper installation and performance.
Suspension System Maintenance: Preserve your luxury car's smooth ride by inspecting and replacing worn suspension components as needed. Visit a reliable car repair shop for suspension repairs and alignments.
Regular Inspections: Schedule comprehensive inspections at a reputable car service centre near you to identify potential issues early and prevent costly repairs down the road.
Exterior Care: Protect your luxury car's paint and finish with regular washing and waxing. Consider professional detailing services at The Gearbox for a showroom-worthy shine.
Follow Manufacturer Recommendations: Adhere to the manufacturer's recommended maintenance schedule for your luxury vehicle. Consult “The Gearbox” trusted car service centre in Al Quoz for expert advice on servicing intervals and procedures tailored to your car's needs.
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Choose us for specialized expertise, genuine brake pads & swift service 💯🔥
Visit us today and join the pitstop services Porsche club today !
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White Rose Motors is your trusted automotive partner in London, providing exceptional car servicing and MOT solutions. With expertise and personalized care, we ensure your vehicle runs smoothly and safely on the roads.
#Car Servicing in London#German car specialists London#Car service London#MOT London#MOT Test London
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In this DIY video I will show you how to replace vibration damper, belt and belt pulleys for BMW f10 530d N57 engine.
As we all know the weak spot of this engine is the vibration damper!
Always keep on eye on it for any cracks in the rubber so you can take action before the break down happens!
It is also important to service the belt, all rollers (pulleys) , BMW F10 530d N57 engine has only one belt and if that brakes, your cooling pump and alternator remain undriven and there is a chance of overheating the engine!
This particular engine N57 has a vibration damper with 7 channels, it weighs apx. 5 kg and it's outer diameter is 194 mm 👇.
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Be careful to not mistake when you order that thing, cause the newer N57N has 6 channel vibration damper ..
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it has to be 7 channels as well!
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When it comes to understanding migration, this needs to be taken into account: if you are in a rural area in the global south, like Honduras, you have basically no access to social services, medicine, and education. In fact, the funding for those services is actually being cut, as the social security funds have been looted by corrupt politicans appointed by a military coup. Then you have to factor in that you likely have no access to the land, and no access to credit to buy seeds, and have to sell yourself for basically pennies to an agroindustrial giant. The peasants feed the local people; the agroindustries feed the Americans. In Guatamala, there is a neo-corporate fuedalism where you are allowed a patch of land if you are willing to work, unpaid, for coffee plantations which sell their produce to the German company Ritz. If you attempt to settle unoccupied land, a local businessman will claim it is his without any proof, and the police will take his side because the Agrarian Reform Institute, which issues land titles, is controlled by coupists whose main concern is squeezing as much wealth out of the country as possible. Thugs will murder a man and his wife in broad daylight, and the judge will respond by evicting you and your family from the land.
There is nowhere else for you to go but Tegucigalpa, where you can work trying to wash car windows or selling snacks to passing cars for a handful of lempira a day. Or perhaps you could work for a few dollars a day in one of the maquila factories making textiles for the American and European market, which are set up in special economic zones called Charter Cities where the constitution and labour laws do not apply, which can close down and spirit away whenever they like to another country when they are more willing to sell their people for even less. And then you have to factor in the hurricanes that sweep through the country, destroying everything, that the rains no longer come when they used to but when they do they come in flooding torrents. Much of the north of Honduras is currently underwater; most of the banana and coffee plantations have been destroyed.
And then you factor in when you tried to change this via electing a better government in 2006, he was overthrown in 2009; when you tried to get organised and resist the coup, your friends, your loved ones, your trade union leaders and peasant resisters all turned up mysteriously dead while the military and police worked with drug gangs disguised as agribusiness like the Dinant coproration to burn down villages that opposed them. For trying to change things in the way that you were supposed to, through non violently protesting, organising, and voting for something better, you were subjected to a decade of counterrevolutionary terror and violence that the “international community” not only ignored but gave its active approval to. All of the factors listed above have not only been ongoing for the last 10 years, they’ve been intensified, hothoused by the global counterrevolutionary terror that was the response to the 2011 wave of post-financial crisis uprisings and revolutions and accelerating climate apocalypse.
And at the same time, all of this is being done so more of the country can be turned into a massive cash cow for the benefit of foreign corporations and domestic oligarchs. The wealth of your country is siphoned off and flows around the American and European financial system, benefiting them and building a consumer disneyland that looks like paradise compared to your situation. That could, even if you are worked for nothing, give you a few dollars to send home that could build your abuela in the countryside a nice home for her to live out her days. What other option is left for you and your family other than joining the exodus of people heading north, to the countries where the wealth and profits and rewards of your homeland’s suffering are being kept. And after you cross mountains and rivers which freeze you to death and sweep you away, you are faced with a massive border wall of ahte and soldiers on horses which hit you with sticks. You are faced with an immigration detention centre that will chain you to your bed while you give birth and separate you from your baby who will be given away for adoption to a white couple. When you make a charge against the border fence in Melilla, fed up with being kept in shacks with nothing while the Northerners debate what to do about the problem people their greed has forced to move, the Moroccan police will beat 35 of you to death.
And then when you get there to that golden paradise, you end up doing work not dissimilar to the work you were doing back home, working for pennies (though pennies that are valuable enough back home to buy the family that remain the tiniest slice of comfort) for an agroindustrial giant that supplies supermarkets with cheap produce picked by cheaper people. While you work in the fields, a crop duster plane will spray you with paraquat; when support organisations try to raise this with OSHA they will ask for the plane’s number, and when this can’t be provided they will say nothing can be done. In fact, inspectors are ordered to stay away from the plantations on the Texas border. A member of the Border Agricultural Workers Project says she hasn’t seen a normal child born on the border in 20 years, such is the effect of agrichemicals. If you fuck up in the slightest, have any interaction with the state, you will be deported and sent back to square one. There are a 14 million migrants in the US in the same precarious state, effectively without any way of enforcing their rights. My aunt is a Mexican migrant in California. Her son was deported because he got a speeding ticket. It was 15 years before she saw him again, other than through the bars of the border fence, when she finally got her green card.
The situation in Honduras can be repeated for almost any other country. Syria, Venezuela, Iraq, South Sudan, Libya, all the headline countries are countries that have been subjected to a severe counterrevolutionary terror. The processes of dispossession and destruction of peasant economies and communities (primitive accumulation to use the Marxist jargon) have been hothoused over the last decade by war and violence. I just wish that relatively comfortable people in the imperialist countries realised that the “migrant crisis” is the result of policies that their governments forced on others. Violence that their elites made their fortunes off. What a monstrous, barbarous way of life we have.
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German car servicing
Best German car servicing & MOT near me in London
We have the best German car specialist for providing full car servicing and mot near me in London. Contact us for German car servicing in London — Professional Auto Centre Professional Auto Centre is a German car specialist in London offering a range of mechanical services for all makes and models. Contact Us for more details.
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𐙚˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡ ˚ 𝘊𝘏𝘌𝘌𝘚𝘌.ᐟ [𝘛𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘈 𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘒 𝘈𝘛 𝘔𝘠 𝘉𝘖𝘠𝘍𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘕𝘋]
༊*·˚ ୧ ‧₊˚ ☾ ༘ ೀ⋆
·.𐙚 ༉‧ 脹 ちょう 相 そう
𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖬𝖠𝖱𝖸 ┊ 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴
𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 ┊ 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦
𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 ┊ 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘰
MDNI ACCOUNTS DNI PLEASE
To start off, this man would be so protective, not in a bad obsessive way. It’s just perfect. He knows when to step in and when you can handle it yourself.
you two would definitely have cats—maybe a black cat or two, and if you aren’t a dog person then deal with it. But seriously, if you prefer dogs he’d probably get a Doberman or a German Shepard; protective like him :)
Beatles and Nirvana kind of guy, blasting it at 2am in the car with you driving around, a hand on your thigh as you speak your mind and eating fast food.
Would Venmo you money, don’t have enough for coffee? 15 bucks in your account. want a shirt? +50 bucks. You don’t know how he gets all the money, when you ask he’ll just say from work.
Loyal!!! I mean loyal. You’re one of the only one he follows his social media, will hand you his phone the same millisecond you ask. Like this man would probably close his eyes when a girl walks by, he’s so loyal and I’m here for it.
Simp boyfriend. If he’s fallen for you, he’s fallen HARD. He’d get on his knees and worship you like the god you are.
Clingy!! It’s not so clingy to the point he’s annoying. For example if your out in public with him, his hand will be in yours.
Cuddles are his absolute favorite. He’s just so giddy about the fact he can just lay with you and relax in his arms. He’s also the big spoon.
He absolutely loved when you ask him to help choose an outfit. When he sees you showing him and him only the outfits he’ll just admire you. Eyes full of love and like “woah, she’s my girlfriend.”
Overdressed girlfriend x underdressed boyfriend dynamic. You’d be wearing a bunch of jewelry and accessories, while he’d probably wear like sweatpants or cargo pants with a hoodie or tee. (But he wouldn’t be like this on fancy dates) and a bracelet with your initial ALWAYS.
speaking of jewelry, you both have matching ones. Like those magnet jewelry or ones with eachothers initials.
(best) friends to lovers trope, like for him to fall for you he’d have to know you well first. I personally love best friends brother but realistically it’s this one.
Dates at eachothers houses are the best. Sometimes you’d do movie marathons at his house (and his brothers would join you, ruining the moment) or bake at your house. Either way, he won’t make home dates boring.
If you suck at school, he’d be the type to tutor you and say like “I’ll give you a kiss for each answer you get right” when you haven’t seen him all day. on the other hand, if you do good at school then you’d do study dates together, but it’ll end up you going out on for a date.
Would wrap is arms around your waist. Cooking? A sudden weight in your waist, and his head rested on your shoulder. Or even cuddling, he’d want to pull you in closer.
Also with Physical touch, he’d be an acts of service type of guy. Like he’d open your car door, pull out your seat, tie your shoe, order for you, etc.
your family loves him. He’s such a family guy it’s unreal. Would get along with your dad and brother if you had one.
#choso#choso jjk#choso kamo#choso x reader#choso x y/n#choso x you#kamo choso#choso fluff#jjk choso#jujutsu kaisen choso#choso headcanons#choso kamo x y/n#choso kamo x reader#choso x female reader#kamo choso x reader#choso kamo jjk#jujustu kaisen#jjk x reader#jujustsu kaisen x reader
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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
#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator#but this is a fantasy land where i get to make the rules#my writing#fic: raising cain#din djarin fanfiction#din djarin au fanfic#din djarin x ofc#din djarin smut#din djarin fic
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Idea: My fantasy is to be forcibly transformed from a young, affluent, VERY clean, well-educated, well groomed, well dressed white corporate executive into a VERY dirty uneducated garbageman.
I must be forced to surrender my corporate career, my car, my office, my name, my money, my expensive formal business suit and tie, my wristwatch and polished black dress shoes and even my dress socks, along the way to my new real life.
Boardroom to trash bins
You glance at the golden watch on your left wrist and decide to walk a little faster.
You are not late - yet - but the board meeting is too important to be late to. Of course, on the other hand, you can't walk so fast that you would break a sweat. The thought alone of arriving at meeting room with beads of sweat on your forehead or, God forbid, a damp spot on your dress shirt is even worse than coming a minute or two late. That, at least, you can blame on the traffic, which is not even wrong. Your expensive German car has been stuck behind a garbage truck for a good ten minutes. Inacceptable, of course. You would expect the city to schedule such annoying but probably necessary services at night, when there is no traffic that could be slowed down by it.
After all, you have a reputation to uphold! You are Jameson Pierce, son of the millionaire and successful investor James Pierce. You are also the owner and CEO of one of the most prominent investment companies, Pierce&Co.
You have the best business education money can buy and your decisions influence the fate of thousands of employees of yours. You don't arrive late to board meetings like that!
Still, there is no reason to get agitated yet. If the lift is free, you will arrive perfectly on time.
As you quickly make your way over the office parking lot that is being overshadowed by the 50 story skyscraper you own, you almost collide with an old man in a blue uniform, who is blocking the way into the building by picking up refuse from the ground. Apparently, the wind has knocked over the garbage can next to the entrance, and all the contents have scattered on the pavement. The old man is just bending down to pick up the cans and garbage bags and put them back in the bin.
"Out of the way!" you blurt. Usually, you are nicer to your employees by just curtly ignoring them, but this old man is blocking your way and moves slow as a snail.
"Of course, sir, right away!" he says with a toothless smile, and you almost gag. The old man is disgusting! He looks as if he has been sleeping on the street, and the smell of booze emanating from him makes that assumption very likely. You briefly wonder if he even works for you and decide that if so, he needs to be disciplined for his appearance.
However, you are interrupted by his next sentence.
"I just need to pick up all that garbage here. You could help, sir, that would make it quicker."
What? This filthy old drunkard dares to ask you for help? The audacity!
"Out of my way!" you repeat and push the old man aside. You are now standing directly in front of the revolving door, ready to enter your company's building. Behind you, you can hear the old man mumbling something and then start cackling, like a maniac.
You shrug it off. The man is lucky you don't have time for that right now, as you carefully navigate through the scattered items on the ground. You need to be extra careful not to ruin your thousand dollar shoes or dress pants by stepping into something sticky and foul-smelling.
Even if you weren't in a hurry, there's no way Jameson Pierce would bend down to pick up garbage. You are reasonably proud to have never touched anything that has been in a bin - that's what employees are for, not managers like you.
The board meeting continues as bad as the day had started. It is way too warm in the meeting room and you can't prevent a single drop of sweat forming on your forehead. Of course, you wipe it away with your silk handkerchief and hope nobody has noticed, but that's not the only thing going wrong. Twice in your report, you find yourself at a loss of words. Instead of using the correct technical term, you have to verbally set back half a sentence and explain what you mean in simpler words. How very, very embarrassing.
It comes as no surprise that, when the meeting is finally over, you are in a particularly bad mood. Sadly, the old man from before has left, otherwise you would have fired him on the spot as a therapeutic action.
On the way to your car, you call your secretary to cancel all further appointments today, but as you try to ring the number, you just get the message that no connection could be made.
Just great. So, your office phone system has broken down as well. Angrily, you get in your car to drive over to your office yourself.
You don't get very far. Halfway on the way to your office, there is a grinding noise from the engine and then, your car just stops. Right in the middle of the street. You almost can't believe your bad luck. Angrily, you hit the steering wheel, sounding the horn in the process, but it's no use. Trying to ignore the honking from outside and the rude gestures of drivers finding their way around you, you reach into your pocket to call the car dealership. Luckily, you're well covered for such situations.
You stare blankly at the device in your hand. This isn't your cell phone. Instead of the brand new current flagship model with the big Pineapple on the back, you are looking at the cheap plastic of a no-name device with a cracked screen that is probably ten years old.
"What the...?"
You frantically search all of your pockets, but they are all empty.
You can't help but feel as if you have gone insane. No, there has to be a rational explanation. You have probably just pocketed the wrong phone when you were at the board meeting. Of course, there are immediately nagging voices in your mind that remind you that you had tried to call your office just before getting in the car, or that surely nobody at the board meeting would have such a phone, but you decide to tune them out.
Your office is now only two blocks away. There, you have your tablet with all of your contacts. You can call the car dealership to care for the car and then just end this horrible day.
You get out of the car and ignore the shouting from the other drivers. A line of cars has formed behind your expensive Mercedes, but you ignore that as well and begin to walk. Two blocks don’t sound too bad, but it is a hot day, and you feel uncomfortable quickly. You have to loosen your tie because it feels constricting around your neck. That's not the only piece of clothing feeling wrong. Your step feels heavier, and you have to scratch yourself multiple times, trying to readjust the expensive Italian dress shirt, which is suddenly not sitting right.
Finally, you arrive at your office building. You don't even want to look down on yourself. You can feel your shirt clinging to your body and you feel disgusted by your appearance. Good thing this will all be over soon.
As you approach the elevator, you notice that you don't have your wallet at the ready - you must have forgotten it at the car. Ignoring the fact that you just now have realized the lack of its weight and the fact that you never leave your wallet in your car, you go to the reception for an elevator.
The receptionist, a perfectly styled young woman, watches as you approach and smiles.
"Hello Sir, what can I do for you today?"
"An elevator to my office." you say, adding a "Please." although you don't really feel like it.
"I'm sorry, Sir, but what exactly is your office?"
You look at the receptionist dumbfounded.
"My office." You repeat slower now.
"I don't know you sir, you need to be more specific." The young woman smiles.
That's it.
"What do you mean you don't know me?!" You shout. "I own this fucking place. It is me, Jameson Pierce! Now call me an elevator and then pack your things, you are fired!"
The receptionist looks at you as if she was dealing with a madman.
"Sir, you are not in the company register and I'm sorry, but if you don't leave the premises immediately, I'll call security."
"What are you talking about? I have an office on the 50th floor, which is where I need to go!"
"You can't have an office there, sir, that is the executive offices. Now, please leave."
"Listen, girl." you lean closer, invading her space. "Call. Me. An. Elevator. Or else."
The young woman doesn't even flinch. She presses the intercom and speaks with a steady voice: "Security, there is a madman in the lobby. Please come and remove him."
"You little...", you start, but the young woman is done talking to you. Instead, she turns away and starts to file her nails, waiting for security, which arrives some seconds later.
"Good!" You address the bulky Black man in the dark security uniform. "Could you please tell the girl that I have an office on the top floor."
"I don't think so." the man replies, "But I can show you the exit. Follow me, Sir."
"No. I am the CEO. I own the company! My father James Pierce gave it to me!"
The security guard shrugs his shoulders and takes hold of your arm.
"As far as I know, Mr. Pierce has no children. Leave the premises, Sir."
"But... you can't treat me like that! Do you know who I am?"
The Black man doesn't reply, instead, he begins dragging you towards the door. Unsurprisingly, he is much stronger than you, and your expensive shoes drag over the marble tiles.
"You can't do this!" You yell. "I will sue the company! You will all lose your jobs, just watch!"
"Whatever you say, Sir." The man pushes you outside the building. You stumble a little and then turn around, but the door is already closing.
"Fuck you!" You shout after the guard.
You take a deep breath. Whatever is going on here, it's not good. What to do.
After some consideration, you decide to grab your wallet from your car and take a cab home. There, you will deal with all of this.
As you arrive at your car again, you come just in time to see it being towed away. All running behind it and shouting does not help. You almost cry as you see the towing truck disappear around a corner, along with your car, your wallet and everything else you left in there. As you turn around to leave the scene and walk home, the next disaster is already waiting for you. There is a muddy sinkhole in the sidewalk, left over from some construction work and you don't notice it until it's too late. The next moment, you find your right leg standing in stinking mud all up to your knee. You try to free your leg, of course, and it works, sort of. With a smacking noise, the mud swallows your right shoe whole and leaves you with one dirty sock.
This day can't possibly get any worse, you think, but you are wrong.
Half an hour later, you have to admit that you got lost entirely. You are in a part of the city you have not been in before. Usually, you navigate the city with your cars GPS, but that is not available. You try to use the cheap phone to find out where you are (stoically ignoring the fact that it unlocks just fine with your fingerprint) but the only thing you find is that whoever owns the device has not paid for mobile data. You are offline. You could, of course, ask someone, but it takes some courage to ask a stranger where you are, especially in your current state.
Finally, you realize that you have to ask someone if you want to get home anytime soon. Right now, you find yourself in front of a landfill, which is both a blessing and a curse. It smells absolutely disgusting, but at least the people working here should have a good idea on how you can get home.
You enter the building with the grimy walls and look around.
"Hello?", you ask into the empty room. You are just about to leave again, when a burly man comes from the back. He is at least a head taller than you and twice as broad. His clothing is dirty, and you can see tufts of body hair coming out the top of his shirt and his armpits. Absolutely revolting.
The man looks at you for a second before shrugging his shoulder.
"Whatever." he says. "What's your name, kid?"
Needless to say, you are confused. "I am Jameson Pierce. Could you please..."
However, the big man interrupts you again. "Fancy name. I'll call you Jerry, okay? Come with me, I'll show you around."
"Wh-what do you mean?", you stutter but follow the man automatically.
"You're the new hire, aren't you? Gotta say, you're pretty scrawny, Jerry. But the job has no requirements, so if you don't mind getting your hands dirty, you're gonna fit in fine. Here are the lockers. The name's Hank, by the way."
You look around. You are in a room with a dozen dirty lockers. There is a foul stench everywhere and you have to suppress the urge to gag.
"No, I'm not new here. And I don't want to work here, or get my hands dirty!" you protest, but Hank ignores your lamenting.
"It's not gonna be easy finding an overall in your size, but we have a few small ones here as well. By the way, the overalls are shared with the other boys, hope you don't mind. Ah here. Try this one."
Hank throws you an overall. It is, in theory, blue, but both your nose as well as your eyes tell you one thing: It is entirely unwashed. For days, possibly for weeks. The clothing reeks of sweat, dirt, piss and probably even more things that you don't even want to know about.
"What's wrong with you? I am not gonna wear that."
"Well, what did you think when you came here?" Hank is clearly amused. "You can't work in these clothes of yours, even if they are dirty enough. Come on, strip, while I look for boots."
"I won't do that." you say. However, Hank is already gone. You don't think about it too much and begin to take off your expensive clothes. It is almost painful, but for some reason you... have to? It's a difficult to describe feeling. The dirty blue overall is sitting next to you on the locker room bench and is almost inviting you. You can't help it. You just have to strip. Soon, you stand in the dirty locker room clad in only your silk boxer shorts. You didn't notice that every piece of clothing you have taken off somehow changed. Your expensive dress shirt became a cheap t-shirt with stains on it. Your pants turned into a pair of ripped jeans and your golden wrist watch just... vanished.
"If I were you, I would be going commando." Hank, who had returned with a pair of work boots you can smell from over there, comments. "You're going to move around a lot. Besides, all the boys are doing it.
You look at the overall again, almost gagging now. Some other guys have worn it, rubbing their bare asses and dicks into the fabric. And Hank expects you to do the same. Suddenly, you remember the smell. Sweat, piss and other smells. You shudder. You shudder in... anticipation? As you automatically lower your boxer shorts (who turn into plain cotton briefs as you do), you can feel yourself growing hard at the thought of stepping into this dirty overall. At the same time, you are disgusted beyond measure.
Still, it's almost like your arms are on auto-pilot as you step into the overall and pull it up around your naked body, until the disgusting smell envelops you.
"Glad you like it." Hank grins and playfully grabs your very obvious erection through the dirty fabric. "You might want to meet up with some of the boys here in the locker room after shift, I hear some of them need to release some steam after a good shift. Now, come on. Pull the boots and get moving, we don't have time to waste."
You stare blankly at the big man as you realize what he just said.
"Wait." you stutter. "You think... You think I'm..."
"You're gay." Hank interrupts. "No worries. A lot of the boys are."
You can't believe what he's saying. Gay? You?
"But I am not!"
Hank doesn't even seem surprised.
"You might want to tell that to your hard cock. Anyway. Boots."
He tosses the dirty boots in front of you, and you find yourself bending down to pull them up. They are a little bit too large and feel like they are made of rubber, not leather. As soon as you have both of them on, Hank nods approvingly and then grabs you by the arm, pulling you out of the locker room and towards the garbage truck.
The next few hours pass quickly. The other men (it seems the job has exclusively male company) are friendly but don't go easy on the "newcomer". Everybody calls you Jerry and you have to do the most disgusting work you have ever done: Hauling full bins to the truck, sorting through garbage, cleaning up spilled garbage from the streets. Still, nobody is complaining and so you don't, either. After all, there are more pressing concerns: You feel dirty, your whole body is covered in a thick layer of sweat and dust. Your hands are filthy, and so is your face. And the worst part of it all is: A part of you is enjoying it, a lot. At first, the part is strictly physical. You have a boner pretty much the whole time, and whenever you need to do something especially disgusting, it visibly and violently throbs against your work pants - a fact that doesn't escape the rest of the boys.
After a while, though, more changes set in. The full bins appear to become lighter and easier to move. Of course, that isn't the case: Your muscles grow in front of your eyes, and the overall, that was a bit too big, fits better and better. Hair starts to grow on your chest, your legs and arms, and stubble forms in your face. Your carefully maintained hairstyle dissolves into an unkempt mess on your head.
But the changes don't stop there. Overall, you feel like you are getting more and more youthful. You weren't terribly old to begin with, in your mid-thirties, but a strange energy makes you feel more like end-twenties, mid-twenties and finally, like a man who just turned 21.
At the same time, however, your personality changes as well. You start to talk less and less, and when you do, the words aren't quite as sharp as before. Your education slips away with every word you say, and your vocabulary is replaced by slang, often with a bit of swearing. It becomes more and more difficult to think, too. The boys quickly pick up on this and joke around you not being the sharpest. It's not that they're wrong. You're dumb, if you're being honest. School wasn't for you, so you dropped out at some point. Bit by bit, you really become Jerry, the dumb, sweaty, smelly garbageman. And Jerry, unlike Jameson, enjoys the dirt around him. You can hardly remember being a clean and smart businessman, and that's alright with you. Even though your thoughts are slower, however, the memories of your former self are not gone entirely. Every once in a while, you remember who you used to be. But at the latest when the shift ends and you and the rest of the horny boys are going to the locker room, you decide that this is, indeed, a simpler and a better life.
There is literally a metric ton of more pictures here, in my tip jar - variations of Jerry at the end. If you like my writing, consider joining the riot page for a tip (and ocassional additional pictures)
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Anita Blair was the first guide dog handler in El Paso, Texas, when she graduated from The Seeing Eye in March 1940 with Fawn, a German shepherd. The photo is a black and white photo of Anita being guided by Fawn across a bustling city street in the early 1940s.
Just a month later, Anita and Fawn were crossing a street in El Paso when a car nearly hit her. “Fawn, the fawn-colored German shepherd, with perfect timing checked her mistress’s pace, so that the car sped past without the driver being aware that the young woman could not see,” the El Paso Times reported on April 19, 1940.
Fawn was at her side when she graduated from the Texas College of Mines and Metallurgy – now known as the University of Texas at El Paso, or UTEP – with a bachelor’s degree in 1944. She later earned a master’s degree from Texas State College for Women, now Texas Woman’s University, in Denton.
In 1946, Anita and Fawn were again in the news during a tragic fire at the 23-story Hotel LaSalle in Chicago. According to the June 6, 1946, issue of the El Paso Times, Anita was awakened by screams. “When I opened the door the smoke was so heavy I could taste it,” Anita told the newspaper. “I closed the door but did not want to get Fawn excited. Because of her I remained calm – and probably because of me she did the same.”
Fawn led Anita out the window and down the fire escape – 11 stories down – while the fire raged. Sixty-one people were killed in the fire.
In 1952, Anita became the first El Paso woman – and the first blind woman in any state – to be elected as a state representative. During her time in office, Anita fought for funding for the State School for the Deaf, teacher pay raises, and a bill that allowed women to serve on juries.
Anita returned to The Seeing Eye five more times to be matched with successor Seeing Eye dogs. Her last was Beryl, a black Labrador retriever, in 1990. Anita died in 2010 at the age of 93, and in recognition of her service as a state legislator, is buried in the Texas State Cemetery in Austin.
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Dogs, dogs and more dogs- 141
This is based on a request:
Hi! Can I request if tf141 with Fem! Reade who has a lot more than 4 of German shepherds. The men’s ask her why she has a lot til she answered “Because… they’re my family. They’re all I have left.” She explain She found them in the forest when she was younger and the dogs were puppies. Her family died from car accident. The men’s were so sad hearing her explanation and hug her.
F!Reader, fluff?, Platonic!Relationship
From the minute the men of the task force met you, you had at least one dog around you. Buddy, Ghoul, Beelz, and Cane. They had become the only thing in this world that saved you from what could've been your demise. The men never understood why you were so attached to those dogs. Always petting them, babying them and at times they'd sleep in your bed.
You had become a dog handler for the military, always been deployed with your dog. A year into your service, your first dog ever, Rocky, had passed away, he defended your comrades from an enemy soldier. Took you two months to even decided to work with another dog. And one faithful night, there they were, 4 month old puppies, cold, scared and alone.
Buddy was the first one to accomplish his training, he was specifically trained to detect explosives. He and Soap got along very well, soap helped you at time to keep Buddy in check, always hiding an explosive so he can find it. His name was given after you accidentally kept calling him that name. It was cute and simple, but he was fierce and a devil on the field.
Ghoul, was your second to accomplish his training. He was fast, always willing to jump to anything you told him to. He was trained to search and rescue. The soldiers on base loved him, because on the field he was scary, but once back at base, he was the sweetest and calmest of your dogs. It was funny yet it made sense when the dog got attached to Ghost. One time Ghoul took his dog bed to the front of Ghost's quarters and office door. Now if Ghost is somewhere and you haven't seen Ghoul, just look for Ghost and he'll be there too.
Beelz was your favourite, she was so soft to the touch and so amazing on the field. Her speciality was patrolling and attacking. Something a poor rookie found out one day. She was attached to you, mainly because her brothers were so tough to play with and you gave her spa days. On base if a soldier who had a sneaked out and was coming back to base late at night, they wouldn't fear the actual guards at gate, but they feared Beelz. She would growl and make a mental note to tell on the soldier to either you or Price.
Cane was the beast of them all. He was a smart dog, so the military training him in detection of explosives and search and rescue. He was the serious of them all. Had a whole grumpy personality, silent, sleepy when off duty and the most hard working one of them all. At times you thought he was the dog version of Ghost and Gaz. But he never got along with them, just you. If Belz wasn't around and it was you in your room alone, Cane would be there, letting himself get pampered. But that was only with you. At times, Gaz or Ghost, deepening who won that argument, would run around base with Cane.
One afternoon when the dogs had the day off, you had found yourself in the common room, surrounded by them all. You were all watching a motorsports event. Buddy resting his head on your stomach, Beelz by your side, Ghoul on your other side and Cane by your feet. The men of the task force walked in, saw the image of your dogs and you. The second Ghoul picked up the scent of the lieutenant, he got up and walked to him.
Soap took Ghoul's seat, "Hi, bonnie" he rests his head on your shoulder, taking the remote from you and turning the volume up. You hummed a hello.
Price sat on the other end, "I never asked," he spoke up, making Soap and you turn to him, "why have all these dogs?" he wasn't asking to be rude but out of genuine curiosity. You sighed, looking from Buddy to him, "They are my family," Soap nudges your side with his elbow, "apart from you all, of course." you looked back to the screen. "what'd you mean?" Gaz sat on the other sofa. "A few years ago, I found them in a box, left on the side of the road, my parents and sibling were killed in a car accident, I was going back to their house after the funeral when a puppy by the name of Cane made me stop."
The image was still here.
Cane was the protector of his siblings. He figured if the cars passed slower because of the deers that maybe they'd stop for him on the road. So he stood there until some car would stop. You had just say your final goodbye at the funeral, feeling numb and sick. You saw a figure standing on the road, small but it wasn't moving, your car stopped, got off the car and met Cane. He went to you, he barked and bit the sleeve of your arm, guiding you to the other three pups. In a dirty and dented box three puppies laid there, trying to keep the girl warm. You looked at Cane and then at his siblings, "Don't worry," you picked the box up, put it in the back seat and then picked Cane up. He sat on the passenger seat.
You sigh as you retell the story, "then it was us five and now it's us and you guys." you look up, Soap snuggling to your side, wiping his own tears away. Gaz sitting closer now, a small smile on him, Beelz had found way to him. Price gave you a nod, understanding what they meant to you now. Ghost , Ghoul and Cane all staring at you, funny enough, Ghost was making his adorable puppy eyes. You smile at the image forming in front of you, your own family. It wasn't just the girl and her German shepherds, it was the girl and her favourite beings in this world. The dogs and your men, what more could there ever be.
A/N: this was requested a while back, so apologies if it was barely made.
#cod mw2#cod 141#cod x reader#ghost cod#mw2 141#141 x reader#task force 141#cod#mwii#141#cod mwii#cod ghost#cod price#cod soap#gaz cod#gaz#gaz x reader#soap x reader#john soap mactavish#johnny soap mactavish#captain john price#john price#cod fluff#cod fanfic#cod oc#mw2#modern warfare 2#call of duty#cod modern warfare#call of duty mwii
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Do you have any head cannons about the batkids absolutely loving and adoring Batman/Bruce? I'm obsessed with the idea of them being like "I beg your pardon, but he is our Father™? Our provider? We require his attention and affection at all times pls do not distract him."
omg gonna take the chance to talk abt the batkids & their love languages bc <3333
Dick's is quality time; I can imagine him being downright territoial over his and Bruce's "watching bad Gray Ghost reboots just to laugh at Dad getting mad" time, because it's his absolute favourite.
He gets to lay his tired head on Bruce's lap and sigh pleasantly when his hair is groomed. If you make Bruce tea -- no you don't. That is illegal. Dick does.
And he's just enough of a bitch to be passive agressive about it because "It's our thing; Would you take the mic from Lady Gaga at a concert? No? Then outta my tea!"
Jason's is physical affection!!! And I say that with my whole chest!! This Frankenstein Baby is touch starved and requires all tactillness, always. It's a form of self-reassurance, AND an olive branch; It's his way of saying "I'll always want my father's love" and "You didn't come back wrong; You're not made to be handled roughly. I need to know you're here and alive and content"
and he might play tough guy, might sigh as if this is a favour, but everyone sees him melt. Bonus, the image of Jason's 6'5 ass clinging to Bruce while the poor guy tries making lunch because he CAN, ALFRED, is so cute. Jason for the son who has to lean down to get his hair ruffled like a german shephard.
Tim's is acts of service and gift giving; He's vigilant, observant, pays attention to Bruce with a hawk's eye. Especially those interests he has too little time for. Give me Tim who doesn't know a loving father but when he gets him, he's super attentive. Give me Tim who seeks Bruce's company on his own free will.
Give me Tim who'll bring puzzles home and solve them with Bruce for hours, and who'll listen to mouthpiece after mouthpiece about mechanics and cars, who doesn't like getting dirty but will stay with bruce in his workshop just to watch him work. Give me Tim who gets Bruce gifts despite his dad giving him dissaproving looks. "You shouldn't waste money."
"You're not a waste."
Damian's is words of affirmation -- PLEASE. THIS BABY IS SO READY TO YELL "Batman is actually the best superhero, actually, here's a 30 slide PP presentation as to why. Number one- because I said so" it's very inetresting for Damian; Because if he got anything from Bruce, (Please, please, he begs no one in particular, let me have something from him) is a crushing amount of insecurity.
Bruce is just downright allergic to compliements; He spits them out like a rotten meal, in fact, as if his body just can't hold them down. Damian just. Won't stand for it. "Baba, you look very pretty today. "
"...Thank you, Damian. That's very kind of you to say."
"I recently learned you won't accept compliments to your character, so this will have to do. " Does he give up? Of course not. He's a Robin. They never learned what that is.
Cass, like Dick, loves to spend time with Bruce, -- but what's surprising to the Batdad? Cass is wraith made of warmth and softness. She's stealthy and moves smoothly like wind and punches like ten men. But her love is loud.
Bruce is her only father and she's not timid about saying it. Wordlessly, sure, but no less impactful, with no small amount of passion. Give me Cass who holds hands with Bruce while on the street, and shows him funny videos on her phone, and who texts with him regularly, and who has him as her wallpaper.
That is her father and she carries him lovingly.
#bruce wayne#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#cassandra cain#dc#dc comics#batfamily#batfam#dc imagines#headcanons#text#text post#writing#asks
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