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thou-babbling-brook · 5 months

Text

Sanctuary

AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationship(s): Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe

Word Count: 6344

Tags: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Maria Thorpe, Al Mualim, Original Characters, Assassin's Creed I, Masyaf, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Crusades, Implied Happy Ending

Summary: After stumbling upon a small caravanserai during a narrow escape, Maria has questions about Altaïr's past - particularly, his defining scar.

This fic is based on some of @nebulacrum's thoughts and headcanons about Altaïr's relationship with Al Mualim, along with his lip scar.

You can click here to see @ramshackledtrickster's accompanying pieces!

I hope you guys enjoy!!!

“Baba, we have customers!”

Fahmi glanced up from his ledger, brow furrowed and eyes squinted as the setting sun squeezed through the cracks in the sandstone walls. His son bounced before him while gesturing wildly to the door. His words blended together with the constant ringing present in Fahmi’s ears. Setting his hands against the desk, he rose, groaning as the aches in his joints cried in protest.

“Ameen,” he murmured, hunched as he shuffled to the gnarled wooden door, sand seeping onto the floorboards as the evening gusts of wind swept the hot sand inside. Maryam wiped her hands on her tattered apron before laying them on Ameen’s shoulders.

“Come, it is late, and your father is tired,” she whispered, kissing her son’s head while guiding him away from the door. Fahmi nodded his thanks, shuffling to the window and shielding his eyes from the golden glare of the sun as it sank into the horizon.

“But Mama!” Ameen protested. Maryam shushed him, her words inaudible as she and her son walked through the narrow doorway. Fahmi groaned as he reached down to the floor. Grabbing a few wooden panels, he straightened his back and placed them against the open window. His wrinkled hands trembled with each movement. Each knuckle ached as he flexed his hands and flattened his palms against the wood.

A resounding thud against the door disturbed the sand and dirt gathered by the entrance. Squinting, Fahmi poked an eye through the minuscule cracks in the wood panels. Two camels knelt before the water trough. Their backs were still covered with blankets and saddles. Yet, aside from the rushing winds of sand, the quiet hissing of nearby snakes, and the low chuffs of the camels, Fahmi found no sign of visitors.

Ameen rushed to his side, much to the protest of his mother as he tugged at his father’s robes. “I told you!”

Fahmi quieted the child, hobbling to the door as he pressed his ear against the wood. Another resounding set of knocks, this one more desperate than the first, echoed in the sandstone room. Broken Arabic shattered the silence. A woman, her voice high and exhausted, shouted through the door. Her accent was foreign, reminding them of the soldiers that had marched through the desert not long ago. Maryam tightened her hold on Ameen, pressing him against her front with wide eyes.

Maryam turned to her husband. “We were not expecting any caravans for another week.”

“I know,” he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Ameen curled against his mother as the pounding continued.

The voice begged and pleaded behind the door. Her pronunciations were muddled and awkward, but the desperation caused Fahmi to move his knobby hand. Slowly, he unlatched the door, prying it open enough to peer an eye through the crack. Immediately, he gasped, hobbling back and slamming open the door. The voice (a Frankish woman, it seemed. Though, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between their accents) was not alone. The pale woman stumbled forward, thanking Fahmi in her jumbled Arabic while Maryam covered her mouth.

“Help,” the woman pleaded, her eyes wide as she looked at her companion. Arm slung over her shoulder, a hooded man collapsed against the woman’s frame. An arrow stuck from his side, covered in gore. His linen robes were coated in dark liquids, sand, and dirt, a few notable slashes still seeping blood into the cloth. Maryam rushed to his side, shouting over her shoulder for Ameen to grab freshly drawn bandages, wine, and washcloths. The boy scrambled backward before turning and sprinting through the doorway. Fahmi knelt before the strangers, eyes darting to his wife as they shared a fleeting, anxious look.

“What has happened?!” Fahmi demanded, still breathless as Ameen returned, arms full of supplies as he tripped and stumbled into Maryam. The foreign woman could only stare with furrowed brows in return, her eyes jerking over Fahmi’s face.

“Mercenaries,” the wounded companion spat. It was clear that he was from the region. If not, a traveler passing through to his home. His face remained hidden beneath his cowl, eyes toward the ground while Maryam gestured for the woman to help her. The two laid the man on his back, flat against the cool floorboard. With the glaring sun hidden behind vast mounds of sand, Fahmi reached for two candles, placing them by his wife’s feet once they were lit. “We barely escaped.”

“God has willed it,” Maryam praised. Ameen sat awkwardly by his father’s side, face growing pale as Maryam and the strange woman attempted to treat the man’s wounds. Fahmi laid his hand on Ameen’s back, rubbing it soothingly.

“Ready a room for them,” Fahmi instructed his son. “They will need somewhere to rest if he survives, God willing.” Ameen nodded and rushed off down the side corridor. In the meanwhile, Fahmi came to his wife’s side, his hands laying on the strange man’s stomach while Maryam surveyed the entrance wound.

“It is shallow, praise be,” Maryam explained. The man grimaced, clenching his jaw and nodding. He turned his face to the woman, trading Arabic for a language Fahmi could not quite identify. French? German? It had been so long since he had served in the sultan’s army. He could not recall the languages of their adversaries. The woman shouted frantically back, to which the man turned to Fahmi and Maryam.

“Can you pull it out?” the man asked through gritted teeth. Maryam and Fahmi exchanged glances.

“It would be unwise.”

“I did not ask if it would be wise. I asked if you could.”

The foreign woman seemed to understand enough of their conversation to slap his shoulder, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. She shouted again, her voice choking while her eyes glistened. The man squeezed her forearm, groaning and murmuring something that managed to calm her enough for him to return his attention back to Fahmi.

“You were a soldier. Have you dealt with this before?” the man asked.

“How can you tell?” Fahmi redirected.

“You avoid resting on your knees.”

“You are right, but I have not seen this in decades.”

The man hissed as Maryam accidentally brushed her hand against the arrow. “Please, sir. My… my wife can help, but I will not be able to translate while you pull it out. I need someone with experience to help your wife.”

Fahmi, for the sake of the man, ignored his own, visceral reaction to such information that the strangers were married. Instead, he nodded, motioning for the woman to join him and Maryam by the arrow. Maryam handed the woman a cloth damp with wine, offering a weak smile as Fahmi placed his hand on the man’s stomach and the end of the arrow.

There was a silence before the man’s screams echoed off the sandstone walls, Fahmi quickly ripping the arrow out of the man’s body. The foreign woman slammed her hands down against his side, the damp cloth preventing blood from pouring out. While the woman kept pressure on the wound, Fahmi helped Maryam wrap the bandages around the arrow wound. They bound the cloth snugly around the man’s muscular torso, then turned their attention to the other slashes on his body. To the mysterious man’s credit, his screams only lasted as long as it took for the arrow to come out. Instead, he huffed through his nose, turning on his side and retching as nausea struck him all at once. His wife stroked his hair beneath his cowl, shushing him in their shared language until he fainted from the pain.

“We need to examine his body for more wounds,” Maryam explained. She turned to the man’s wife, hesitating before gesturing to her own eyes, then the rest of the man’s body. It was enough for the foreign woman to understand as she crawled to the other side of the man, raising his robes high enough on his chest to view his other wounds. The trio worked diligently, trading supplies as they wrapped the wounded man’s body.

“How is his face?” Fahmi wondered. He pointed to his own face, and the foreign woman nodded in understanding. However, she paused at the cowl still covering her husband’s head, as though debating whether to look. Her brows knit while her lips formed a pout. Maryam scooted closer, offering to help. The woman hesitated, but finally gestured for Maryam to continue. Fahmi thought nothing of it until Maryam gasped.

“My God! What happened to him?!” she demanded. Fahmi hurried to her side while the woman tilted her head, squinting her eyes. His eyes widened at the scar adorning the man’s chapped lips. A man younger than what his eldest son would be now, God rest his soul. He laid his fingers against the scarred tissue, twisted and stretched from his chin to his cheekbone. A scar several years old, yet poked and prodded at judging by the abnormal healing.

“God help him,” Fahmi murmured, bowing his head and murmuring a prayer. “This is no sword slash.”

“And these are no normal wounds. Who is this man?” Maryam replied quietly. She raised the cowl once more. The man’s wife glanced between the two with a puzzled expression. Ameen returned with the commotion now ended, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the corridor.

“The room is made, Baba,” he spoke. Fahmi nodded, groaning as his knees protested as he stood. The foreign woman stood alongside him, glancing between him and Ameen.

“Room,” Fahmi spoke to the woman, gesturing to his son. “He will take you to your room.” He spoke slowly, overly annunciating his words. The woman nodded along, reaching inside her pockets. She handed him a heavy bag of coins. When Fahmi poked inside, his eyes widened. It was nearly a month’s revenue inside the bag. He protested, shaking his head and shoving the bag back into her hands.

“Too much,” he protested. The woman chuckled tiredly, laying it on the desk regardless of his protests. She knelt down to her husband, slinging his arm around her shoulder and heaving him onto her back. Her muscles strained beneath her tunic and trousers. Fahmi had to admit his astonishment at the woman’s strength, knowing he would be of little help. Regardless, he did loop the man’s other arm around his own shoulder, helping the woman carry her husband to their room. Together, they laid the man down on the bed. Maryam laid a fresh set of bandages, linen cloths, and a bottle of wine by the bed.

“For the wounds,” she explained. The woman nodded, eyes downcast to her husband.

Ameen scampered forward, offering a small bucket. “He might be sick,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed with color. The foreign woman managed a smile, mustering her best Arabic as she murmured her thanks. Fahmi and Maryam bowed their heads in respect, ushering Ameen out of the room and closing the door behind them. The couple shared fearful looks.

Just what kind of man had arrived at their doorstep? Worse – who had this man angered that dared mutilate his face before God?

.~.~.

“I have questions.”

Altaïr retched into the bucket, coughing and sputtering while nausea overcame him. He gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Maria. “Right now?”

“Yes, but I will give you the courtesy of finishing,” Maria decided, scooting closer to the Assassin. Her palm rubbed his back as he heaved.

“How kind,” Altaïr muttered.

“I rather thought so.”

Altaïr heaved into the bucket again. This time, Maria slid her hands to Altaïr’s chest, holding him up while he kept the bucket close to his frame. Freshly changed bandages demonstrated that Altaïr’s wounds were healing appropriately, but they did little to dissuade the nausea. She laid her cheek against his toned back.

“You called me your wife.”

Altaïr panted, setting the bucket down by the bed. “What?”

“Your wife. You called me your wife when you spoke to the couple,” Maria murmured.

Altaïr said nothing. He laid back against the pillows, eyes closed as he steadied his breathing. Maria propped her elbow on the pillow next to him, cheek resting on her palm.

“You were a fool for taking that arrow to your side,” she chastised.

“You would have done the same for me,” Altaïr replied. His eyes remained shut, brows furrowed as beads of sweat cascaded down his face and chest, his robes long abandoned as they sat folded neatly in a nearby chair. The sweating was good, Maria reminded herself, though it was harder and harder to do so with how pale her companion was becoming.

“It does not make you any less a fool,” Maria murmured. She laid her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his torso. Altaïr laid his hand over hers, his heart thumping against her palm.

“I thought you had questions,” Altaïr whispered. He opened an eye, peering down at Maria. She hummed.

“I do. You ignored my first one,” Maria replied.

“It was not a question.”

Maria huffed, pushing on Altaïr’s chest. “Fine. Why did you call me your wife?”

“To avoid suspicion.”

“You could have called me your sister.”

Altaïr paused. “Would you have preferred as such?”

Maria pursed her lips. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for concern,” Altaïr responded tersely. He grimaced as he shifted on the bed, holding his side. Maria sat up, easing Altaïr into a more comfortable position.

“I did not mind it,” Maria clarified. “You know I did not. I… I was just curious.”

Altaïr nodded, though Maria could not tell if he agreed. She fidgeted next to her friend, eyes falling to his lips. His familiar, plump lips, marked by his most defining feature. She leaned forward, reaching up to his lips and pressing her fingertips against his scar. Altaïr stilled. She could feel his body tense under her simple touch.

“They seemed horrified when they saw this,” Maria explained. “I did not understand why. They spoke too fast.” She repeated the few Arabic words she remembered, but they felt clunky and heavy on her tongue. Altaïr’s lips parted slightly, dry and chapped from their journey through the arid dunes. He avoided her eyes, tilting his face to the side as he reached for the goblet of water.

“Your Arabic is improving,” Altaïr complimented.

Maria frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

“You did not ask a question.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Altaïr shot her a look. Maria gulped. Yet, she held her chin high, too proud to back down from her words now. “I thought your scar was a battle wound, like mine. The man seemed to think otherwise.”

“It is, in its own way,” Altaïr muttered.

Maria laid her hand on Altaïr’s cheek, turning his face toward hers. She studied his scar, eyes narrowed as her fingers returned to trace the sensitive flesh. His upper lip split into his scar, providing a small slit into his mouth and exposing a sliver of his teeth and gums. It was barely noticeable from afar, and rarely had any man reached Altaïr’s face long enough to observe how his scar melded into his face. But for Maria, it had been the first feature she noticed, the cool metal of his hidden blade nicking her throat while she sneered. Admittedly, it had terrified her upon their first meeting. No man’s lips should form such a gruesome tear, after all. She was surprised it took the older couple so long to notice it.

Maria was no doctor, but she had experienced more agonizing pains and wounds than the average man could dream of. The scar marked just above her left eyebrow proved it, nicked by a Saracen sword in a battle alongside Richard I. For years, Maria wore such a wound with honor. It was her first permanent scar since she had traded a wedding ring for a sword. A sign that no man, nor woman, could confine her. An affront to the English nobility that once trapped her. Such scars were not becoming of a woman, so Maria puffed her chest and bore hers with pride. Her scar was not a trap, but an escape from desirability as she wandered to the ends of the Earth. Her scars were gnarled and twisted and deep, but they had healed.

Altaïr’s most prominent scar differed in this regard. It was gnarled and twisted and deep like her own, but the flesh had not healed as hers had. Her eyebrow scar healed over a decade ago. Altaïr’s lip scar looked nearly as old, but the flesh had not healed. Not until recently, at least. The outer edges of his scar were light, contrasting against his deep tan and dark hair. The edges were fully healed. His lower lip and chin had been spared as well, the scar a faint pale against his skin. But whereas these areas were faint and light, the rest of the scar remained an irritated red. Not infected, but irritated, as though prodded at constantly. The dark shade of his upper lip failed to conceal the redness of his scar. Only in the last month or so had it begun to heal, slowly fading into a pinkish red.

Even as Maria trailed her fingers along his scar, Altaïr sat eerily still. Too still, as though he was bracing for impact. His jaw was clenched. His biceps tensed as Maria moved closer, her face lingering by his. She guided her fingertips to his jaw, brushing her thumb against his jawline.

“You should shave,” Maria hummed, eyes glancing up. “Your face is growing scraggly.”

Altaïr cocked a brow. “Is that a question?”

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips, brows raised. “No. A suggestion.”

Altaïr stared at her. Those piercing, golden eyes that made even Maria shift under his gaze. She remained so close, barely a breath away from his lips. The puff of air from his nose as he exhaled tickled her own.

“I can do it for you,” Maria suggested.

Altaïr almost smiled. “This feels like a demand rather than a suggestion.”

Maria rolled her eyes, huffing as she stood and walked to their things. Searching his bag, Maria located a small razor amongst his barren things. Throughout their time together, he always packed lightly. Truth be told, she was surprised he even possessed a razor. She returned to the bed, guiding Altaïr to sit up further with a candle in hand. She set the candle down on the bedside table, then unsheathed his razor. Carefully, Maria raised the blade to the Assassin’s jaw and scraped away a few wrily strands of curly, dark hair.

“No water?” Altaïr asked.

“You will be fine,” Maria remarked, eyes focused on her work as she brought the blade closer to her thumb. “Besides, it is a trim. I rather like your facial hair. You should let it grow out.”

It did not escape Maria’s notice how Altaïr tensed at her words. For his sake, Maria paid it no mind and continued her work, trimming his coarse hair. A moment of comfortable silence passed, interrupted only by the scraping of the razor against Altaïr’s sharp jaw and the snoring of their camels just outside the minuscule caravanserai. Much to Maria’s surprise, it was Altaïr who broke the silence.

“You said they were shocked to see my face?” Altaïr spoke. His words were uncharacteristically soft.

Maria frowned. “Not your face, your scar.”

“Is it not one and the same?”

Maria stopped in her tracks. She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she tracked Altaïr’s movements. His golden gaze avoided hers, cast down upon the scratchy sheets. His lips were parted ever so slightly, Maria watching as he quickly swiped his tongue over them. Her eyes flicked to his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. Once again, his body was tense, muscles straining and breath shallow.

“What makes you say that?” Maria questioned, tone harsher than intended.

Altaïr’s throat bobbed as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “What makes you ask?”

“No, no,” Maria argued, setting the razor down against the bed. “We are not starting this. Altaïr, what makes you say that?”

There was a long pause. In the past, Maria would have dropped the subject entirely, writing it off as some sort of Assassin trick to dig into the deepest pits of her heart and mind. Now, however, Maria held her chin high as she forced Altaïr to keep her gaze, her heart thumping against her chest.

“How did the scar upon your brow form?” Altaïr asked.

Maria closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Altaïr, I am not going to–”

“Do you want to know or not?” He snapped. Maria’s brow furrowed, and Altaïr quickly cleared his throat. He repeated his question, his voice much softer and weaker than before.

Maria stared incredulously, but ultimately decided to play along. “My first battle. One of Salāh ad-Dīn’s men slashed my brow.”

Altaïr nodded. “Were you shamed for it?”

Maria shrugged. “A few soldiers from my infantry joked here and there, but no.” She squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow. “What are you getting at?”

“In Islam,” Altaïr explained, “it is believed God places all of our senses and beauty into our faces. It is why Muslims avoid striking the face.”

Maria scoffed. “My scar begs to differ.”

Altaïr did not laugh, though she did see the corners of his lips tug up in a phantom smile. “It is taboo to do so. It can leave the face… disfigured,” he explained. “It is not so easy to conceal as a scar on one’s arm or leg.”

Maria’s expression fell. She hesitated before she finally asked her burning question. “Where did you get your scar?”

“Who do you think?” Altaïr all but answered.

Maria should not have been surprised. She only knew of Altaïr’s master through his stories and his codex (Maria could not help it – his journal had been left wide open). Despite Altaïr’s almost nostalgic tone toward a man who had betrayed him time and time again, each story left a sour taste upon her tongue. Now, her tongue tasted bile and copper in disgust.

“How old were you?” she demanded, her words eerily still. Her blood boiled.

“Old enough to know better,” Altaïr replied, quiet.

“Horseshit. How old were you?”

“Thirteen winters.”

Maria stood from the bed, pacing back and forth by the side. “You were a boy. A boy!” She rustled her dark locks from their meticulously braided bun as she grasped and tugged at her hair.

“I knew better than to speak out of turn,” Altaïr replied, his voice raised almost defensively. “I owed everything to him. My progress, my training, my life. He cared for me, in some twisted way, after my father’s death.”

Maria flocked to his side, kneeling before him on the bed as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb grazed over his scar. She tried not to gag imagining a small boy, voice yet to crack, begging the one guardian in his life for mercy. Apologizing desperately for words that should not have offended an allegedly wise leader so greatly.

“That is one thing,” she managed once her voice was composed enough. “But it should be healed. It should be healed by now. For God’s sake, Altaïr, you are twenty-seven! Why is it only now healing?!”

Altaïr caught his lip between his teeth. “I have never been good at staying my tongue. I needed reminders.” His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. Maria nearly choked as he spoke. “If I would not close my mouth, he would pry it closed for me.”

Maria stared. What else were she to do? She stood, pinching the bridge of her nose while Altaïr silently stared – no, glared – down at his own hands.

“Your master would mutilate you before God,” Maria murmured, her head spinning, “and you would defend him?”

“He was an ordinary man,” Altaïr replied softly, “in control of illusions.”

“This is no illusion, Altaïr.”

“I know.”

Maria tossed her hands in the air before setting them on her head, pacing once more. She inhaled, standing and placing her hands on her hips. She gestured to Altaïr, speechless as she attempted to form words on her heavy tongue. “For thirteen years, Al Mualim slit and prodded your mouth to silence you, on top of his manipulation. As a boy, I understand your hesitance, but you never once fought back?”

Altaïr stood, hand clasping his side while he straightened his back. Maria took a step back, eyes wide but jaw tensed. “How do you fight a man who thinks himself God?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “What would I have gained? Where would I have gone?” Altaïr winced and sat back down, eyes cast down shamefully. Maria sighed, sitting next to him on the sheets.

“Assassins are not always required to hide their faces,” Altaïr confessed quietly. He tenderly rubbed his stub of a ring finger, thumb brushing over the seared and scarred skin. “Most lower their hoods in Masyaf if they are not patrolling. There is no reason to hide amongst brothers.”

“And you?” Maria dared ask.

Altaïr shook his head, running a hand through his coarse curls. “I was no brother. I was his personal weapon.” His throat bobbed, and Maria tore her face away when she noticed his golden eyes begin to glisten in the flickering candlelight. “He created me. He could mold me into whatever he pleased. He could slice and strike my face. He could shave my beard and treat me not just as a boy, but a dog. He could isolate me. He could tear my name from me and make me the son of no one, loved by nobody. He could do whatever he pleased.” He turned to Maria, voice wavering as he spoke. “Where would I have run to? Who would I have hidden behind that would not whisper my arrogance to Al Mualim?”

There was silence as both Altaïr and Maria turned to stare at the cracked sandstone before them. “My face was unsightly, he told me,” Altaïr whispered. “Disrespectful, even.” He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees while he craned his head and rubbed his eyes. “Better kept hidden beneath a cowl, even in the arms of my brothers.” Altaïr swallowed. “He was correct.”

“No,” Maria opposed. “Your scar is not unsightly. It is not disgusting, or disrespectful, or anything that blabbering fool would have you believe. Your face is not unsightly. You are not unsightly.”

Altaïr chuckled, though it nearly sounded like a sob. “You do not have to lie, Maria.”

“I am not!” Maria all but shouted, coming in front of Altaïr and bending her knees slightly, stopping when she was level with him.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” she pleaded. Maria cupped each of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the heavy, dark bags beneath his kohl-covered eyes. “You are kind and good and curious and wise and beautiful.”

It was Altaïr’s turn to scoff. “Beautiful? I hoped in our time together, you would have some respect for me, even if minute.”

Maria bit back an argument. Instead, she reached for his hands, squatting on the ground while she squeezed them. “You are not some ‘ugly, old Assassin’ beneath your hood,” she murmured, briefly lowering her voice and swapping her accent to mimic his words from Cyprus. Once she had seen his face in Cyprus for the first time, she had thought he was joking during their initial meeting with his Cypriot allies. Now, staring into his piercing eyes, Maria’s heart shattered knowing he had truly not lied. At least, he did not believe so.

She held his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle. “You are so beautiful. Strikingly so. In fact, it is embarrassing to admit,” she managed a soft laugh. “You are not some broken, shattered weapon. You are the Mentor of the Assassins. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are Altaïr. And Altaïr is more than enough.”

Altaïr was quiet. Maria did not press for an answer. His tear-stained cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight, were enough to signal the power of her words. Her heart pounded as she imagined the utter agony one man could carry. Maria had little autonomy under Robert’s control amongst the Templars, but Altaïr had possessed none under Al Mualim since the age of eleven. His name was stripped from him. His masculinity was torn away in favor of a boy to manipulate. His face was mutilated simply because Al Mualim could. To be at the mercy of a man with none, who believed himself worthy of the powers of God… Maria choked back her tears, instead burying her face in his hands and kissing each palm.

“Altaïr,” she murmured, gazing up into his tearful eyes, “you are everything to me.” She cupped his cheek, ignoring her own hot tears as she smiled solemnly. “You have given me a fresh start. You have given me compassion, wisdom, love.” She swallowed a sob, standing before repositioning herself on the bed. Altaïr still said nothing, his eyes simply following Maria with every movement.

“Please,” Maria begged softly. She cupped her hands around Altaïr’s. “We are more than the instruments people would craft us to be.” Shuffling forward, Maria laid his hands over her heart, her own hands keeping them flat against her chest. “You are Altaïr. I am Maria. That is all we need be.”

Maria could not recall what resulted in Altaïr’s lips melding perfectly against her own. Perhaps it was the thump of her heartbeat. Perhaps it was their matching tears and snotty noses. Perhaps it was Altaïr’s released anguish. Or perhaps, it was merely Altaïr distracting himself from his nausea. Whatever the case, Maria gladly opened her mouth, finding Altaïr’s mouth absolutely delectable as her fingers combed through his curly locks. It was not the first time their lips had met so fervently. It was not even the first time their lips had met with so much love. But it was the first time their lips had met so unencumbered. There was no hesitance as Altaïr deepened their kiss, no weariness behind his lips. Nothing but relief and love and catharsis.

Eyes fluttering, Maria dug her fingers into Altaïr’s coarse hair. The warmth of their breaths mingled with each kiss. She sank her teeth into Altaïr’s lower lip, tugging it and slipping her tongue into his mouth. All the while, Altaïr pressed fervently in return, deepening their kiss as he tugged her forward. Maria’s head spun as her lips lingered by Altaïr’s long after they parted for air. His breath was hot and ragged on her cool skin. She tilted her head up, squinting her eyes as she analyzed his face. Tears stained his sharp cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy. Even with his mouth shut, Maria could see his teeth and gums through the exposed sliver of his scar.

Maria cupped both of his cheeks, her thumbs swiping the stray tears from his skin. She watched as his eyes crinkled and his lips tugged into an awkward hint of a smile. His curved nose, slightly crooked from Maria’s boot to his face only a few months prior, bounced the candlelight off his face. The flickering light highlighted his strong, sharp cheekbones. His eyes, a piercing swirl of gold and amber, were only emphasized by the kohl beneath them. Every inch and crevice of his face captivated her. The longer she stared, the more he strained against her palms as if tugging away from the attention. Tears welled in his eyes as her hold left him utterly exposed. But she could not let him tear away. His dark curls and his striking gaze and his full lips and his winding scar and his scruffy beard and his tan skin enchanted her very being.

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

“Say something,” Altaïr croaked.

Maria did not. Instead, she leaned forward, peppering gentle kisses to his scar. Maria was careful not to irritate the slit in his upper lip any more than it already was. Rather, she gingerly trailed her velvet lips up along his scar, leaving small caresses along the trail. His facial hair – not quite a beard, but not quite stubble – tickled her cheeks. She smiled.

“My first demand as your wife,” Maria murmured between kisses to his scar, “is that you must grow your beard out. I am fond of it.”

The world spun still with her words. Beneath her gentle touch, Maria could feel Altaïr’s body stiffen. “What?”

“Oh honestly, Altaïr, you cannot just stop listening to me immediately!” Maria huffed. “You have to wait at least a year.”

“I do not understand.” His voice shook – perhaps from nausea, perhaps from nerves, or perhaps from both. Maria laid a hand on his bandaged chest. His heart threatened to thump out onto the floor. She grinned.

“We have been like this for many months,” she explained. “Stumbling around our feelings like some prepubescent children. One might think us virgins the way we stammer about.”

“Aside from insulting our maturity,” Altaïr spoke, his face contorted in confusion, “I am assuming you have a point to this.”

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. “Hush, let me get there.” The Englishwoman grasped Altaïr’s hands in her own, her thumbs stroking his calloused palms. “But tonight… something… it is difficult to explain.” She inhaled and squeezed his hands. Her pale, cerulean eyes met his amber stare. “I love you. I think you and I know that intimately by now. But it was not until tonight, with the mercenaries, the arrow, your scar… that I understood the extent of my love.”

Altaïr furrowed his brow. “I still do not understand. Why now?”

“Because for the first time,” Maria breathed, “I thought I would lose you.”

“This is not my first arrow. This is not even our first battle.”

“No, but I have never seen you so injured or ill. I have never seen you, the great Altaïr, retching over a bucket with bandages covering your entire torso.”

“If you do not make a point soon, I fear you may again.”

Cautiously, Maria handed Altaïr the water-filled chalice, waiting until he had drunk his fill to continue. Her throat swelled with tears as she gulped down her pride. “You have been so truly and utterly vulnerable tonight. You have shared with me the deepest parts of your pain. You have let me care for you and stay by your side.” She smiled through her tears, rolling her eyes as she wiped a few away and scoffed at herself. “Oh good God, this is humiliating.”

Altaïr managed a smile. A true smile. Not the phantom of a smile, or a mildly amused look. A small, bright smile that tugged his lips into his cheeks and formed a pair of dimples. Good God, Maria had never even noticed that before, and the revelation was not aiding her poor attempt at an explanation. “No, it is not,” he assured quietly. It was his turn to cup her pale cheeks. He swiped a tear from her eye, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maria inhaled sharply, praying that God would not see her break into some weeping wildflower.

Mustering the courage and dignity that remained, Maria tightened her jaw and stared up at Altaïr. “I would walk with you to the ends of time, Altaïr. To our glory, to our doom, I do not care. As long as I walk beside you and chastise you for your foolish decisions to put yourself in front of arrows for the rest of my life, I will be content.”

Altaïr hesitated. “How can you make such a decision so hastily?”

Maria laughed. “My life is nothing but hasty decisions, Assassin.” She crawled beside him from the edge of the bed, wiggling by his side to find a more comfortable position. “But this is not one of them.”

Altaïr laid his head against the creaking headboard, closing his eyes. “So, you have decided that you are my wife now? I have no say in the matter?”

“Is that a question?”

“Maria.”

“No,” Maria answered plainly. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Altaïr taunted.

“I am a stubborn woman. You are a hot-tempered man. One will wear the other down eventually,” she teased.

“What if I said no?”

“You would not have called me your wife, then.”

Altaïr grinned. “That is true.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Maria, who quickly shot out her hand to ease the pain in his side. “Then you will need to learn more Arabic. It was horrendous before.”

Maria feigned a gasp. “You said I was improving!”

“Both can be true,” Altaïr countered.

“Fine. Next time, I will leave you to die amongst the vipers and vultures in the dunes.”

“You would not.”

“I will stab the arrow back into your side, Altaïr.”

“Now that, you would do.”

The two glared at one another, squinting their eyes and puffing their chests, until finally, Altaïr began to gag. Maria swooped for the bucket, lifting it to her lover’s face before he heaved into it. He murmured apologies, but Maria merely shushed him, her fingers stroking his curly hair.

“You are still a fool for taking that arrow,” she reminded.

“You still would do the same,” Altaïr grumbled, panting into the bucket before wiping his mouth and gulping down what water remained inside the goblet. Maria kissed the top of his head, grabbing the nearest rag and wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

“You are not a weapon, Altaïr,” she reminded, careful as she dabbed around his scar. “You are a man. You do not need to earn my love or any other through reckless acts. You are a man, and that is enough.”

Altaïr nodded, and Maria prayed he believed her.

#assassin’s creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad #maria thorpe #ac1 #fanfiction #ac fanfic #i love fucking bitches up #this took me like three days to write #but I'm very proud of how it turned out!!#and I hope u guys enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it #poor Altaïr <:(#im evil >:3 #altmar #altaïria

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honeydjarin · 2 years

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3. GLOVES

DINCEMBER 2022

DIN DJARIN X READER

Din longs for so much more, but he never thought you could see him as anything other than a friend.

genre: fluff, light angst

word count: 835

a/n: I guess this is going to play out like a series now, albeit one told in micro scenes rather than a fully flushed plot. I hope you all enjoy this part!

PREVIOUS || SERIES MASTERLIST

The leather of Din’s gloves pulls taught against his knuckles as his hands clench into fists by his sides. If he didn’t know how sturdy the gloves are, he would fear that the well worn material might tear apart at the seams. He’s not so sure he isn’t breaking apart just so himself. Surely you can see it, the way you pull at the loose threads of him until he is at risk of unraveling.

Din is glad you aren’t looking at his hands. You’re practically glowing, excitement from your solo journey into town clear to see. Your eyes search for his, the dark T of his visor giving nothing away. It’s his only defense now.

His beskar covers the spiraling emotions that he’s certain would be clear on his face for you to see. He hides everything about himself. His whole life is tucked away between steel walls and dark fabric, never revealing anything more than he has to. Hiding is just a part of survival. It always has been. From the moment he took his Creed, he accepted that there may never be another time when someone truly knows him. But somehow, you and the child have wormed your way beneath the beskar and made a home in the space beside his heart.

He didn’t mean to fall so hard.

When Din took you on as a member of his crew, with no set parameters to your job beyond helping to keep the ship flying and the kid safe, it had been a practical decision. As much as Din tried to care for Grogu to the best of his abilities, he was standing alone against the entire Galaxy, and when it comes to shooting down bounty hunters or playing with the child, he’s always forced to choose the latter. Having someone to help bear that weight was necessary in order to find some semblance of balance between the two.

You were soft, breakable, nothing like the usual mercenaries and assassins that Din associates with. He nearly didn’t take you with him, too afraid of you becoming another burden rather than a much needed helping hand. But when a fight broke out and you held your own, albeit a little rough in your form, a scrappy but relentless fighter, he realized that you were exactly what he needed in his crew. He just didn’t know how much more than that you would become.

Even with his growing affections, Din never suspected you might feel the same way. He’s your boss, technically. And while the two of you stand on equal footing when it comes to decisions made around the Crest, he always doubted you would ever see him as anything more. He wants nothing more than to pull you to him and hold you close. He’s terrified of pushing you away.

“—think you would like it.” You smile, content to share with him the tales of your journey with Din.

He doesn’t hear everything you're saying, although he wishes he did. This is an important moment, after all. You’re happy, relaxed, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the need to keep a close eye on his surroundings. There are no threats hiding in the trees or lurking in the town.

Blood rushes to his ears and burns across his cheeks as you lean in a little closer as you tell your story. He feels like a teenager with a crush, a real one, not whatever he had with Xi’an when he first set out to make a name for himself. This is something deeper, long term, terrifying.

You know more about Mandalorian customs than most seem to. His people were never just ghosts or characters in fairy tales to you, even if most of what you know pertains to the aruetiise who claimed to be New Mandalorians prior to the glassing of Mandalore. You accepted him for who he is, Creed and all, from the very beginning. Curiosity is inevitable, but you’ve never asked him to take off his helmet, to give up everything he is.

Din never believed you could see him as more than a friend, not with so much standing between you. But you’re so close now, eyes alight. Maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

He hopes he was wrong.

Din relaxes his hands, his fingers stiff as they uncurl from his palms. He reaches out, pulling the cloak from your shoulders before the snow can melt into the clothes beneath. He doesn’t want you getting sick.

He can feel the heat of you even through the leather of his gloves. It’s not the first time he wishes he could take the gloves off, to reach out and feel the texture of your skin against bare fingertips. He wishes he didn’t have to hide.

He sets the cloak aside and reaches out for you again, taking your hand in his. A fortress stands between your palms.

“Next time we’ll go together,” he says. “I promise.”

NEXT PART

taglist: @dontletyourchildrenwatchthis

#dincember 2022 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x gn!reader

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neochannel · 1 year

Video

youtube

i7 2600k 3,8 GHz vs 4,5 GHz vs 5,0 GHz Test in 14 Games or E3 1270 vs i7 2600k OC

CPU benchmark Intel Core i7 2600 3.8 GHz vs i7 2600k 4,5 GHz vs i7 2600k 5,0 GHz in 14 Games or Xeon E3 1270 vs i7 2600k OC Comparison of 2014 Intel processor at 3.8GHz, 4.5GHz, 5.0GHz. And how does overclocking affect the 4-core i7 2600k. p.s. Detailed graphs with CPU benchmark results. One of the best on youtube. 👇👇👇 Look at what bonuses I offer to sponsors: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCO346ZpBN8jnD0fsqgF2stA/join Voluntary donations for the channel: https://www.youtube.com/c/NeochannelNeochannel/about

Timecode: 00:00 System configuration 00:32 Metro Exodus (2019) 02:49 Assassins Creed Origins (2017) 05:30 Crysis 3 (2013) 08:35 Far Cry 5 (2018) 10:02 Need for Speed: Payback (2017) 12:24 Tom Clancys Ghost Recon Wildlands (2017) 13:50 Watch Dogs 2 (2016) 17:10 Shadow of the Tomb Raider (2018) 20:35 The Witcher 3 Wild Hunt (2015) 23:50 Assassin's Creed Odyssey (2018) 25:32 Battlefield 5 (2019) 28:37 Grand Theft Auto V (2015) 31:07 Gears 5 (2019) 32:35 Borderlands 3 (2019) 34:50 All benchmark results

System configuration: CPU 1: Intel Core i7 2600k (3.8 GHz) CPU 2: Intel Core i7 2600k (4.5 GHz) CPU 3: Intel Core i7 2600k (5.0 GHz) MOTHERBOARD 1: Asus P8P67 (rev 3.1) RAM 1: DDR3 TEAM GROUP Vulcan (2х8 Gb), 2133 MHz GPU: GeForce GTX1080 8 Gb (GDDR-5x) GigaByte AORUS SSD: M.2 Team T-Force cardea 240 Gb (SWAP files) HDD: Seagate barracuda 5900 rpm, 2 Тб (Games) Cooler: Custom water cooling (rad 120x240 mm) Power: FSP EVEREST 85PLUS 800W

I apologize in advance for the quality, youtube reduces the quality in some places.

____ #intel #i72600k #E31270 #i72700k #i72600 #corei72600k #corei72600 #stock #benchmark #corei5 #GigaByte #aorus #gtx1080 #AsusP8P67 #Asus #z390 #intel #farcry #assassinscreed #metroexodus #assassinscreedorigins #crysis3 #farcry5 #needforspeedpayback #shadowofthetombraider #thewitcher3wildhunt #assassinscreedodyssey #battlefield5 #gears5 #borderlands3

#youtube

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hipsterpotomu5 · 2 years

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WIP Folder

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have wips. I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either. Sketch titles? Comics? Dnd campaigns? If you have an unfinished project, it counts!!

jesus christ ok so @acewizard tagged me in this WIP thing boy hey Ren do you love the color of the sky? well here we go i guess and im even so nice im labeling them

Apex Legends Strange Addiction au where they’re all professional wrestlers??

Assassins Creed plot ideas :3 Eivor and Kass

Untitled document (space themed ttrpg campaign)

Critical Role Beau and Molly go wine shopping beau and yasha fight molly and yasha werewolf keyleth and monster hunter vex

Cyberpunk 2077 V preps to leave with aldecaldos V makes a concert scroll for Judy V develops cyberpsychosis

dnd campaigns ancient being oneshot big city Cosmic Collapse deep sea stuff Dragon Heist Escort short campaign goofy shit Gwynnyth Pirates Planescape Rod of Seven Parts Star Spawn oneshot the disco elysium inspired world Uprising

HFY Crash Landing Dropping the Bombs haha depression but in space Homesick The Goddamned Power Button watching the waves break

Horizon Zero Dawn idea HZD Where the Wild Things Are

Little Witch Academy what if Chariot didnt forgive Croix right away and it was super angsty for absolutley no reason

My original ideas Hedge and Wick pirate captain story idea overall story ideaaaaa Totally evil idea (not evil at all >:( stop lying, past me) untitled document vampire story idea Healing Running ffrom guards G and T1 G and T G and T idea The Birds

Overwatch god help me trying to type all these out. why am i doing this to myself. ren why have you inflicted this on me pharah and mercy bonnie and clyde something about healing Sundaes/sundays the one where reaper saves pharah Within these walls zombie shit And Yes, We Can Keep Living Like This I Learned To Lie Dying to Live angsty pharmercy Sin on a Silver Platter untitled document (Couldnt) put me back Together Again Heart’s A Mess Safeties Off You Liar See the World pokemon au Shipwreck deserted island au there were like, honest to go 50 more docs that each had like a 1 sentence idea in them, jesus, i cant list them all i cant do it im moving on

Pokemon ______ region (at the beginnning of the year i got hyperfixated on making a pokemon romhack with my own custom region. yea that didnt go anywhere lol) The Last of Us college au Where the Light Is

good god, thats all of it. that doesnt count the at least 75-100 one sentence docs i have in there, and it doesnt count my “ideas” docs for some like overwatch and my non fandom writing, which probably combined have over 100 more ideas/paragraphs/chapters anyway. im not tagging anyone but if u follow me and you want to bare your soul to the world, feel free lol

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apexlocklocksmith · 2 months

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The Locksmith's Creed: Protecting Denver's Citizens One Key at a Time

Original Source: https://apexlock.blogspot.com/2024/04/the-locksmiths-creed-protecting-denvers.html

At Apex Lock and Key Colorado, the essence of the locksmith's creed is embodied in every service provided to the citizens of Denver. With a deep-rooted commitment to safeguarding homes, businesses, and vehicles, Apex Lock and Key stands as a beacon of security in the Mile High City. Founded on principles of professionalism, expertise, and unwavering dedication to customer safety, Apex Lock and Key Colorado sets the standard for locksmith services in Denver. This article delves into the pivotal role that locksmiths play in ensuring the security and peace of mind of Denver's residents, highlighting the comprehensive services offered by Apex Lock and Key and the trusted partnerships forged with the local community.

The Founding of Apex Lock and Key

Apex Lock and Key Colorado was founded by a group of dedicated locksmiths with a passion for ensuring the safety and security of Denver's citizens. Their mission is to provide reliable and professional locksmith services that protect homes, businesses, and vehicles with precision and care.

Commitment to Denver's Safety

Apex Lock and Key Colorado takes pride in its commitment to Denver's safety. With a team of skilled locksmiths who are dedicated to their craft, they strive to uphold the highest standards of security and ensure that each customer feels safe and protected in their everyday lives.

The Importance of Locksmith Services in Denver

Key Role in Home Security

Locksmith services play a crucial role in maintaining home security in Denver. From installing new locks to repairing existing ones, locksmiths like those at Apex Lock and Key Colorado help homeowners safeguard their property and loved ones against intruders and break-ins.

Commercial Security Solutions

Businesses in Denver rely on locksmiths to provide comprehensive security solutions to protect their assets and employees. Apex Lock and Key Colorado offers a range of commercial locksmith services, including access control systems, keyless entry, and master key systems, tailored to meet the unique security needs of businesses in the area.

The Locksmith's Commitment to Security

Professionalism and Expertise

Apex Lock and Key Colorado is known for its professionalism and expertise in the locksmith industry. Their team of skilled technicians undergoes rigorous training to stay updated on the latest security trends and technologies, ensuring that they can handle any locksmith challenge with confidence and competence.

Quality Products and Technology

To uphold their commitment to security, Apex Lock and Key Colorado uses only the highest quality products and cutting-edge technology in their locksmith services. Whether it's installing smart locks, rekeying locks, or providing emergency lockout assistance, customers can trust that they are receiving top-notch security solutions from Apex Lock and Key Colorado.

Services Offered by Apex Lock and Key

Residential Locksmith Services

Apex Lock and Key Colorado offers a range of residential locksmith services, including lock installation, repair, and key duplication. Whether you've been locked out of your home or need to enhance your home's security, their team is here to help with efficiency and care.

Automotive Locksmith Solutions

From car key replacements to unlocking vehicles, Apex Lock and Key Colorado provides reliable automotive locksmith solutions to help you get back on the road quickly and safely. Their experienced technicians are equipped to handle all types of automotive lock and key issues with precision and speed.

Commercial Security Services

Business owners in Denver can rely on Apex Lock and Key Colorado for comprehensive commercial security services tailored to their specific needs. Whether you need to upgrade your business's security system or install new access control measures, their team is dedicated to safeguarding your business assets and ensuring a secure working environment.

Securing Homes and Businesses in Denver

Customized Security Assessments

At Apex Lock and Key Colorado, we understand that every home and business in Denver has unique security needs. Our team provides customized security assessments to ensure that your property is protected with the right solutions tailored to your specific requirements.

Installation and Maintenance Services

From high-tech locks to advanced security systems, our expert locksmiths offer top-notch installation services to fortify your property against intruders. We also provide reliable maintenance services to ensure that your security measures remain in top condition for ultimate protection.

Emergency Locksmith Assistance

24/7 Emergency Response

Locked out of your home in the middle of the night or facing a security breach at your business? Fear not! Our team is available 24/7 for emergency locksmith assistance to help you regain access to your property swiftly and securely.

Rapid and Reliable Service

When emergencies strike, you need a locksmith you can trust. At Apex Lock and Key Colorado, we pride ourselves on our rapid and reliable service. You can count on us to be there promptly to address your urgent locksmith needs with efficiency and professionalism.

Community Engagement and Involvement

We believe in giving back to the community we serve. Through active community engagement and involvement, we strive to build strong relationships with Denver residents. Your safety and security are not just our business – they are our shared commitment to safeguarding our community.

Conclusion: Safeguarding Denver's Community

At Apex Lock and Key Colorado, our locksmiths embody the creed of protecting Denver's citizens one key at a time. Whether securing homes, providing emergency assistance, fostering trusted partnerships, or engaging with the community, we are dedicated to safeguarding Denver and ensuring the safety of its residents. Choose Apex Lock and Key Colorado for all your locksmith needs and experience the difference of working with a team that cares about you and your security.

In conclusion, Apex Lock and Key Colorado's unwavering dedication to protecting Denver's citizens one key at a time is a testament to their commitment to safety and security. Through their range of services, emergency assistance, and trusted partnerships with the community, Apex Lock and Key exemplifies the locksmith's creed of reliability and protection. With Apex Lock and Key Colorado at the forefront of safeguarding Denver's homes and businesses, residents can rest assured that their security needs are in the hands of experts who prioritize their safety above all else.

#Locksmith Services Denver

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skteeshirt · 5 months

Text

Luke Combs 2024 Tour T-Shirt

Luke Combs 2024 Tour T-Shirt, Growing Up and Getting Old Tour Shirt

Important Notes: 1/ Please note that the mockup images and product titles displayed are for illustrative purposes only. We offer a diverse range of custom products, and it is crucial for customers to select the appropriate shirt style based on their specific requirements. 2/ If you want to wear oversized, please up to 1-2 sizes. 3/ We have many other colors. Please contact us directly for advice. 4/ We also have Gildan, Bella Canvas and Comfort Colors fabric.

Luke Combs 2024 Tour T-Shirt, Growing Up and Getting Old Tour shirt * Sure to be one of your favorites, our T-Shirt with special and modern perspective stylish design will catch people's attention when you walk down the road. * Bright, accurate color, soft material for outstanding finished garments, our shirt will make you more attractive, charming, fashionable and chic, make your shape look great. * A great gift for yourself or your beloved ones on Birthday, Halloween, Christmas, New year, Father's day, Mother's day, Anniversary day, Valentine, St Patrick's Day. * This shirt has the classic cotton look and feel. Casual elegance will make it an instant favorite in everyone's wardrobe. - PRINTED & SHIPPED from USA. - Classic fit. - Runs true to size. We can customize all of our designs to your needs. Just message us with your request! - There may be slight differences between the color displayed on the screen and the actual color. - This is a customizedly printed item produced just for you. For this reason, we only refund or replace items if they are defective or damaged. - Care instructions: Machine wash: warm (max 40C or 105F); Non-chlorine: bleach as needed; Tumble dry: medium; Do not iron ; Do not dryclean Don't hesitate, Click Add to Cart to take this amazing shirt today!

Buy Now Luke Combs 2024 Tour T-Shirt or See More: Have A Holly Dolly Christmas Tshirt Sweatshirt Hoodie Porsche Gt3 Rs Shirt Rod Wave Vintage T-Shirt , Rod Wave Beautiful Mind Shirt Porsche GT3 RS Shirt, Porsche 911 GT3 RS Aesthetic Tshirt Creed 2024 Tour Shirt, The Greatest Halftime Show Ever Creed Shirt Read the full article

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gtunesmiff · 7 months

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2023 NOVEMBER POEM-A-DAY CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE: DAY 19 ~ HENRY FORD

HENRY FORD © 2023 G. Smith (BMI) ================== Henry Ford built the Model T, Said you could have it any color that you wanted it to be; As long as it was black. Today I saw a pink Cadillac. His assembly line was all well and good, Yours looks like mine as he thought it should, Can’t tell our things apart; They don’t have any heart. One size fits all, that’s their creed, But most time their want won’t meet my need. The sleeves are too long, the collar’s too tight; Despite what they say, it doesn’t look right, Their assembly line is all well and good, Makes yours like mine as they think it should, Can’t tell things apart, They just don’t have any heart. Henry Ford built the Model A, A coupe, a sedan, and a cabriolet. And you’ll still seem ‘em out on the road, Chopped as hot-rods and ridin’ real low. That assembly line is all well and good, Made yours like mine as they thought it should, Can’t tell things apart, They just don’t have any heart. Can’t tell things apart; I think it’s time to start.

November PAD Challenge: Day 19 – CUSTOMIZED

#poetic asides #poetry prompts #november pad #poem-a-day #chapbook challenge

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freeworldallahexecutivembaclass · 8 months

Text

Saturday morning classes at NYU I wanted to post Peter Hollins book lucky 🍀 it is a great book and it shows how we create our luck in life , read it you will love it .

If you could have a project that is scheduled to be done in 1 to maybe 2 years in the future with that much time extension do you believe that you would be successful , good trading places the movie Eddie Murphy and Dan Akroyd in the movie to well off investors bet 1 dollar that they can take a perfectly normal superiorly educated man with a heavy bank account and turn him into a bum then the goodie they can take a man from the street a brother just trying to get by he hustling scraping doing whatever he got to do to survive for that day and turn him into that Normal educated man good movie one problem it doesn't show the process the problem is our problem let's say I ask you if you could take me and make me into the best deal maker with pitching and presentation skills excellent in customer service with no discriminatory practices against any human being no matter what could you do it these classes and these books is that process of doing that let's work together and in the process I taught you how you can take somebody from the street and put them back to work thats the process to be a normal superiorly educated man or woman that is pushing in hard with education and professionalism as their objective it is never too late anybody could do it , we went in did good in politics and social science now I'm asking to be worked with to help with my next moves to turn my businesses into a success am I doubting you saying aw man you a jive turkey 🦃 you can't take me Allen Henry and make me into the person that I want to be I'm saying that you are not as good as you say of making things happen now are you going to let me say that , let's get to work and I'm going to treat all New Yorkers as my employees to train them considering this your training to provide better service to all New Yorkers no matter their race , ethnicity , creed , religion , nationality , color of their skin treat them with love , care and respect is all I ask and do your job as it is asked on the job advertisement and job duty requirements your only mission as a New Yorker or any city or country to turn your city and state , town or borough successful is to read these books and apply them in your behavior and behavior toward other people how you do your job and and conduct yourself at your job site , your speech how you talk to people in response or educating them about your services and your tone of voice and attitude it should sound welcoming and helpful , give excellence in order to produce excellence out of people .

See you at class every Saturday morning

NYU style

All I'm saying I'm in the hospitality business right and if you work in one of my establishments that my sponsors gave me then this is how I want you to conduct yourself at work , Ladies and Gentlemen providing a great experience our services with a smile to Ladies and Gentlemen giving them the best services they ever had in their life make it a memorable experience for them and look good in your uniform and suit or dress when you do that you make them feel welcomed wanted cared about and attended to and remember their names and go the extra mile to make sure they are having a good time at the establishment the place of business or services .

We can always start over and start fresh and stay clean and educated . That is the style I want for myself along with my streets and neighborhoods being clean as long as with the people living good wealthy lives in spirit and me being focused and very prosperous and my soul is saved , that is my lifestyle and true calling . I choose to live a saved life away from the darkness of confusion , doubt and anxiety and even situations that a life of uncertainty and loss of hope and faith provides I rather have faith for something good for myself and that is what quiet moments provide a chance to reflect and correct our savage behavior and grow fully in the word of God .

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masterofd1saster · 11 months

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CJ court watch - the LBGTQIA/compelled speech case

SCt decided 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, 600 U. S. ____ (2023) on June 30, 2023. The decision was 6 - 3, and J. Gorsuch wrote for the majority.

Essentially, Aubrey Elenis, director of the Colorado Civil Rights Commission stipulated away the case. Once the state stipulated that this was more or less a pure speech case, the case was over and done.

Like many States, Colorado has a law forbidding businesses from engaging in discrimination when they sell goods and services to the public. Laws along these lines have done much to secure the civil rights of all Americans. But in this particular case Colorado does not just seek to ensure the sale of goods or services on equal terms. It seeks to use its law to compel an individual to create speech she does not believe. The question we face is whether that course violates the Free Speech Clause of the First Amendment.

I A

Through her business, 303 Creative LLC, Lorie Smith offers website and graphic design, marketing advice, and social media management services. Recently, she decided to expand her offerings to include services for couples seeking websites for their weddings. As she envisions it, her websites will provide couples with text, graphic arts, and videos to “celebrate” and “conve[y]” the “details” of their “unique love story.”*** All of the text and graphics on these websites will be “original,” “customized,” and “tailored” creations. Id., at 187a. The websites will be “expressive in nature,” designed “to communicate a particular message.” Id., at 181a. Viewers will know, too, “that the websites are [Ms. Smith’s] original artwork,” for the name of the company she owns and operates by herself will be displayed on every one.***

[She believes that marriage is only between one man and one woman. She declines to promote LGBTQIA marriages. The Colorado Civil Rights Commission told her she must promote such marriages, and she sued, asserting her right to be free from compelled speech.]

To facilitate the district court’s resolution of the merits of her case, Ms. Smith and the State stipulated to a number of facts:

 Ms. Smith is “willing to work with all people regardless of classifications such as race, creed, sexual orientation, and gender,” and she “will gladly create custom graphics and websites” for clients of any sexual orientation. App. to Pet. for Cert. 184a.

 She will not produce content that “contradicts biblical truth” regardless of who orders it. Ibid.

 Her belief that marriage is a union between one man and one woman is a sincerely held religious conviction. Id., at 179a.

 All of the graphic and website design services Ms. Smith provides are “expressive.” Id., at 181a.

 The websites and graphics Ms. Smith designs are “original, customized” creations that “contribut[e] to the overall messages” her business conveys “through the websites” it creates. Id., at 181a–182a.

 Just like the other services she provides, the wedding websites Ms. Smith plans to create “will be expressive in nature.” Id., at 187a.

 Those wedding websites will be “customized and tailored” through close collaboration with individual couples, and they will “express Ms. Smith’s and 303 Creative’s message celebrating and promoting” her view of marriage. Id., at 186a–187a.

 Viewers of Ms. Smith’s websites “will know that the websites are [Ms. Smith’s and 303 Creative’s] original artwork.” Id., at 187a.

 To the extent Ms. Smith may not be able to provide certain services to a potential customer, “[t]here are numerous companies in the State of Colorado and across the nation that offer custom website design services.” Id., at 190a.***

the First Amendment protects an individual’s right to speak his mind regardless of whether the government considers his speech sensible and well intentioned or deeply “misguided,” Hurley, 515 U. S., at 574, and likely to cause “anguish” or “incalculable grief,” Snyder v. Phelps, 562 U. S. 443, 456 (2011). Equally, the First Amendment protects acts of expressive association. See, e.g., Dale, 530 U. S., at 647–656; Hurley, 515 U. S., at 568–570, 579. Generally, too, the government may not compel a person to speak its own preferred messages. *** Nor does it matter whether the government seeks to compel a person to speak its message when he would prefer to remain silent or to force an individual to include other ideas with his own speech that he would prefer not to include.***

the Tenth Circuit recognized that the coercive “[e]liminati[on]” of dissenting “ideas” about marriage constitutes Colorado’s “very purpose” in seeking to apply its law to Ms. Smith.***

Under Colorado’s logic, the government may compel anyone who speaks for pay on a given topic to accept all commissions on that same topic—no matter the underlying message—if the topic somehow implicates a customer’s statutorily protected trait. 6 F. 4th, at 1198 (Tymkovich, C. J., dissenting). Taken seriously, that principle would allow the government to force all manner of artists, speechwriters, and others whose services involve speech to speak what they do not believe on pain of penalty. The government could require “an unwilling Muslim movie director to make a film with a Zionist message,” or “an atheist muralist to accept a commission celebrating Evangelical zeal,” so long as they would make films or murals for other members of the public with different messages.***

Over time, governments in this country have expanded public accommodations laws in notable ways too. Statutes like Colorado’s grow from nondiscrimination rules the common law sometimes imposed on common carriers and places of traditional public accommodation like hotels and restaurants. Dale, 530 U. S., at 656–657. Often, these enterprises exercised something like monopoly power or hosted or transported others or their belongings much like bailees. See, e.g., Liverpool & Great Western Steam Co. v. Phenix Ins. Co., 129 U. S. 397, 437 (1889); Primrose v. Western Union Telegraph Co., 154 U. S. 1, 14 (1894). Over time, some States, Colorado included, have expanded the reach of these nondiscrimination rules to cover virtually every place of business engaged in any sales to the public. Compare 1885 Colo. Sess. Laws pp. 132–133 (a short list of entities originally bound by the State’s public accommodations law) with Colo. Rev. Stat. §24–34–601(1) (currently defining a public accommodation to include “any place of business engaged in any sales to the public”).***

As the case comes to us, then, Colorado seeks to compel just the sort of speech that it tacitly concedes lies beyond the reach of its powers.***

Today, however, the dissent abandons what this Court’s cases have recognized time and time again: A commitment to speech for only some messages and some persons is no commitment at all. By approving a government’s effort to “[e]liminat[e]” disfavored “ideas,” 6 F. 4th, at 1178, today’s dissent is emblematic of an unfortunate tendency by some to defend First Amendment values only when they find the speaker’s message sympathetic. But “[i]f liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” 6 F. 4th, at 1190 (Tymkovich, C. J., dissenting) (quoting G. Orwell).

In this case, Colorado seeks to force an individual to speak in ways that align with its views but defy her conscience about a matter of major significance. In the past, other States in Barnette, Hurley, and Dale have similarly tested the First Amendment’s boundaries by seeking to compel speech they thought vital at the time. But, as this Court has long held, the opportunity to think for ourselves and to express those thoughts freely is among our most cherished liberties and part of what keeps our Republic strong. Of course, abiding the Constitution’s commitment to the freedom of speech means all of us will encounter ideas we consider “unattractive,” *** “misguided, or even hurtful,” Hurley, 515 U. S., at 574. But tolerance, not coercion, is our Nation’s answer. The First Amendment envisions the United States as a rich and complex place where all persons are free to think and speak as they wish, not as the government demands. Because Colorado seeks to deny that promise, the judgment is

Reversed.

***

Weird conspiracy theories and such.

A friend told me today of a conspiracy theory about this case: 1st, 303 Creative wasn’t really a web design company that wanted to create wedding sites and 2d, Colorado had not threatened legal action against it and Lori Smith.

There is a weird story that “Stewart” had asked 303 Creative for a gay wedding promotion. The Stewart in question denies asking.

303 Creative was and is a real, legit web design business, in business since Feb. 16, 2012. It was not created for the purpose of litigation. The District Court that ruled against Lorie Smith said

Plaintiff Lorie Smith, through her wholly-owned company 303 Creative, LLC (“303”), is engaged generally in the fields of graphic design, website design, social media management and consultation, marketing, branding strategy, and website management training. This case concerns Ms. Smith's intention to expand 303's business into the design of custom websites for customers planning weddings – that is, websites to keep a couple's friends and family informed about the upcoming wedding. 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, 385 F. Supp. 3d 1147, 1150 (D. Colo. 2019). In summary, Ms. Smith is the owner of 303 Creative, LLC (“303”),2 and engaged in the business of creating customized wedding websites for her clients. Ms. Smith is a devout Christian, believes in “biblical marriage,” and opposes the extension of marriage rights to same-sex couples. Thus, she intends to decline any request that a same-sex couple might make to her to create a wedding website. That policy would appear to violate C.R.S. § 24-34-601(2), which prohibits discrimination in the provision of goods and services on various bases, including on the basis of sexual orientation (“the Accommodations Clause”). Ms. Smith also wishes to post a statement (“the Statement”) on 303's website, advising of her policy and the reasons therefor. The posting of such a statement would appear to violate a separate provision of C.R.S. § 24-34-601(2), which prohibits the publication of any communication that advises that goods or services will be refused to patrons on the basis of, among other things, sexual orientation (“the Communications Clause”). 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, 405 F. Supp. 3d 907, 908 (D. Colo. 2019), aff'd, 6 F.4th 1160 (10th Cir. 2021).

+++

The 2d issue is standing and sort of ripeness. You don't have standing unless someone violates your rights or threatens to violate your rights. Colorado clearly threatened Lorie Smith.

As to whether Colorado would actually prosecute an action against her, consider Jack Phillips. He won twice at the Supreme Court, and Colorado is still after him.

This case requires us to resolve a dispute between the parties arising out of important rights that each enjoys. The plaintiff, Autumn Scardina, contends she was denied service by a bakery because of her identity as a trans woman, in violation of her right to be free from discrimination in a place of public accommodation. In contrast, the defendants, Masterpiece Cakeshop, Inc. (Masterpiece) and its proprietor, Jack Phillips, contend their decision not to make a cake for Scardina was based on their firm and sincere religious beliefs and the right to be free from compelled speech that would violate those beliefs. We agree with the trial court's judgment in favor of Scardina and therefore affirm. Scardina v. Masterpiece Cakeshop, Inc., 2023 COA 8, ¶ 1, 528 P.3d 926, 930.

Colorado challenged Smith's standing. Even so, the 10th Cir - which ruled against her - reviewed the facts and found that she had standing.

Although not challenged by Colorado, see Colorado's Br. at 26, we are satisfied that Appellants have shown an “intention to engage in a course of conduct arguably affected with a constitutional interest.” SBA List, 573 U.S. at 159, 134 S.Ct. 2334. Although Appellants have not yet offered wedding website services, Ms. Smith has been employed as a graphic and web designer in the past. Appellants have also provided clear examples of the types of websites they intend to provide, as well as the intended changes to 303 Creative's webpage. And Ms. Smith holds a sincere religious belief that prevents her from creating websites that celebrate same-sex marriages.***

If Appellants violate CADA, it is also “sufficiently imminent” that Colorado will enforce that statute against Appellants. In SBA List, the Supreme Court described at least three factors to be used in determining a credible fear of prosecution: (1) whether the plaintiff showed “past enforcement against the same conduct”; (2) whether authority to initiate charges was “not limited to a prosecutor or an agency” and, instead, “any person” could file a complaint against the plaintiffs; and (3) whether the state disavowed future enforcement. Id. at 164–65, 134 S.Ct. 2334.All three factors indicate Appellants have a credible fear of prosecution. First, Colorado has a history of past enforcement against nearly identical conduct—i.e., Masterpiece Cakeshop, which, at the time Appellants filed their complaint, had been litigated through various state administrative and court proceedings for over two years.***

Indeed, Colorado's strenuous assertion that it has a compelling interest in enforcing CADA indicates that enforcement is anything but speculative. See Colorado's Br. at 67 (“That other website designers are willing to serve the LGBT community is of no moment”).2In short, on the summary-judgment record presented, we conclude that Appellants show an injury in fact because they intend to discriminate in a manner that is arguably proscribed by CADA, and they show a credible fear that Colorado will enforce CADA against them. 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, 6 F.4th 1160, 1172, 1174–75 (10th Cir. 2021),

At the Supreme Court, Colorado challenged standing again, but admitted "At most, a business faces a $500 fine per violation under the Act. Colo. Rev. Stat. § 24-34-602(1)(a)." How is a $500 fine not a legal injury? J. Sotomayor's dissent never mentions the word "standing" as a legal issue. The threat against Smith was clear, and no justice disputed standing at the Supreme Court.

The Stewart e-mail thing is a red herring. 1st of all, before it's relevant, you must assume that Smith fabricated it. But as Melissa Gira Grant reports, all she had to do was call the number on the request document to contact Stewart. If Colorado didn't plan on prosecuting Smith, it could have picked up the phone and called.

Smith didn't mention Stewart to the Supreme Court. The only time "Stewart" appears in the petition for cert. is in the District Court's opinion. For that matter, Colorado never mentions Stewart in its brief. The Supreme Court never mentioned Stewart.

The Denver Post notes

The request in dispute, from a person identified as “Stewart,” wasn’t the basis for the federal lawsuit filed preemptively seven years ago by web designer Lorie Smith, before she started making wedding websites.

But as the case advanced, it was referenced by her attorneys when lawyers for the state of Colorado pressed Smith on whether she had sufficient grounds to sue.***

Smith’s lawyer, Kristen Waggoner, said at a Friday news conference that the wedding request naming Stewart was submitted through Smith’s website and denied it was fabricated.

She suggested it could have been a troll making the request, something that’s happened with other clients she has represented. In 2018, her client, Colorado baker Jack Phillips, won a partial U.S. Supreme Court victory after refusing to make a gay couple’s wedding cake, citing his Christian faith.

“It’s undisputed that the request was received,” Waggoner said. “Whether that was a troll and not a genuine request, or it was someone who was looking for that, is really irrelevant to the case.”***

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courtmarriagenearme · 1 year

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skrltwtch · 3 years

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Graveyard Shift

Prompt: I know the sign says, "No shoes, no shirt, no service", but I just had the WEIRDEST night and your shop is the only building with lights on this early, and I'm really, really hoping you have some spare clothes behind the counter. Help? (Source in master list)

Word count: 4,255 words

Genre: Fluff, romance, smut, supernatural

Warnings: Smut

References: 1 Inglourious Basterds

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Graveyard shift is the fucking best — and the fucking worst.

For one, the shop is able to achieve that fine balance between having enough customers to justify its opening hours and keep me on its payroll, and having enough customers to not make me regret my choice of employment while I attempt to sort out my life. The silence that falls over the shop at two o’clock — without fail every night, like the general public know they have better places to be at two o’clock than a corner shop — grants it the perfect atmosphere for self-introspection and self-improvement. Have I learnt anything useful? Let’s … not talk about that.

Now, what’s the downside to this job, you ask? The customers, of course. There are fewer of them in the dead of the night, but God, the ones that do come in … Being situated on one of London’s busiest corners means a colourful clientele at all times of the day. Drunkards and yobs make up a sizeable number of the demographic that contribute to the shop’s cash drawer while I’m on duty. It’s both sickening and fascinating to deal with them. In my nine months of working here, I’ve seen it all — or I thought I have, until my attention is drawn to the naked man at the door.

It’s less than half an hour after sunrise. He doesn’t look like he’s knocked back a drink too many. (Can coffee make me see things I’m not supposed to be seeing at this hour?) He looks to be of sound mind, his franticness to be let inside aside. He’s handsome: his brown waves, wiry physique, and elegant features lend him a startling resemblance to an ancient Greek sculpture. Strangely, there is an abundance of scars all over his body, and not in a manner that’d signal self-harm. They look more consistent with animal scratches. I’m speaking from experience here: I have a cat, though it’s nigh impossible a cat did this to him.

Nonetheless, this ranks in the lower half of the top ten weirdest shit I’ve seen while on the clock.

‘Hello? Hello!’ That ought to be what he’s saying; I don’t proclaim myself to be an expert at lip reading. It’s encouraging that he’s aware of the sign preventing his entry and doesn’t think he’s above it, at least.

I shake my head at him. Rules are rules, mate. They apply even to hot, naked men.

‘Come on! Please?’ — I think.

‘Sorry!’ I shout, and I point at the camera above me. Colin, my manager, is a cool bloke. It’s about as likely that I’d lose my job for letting Mr Naked and Afraid grace the inside of the shop with his presence and providing him with service as it is that Mr Naked and Afraid is on something that isn’t obvious to my innocent eyes. Why tempt fate? There are other corner shops with less draconian policies down the street. I turn away and continue looking at my phone to spare us both our blushes. It is nippy outside …

Fuck it.

I motion for him to come in. I can explain this to Colin, should he decide to review this morning’s security footage on a whim. He’s a Cool Bloke™.

‘Thank you,’ says Mr Naked and Afraid. Fuck, the shop lighting is doing him more favours than he needs. ‘You won’t get in any trouble for this?’

‘Nah. I might get chewed out1 for this, but that’ll be the worst of it.’

‘Sorry. But thank you. Thank you. I’m George.’

Good. Mr Naked and Afraid is becoming a mouthful.

‘I’m Eva. How can I help, George?’

‘Do you have any spare clothes?’

‘It’s just me here, mate.’

‘I know. Can’t hurt to ask.’

Can I say, ‘You have balls’? Is that appropriate at a time like this? I exhale audibly. ‘Give me a second.’ I retreat into the staffroom behind the counter. Colin deserves a better staffroom than a lad hangout. I’ll clean up when there isn’t a naked man waiting on me outside — or not. I’m not their helper. I sort through the coat rack for something suitable. Andrew is the closest to George in stature, I think. Operating on that approximation, I grab Andrew’s jacket and trousers. I don’t want to have to think too hard about what my co-workers look like underneath their clothes. Besides, Andrew’s clothes have been here for ages. He won’t miss them.

‘Try these,’ I say.

‘Thank you. I’ll clean and return them, I promise.’ He reaches over the counter for the clothes.

‘Not so fast. Give me the craziest reason you’re butt naked, and if I like it, you get the clothes.’

‘Really?’

‘I have to tell my manager something. Might as well be something weird so I don’t get chewed out too hard.’

‘Fine.’ He puts his hands on his hips and looks around the shop — in search of inspiration, perhaps. I’d love to hear what he comes up with. He looks like someone with a good sense of humour. If we’d met elsewhere, I’d have thought about asking for his number and then chickening out at the last minute, because women like me don’t get anywhere with men like him. I keep a lookout on the entrance for any customers or co-workers, mostly because I don’t want to share this moment with anyone else.

‘Clock’s ticking, George.’

‘You didn’t say there’s a time limit.’

‘I’m not the one with my arse out in public.’

‘Alright. I’m a werewolf. I must’ve messed something up, because I got out of my flat last night and woke up in Trafalgar Square. I live in Hampstead. See these scars? It’s all me.’

I stare at him. He’s staring back at me, expecting a response. He looks serious. I — I can’t. I burst out laughing. Of all the things I thought I’d hear, that isn’t one of them.

‘That’s one I haven’t heard before. I love it.’

‘Yeah? Can I then —’

‘Not before you answer one more question, wolf boy.’ I mean that nickname with utmost sincerity.

‘Seriously …?’ Red blotches his cheeks. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Were you born a werewolf or were you bitten?’

‘How is that relevant?’

‘Humour me.’

He rakes his hair with his fingers, and holds his inhalation and blink long enough for it to mean ‘I should’ve gone to the next corner shop’. Little does he know that his exasperation is making him look more attractive. I’ll treasure this moment forever. ‘Born. You don’t see any bite marks, do you?’

‘Touché. Here.’ I pass him the clothes.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘No, thank you for the laugh,’ I say, looking away from him as he tries Andrew’s trousers on for size. Andrew’s fashion sense is being wasted on us corner shop plebeians. ‘I love horror and supernatural shit. That was perfect.’

‘Cool.’ For fuck’s sake, he can also pull off the loud, brash prints Andrew favours? This is unfair. ‘I’ll pop these in the washer when I get home, and I’ll return them to you …’

‘I’m working tonight. I’ll be here at ten.’ Technically, I start work at midnight. Andrew’s scheduled for the evening shift today, and I’d love to see his face when George returns with his clothes. I can’t remember how long these specific items have been in the staffroom. Plus, like, ten o’clock is an acceptable time to meet someone who lives in Hampstead and probably has standard working hours, isn’t it? ‘If that’s not too late for you.’

‘That’s fine. Thanks again, Eva.’ He’s said the T word so many times, it’s starting to sound weird to my ears. Semantic satiation — that’s what the phenomenon is called. I learnt this from the 3,722nd post I read on Reddit some nights ago.

‘You’re welcome, wolf boy. See you tonight.’

He grins. ‘See you.’

Just as he turns to leave, I swear, I swear on my copy of The Killing Joke with a frayed spine because I put it in the same bag as my water tumbler with a loose cap, I see a flash of fangs.

✦✧✦✧

‘You’re here early,’ says Andrew.

‘It’s midnight somewhere in the world.’ I don’t join him behind the counter. I’m scheduled to start work at midnight, and that is exactly what I’ll do. Overtime means nothing to me. (I say that like it’s applicable in this instance.) ‘Did a guy come in to look for me?’

‘Nope. Hey, do you know what happened to my trousers and jacket? First one’s floral; second one’s mustard.’ Doesn’t it just sound like a ghastly combination? Andrew can pull it off. So can George — both items at the same time. I’ve only seen Andrew in one or the other.

‘Funny story, that.’

‘Share.’

‘Okay, picture this: It’s fuck o’clock in the wee hours of the morning. Sun’s coming up. I’m on my second tumbler of coffee and running out of things to keep myself entertained. Suddenly, a naked bloke is asking to be let in; he’s begging. He doesn’t look drunk or high. I let him in because I’m a bleeding heart at heart. He asks me for spare clothes. Thank God you treat this place like your second closet. I ask him to hit me with the craziest reason he’s naked to help me decide if I should help him. He says he’s a werewolf.’ I am fighting to hold in my laughter. ‘And he says it with the straightest face you can imagine.’

‘Eva, this bloke was hot, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, but —’

‘You’d have given him the clothes no matter what he said.’

‘I didn’t tell you this story for you to call me out like that.’

‘You’re welcome. Does Colin know you breached one of the shop’s sacred creeds?’

‘Does he have to know?’

‘No comment. It’s not my arse on the line.’

‘Colin won’t do me dirty like that. I did a good deed.’

‘… No comment. Am I going to get my stuff back?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Bollocks, I thought it’s because you like my company.’

‘Why not both?’

The bell above the door jangles, cutting our conversation short. It’s none other than the man of the hour himself. Never have I been this ecstatic to see someone enter the shop. He has no business filling out his grey shirt as well as he is.

‘George! Hi!’ I drown out Andrew’s snicker. Can’t I be excited about speaking with an attractive, charming man who isn’t drunk or in need of goods and services a corner shop can provide in the shop at this time of night? I might also never see him again after this, so as far as I’m concerned, I deserve every second of this.

‘Hello, Eva,’ says George. ‘Got the clothes cleaned like I said I would.’ He shows me the paper bag in his hand. McDonald’s. I can hear Andrew’s heart giving out. ‘Thank you again.’

I take the bag from him and place it on the counter, the golden arches staring Andrew in the face. ‘You’re welcome. You should thank him, too.’ I jerk my thumb at my near-apoplectic co-worker. ‘This is Andrew. The clothes are his.’

‘Thank you,’ George says to the other man, who responds with a tight-lipped nod, still in the midst of computing what he did in a past life to deserve having his clothes returned to him in a McDonald’s paper bag. ‘I followed the instructions on the labels as best I could. If I ruined something, I’d be happy to pay you back for it.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ Andrew takes the clothes out of the bag and gives them a quick once-over. ‘Looks good. You can have the bag back.’ He pushes it toward George with his finger.

‘Okay …’ George takes the bag, flattens and folds it into a neat square, and holds it under his arm. ‘Eva, I can’t — I can’t thank you enough for this morning. Last night was … weird.’ He swallowed.

‘Yeah, sure …’ I wink at him. ‘… wolf boy.’

‘Are you working now?’

‘No, but I will be in’ — I consult my watch — ‘an hour and a half’s time. I came in early because I know I don’t have the same concept of day and night as most people.’

‘Graveyard shift: fun as shit’ is Andrew’s sterling contribution to this part of the conversation. I like that, actually.

‘You didn’t have to — I’m more of a night owl,’ says George. Is that because he has a closer affinity to the night because of what he is? I convince myself it is. ‘Do you want to go get some coffee nearby? It’s the least I can do. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. I should talk to Colin about this soon. ‘Sure, I’d love some coffee. Be a dear and watch the shop for me, will you, Andrew?’

✦✧✦✧

George leads me into his flat. Our bellies are full from dinner. I love and hate eating with him sometimes. I love his company, obviously; I hate that he can put away so much without any of it showing on him. Earlier, he had pork chops, lamb meatball stew, and a fudge brownie with ice cream. I get that he needs all that protein to maintain his figure, and I’d love and support him all the same if he were, but he’s not an Olympics athlete like Michael Phelps. Nonetheless, all that food’s imbued him with oodles of energy, the kind that’s seen us seek to end the night on a more gratifying note at someone’s place. (Mine’s out of the question tonight because my flatmate’s working toward the same goal with her latest squeeze.)

The farthest we make it before the urge to eat each other’s faces overpowers us is the sofa. I’m on top of him, just showering him with gentle kisses on his lips, and sometimes his cheeks and nose. I’m content with savouring his taste for now. His breathing is heavy. He’s warm to the touch. His kisses are more insistent. I yield to his desperate, almost plaintive moans and allow our tongues the pleasure of getting to know each other better. His hand is feverishly fondling my thigh and hip; the latter has developed a mind of its own, grinding up against him. Deciding our mouths couldn’t have all the fun, I move on to his neck, which he kindly bares for me. His throat is thrumming with — growls?

I look up at him and say, ‘Do you hear that?’

‘Hm?’ His eyelids flutter open. I gasp.

Staring back at me are yellow eyes, brilliant and wild.

Oh, my God.

‘George — your —’

‘Why?’ He puts his hand to his mouth. ‘Shit.’ I get off him. I see the fangs I thought I saw the first time we met. ‘What’s today’s date?’

‘It’s the eighth.’

‘Fuck!’ The force with which he cursed propels him out of his seat. ‘You have to go. I’m sorry,’ he says, taking off his shirt. His chest sheens with sweat. ‘I forgot.’

I don’t need to ask him what it is he forgot: I know the answer on a primeval level. I know I should leave. I stand transfixed by what’s happening before me. His flesh twists and ripples. The growls get louder. The proportions of the hand on his chest — hairier than I’ve ever known it to be — are all wrong. Poking — pushing out from underneath his fingernails are claws. He turns away from me. The sight of protruding knobs of bone under the skin along his spine causes chills to run down mine. My poor George. My poor wolf boy.

‘I’ll go,’ I say, as much as I want to stay with him. ‘Will you be okay?’ I shake my head. Stupid question. He’s in agony.

‘I’ll be fine.’ There is greater conviction in the violent gurgle that follows than his words. ‘Now go. Please.’ His back arches and expands with muscle. He cries out in pain.

I do as he says. I hear the locks rattle and turn behind me. Though his strained growls and yips are horrible to hear, I stick around outside his door. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I don’t quite feel afraid either of what I saw in there or of what I now know. Instead, I feel … I press my legs together and bite my lip. Not the time. After what feels like an eternity of guttural noises that have no right coming from a human throat, a howl, long, almost melodious, pierces the air. It’s almost … reassuring. So much about him makes sense now.

I take my phone from my bag, and I send him the following: ’Text me when you see this. Love you.’

✦✧✦✧

I shift on my feet as I wait for George to answer the door. I’m worried about him. Does he not want to see me anymore after last night? No, it’s an insult to the both of us for me to think that he thinks I’d be narrow-minded enough to stop wanting to be with him because of what he is. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The food I brought for him is getting cold. Can he smell it from inside his flat? I press the doorbell again. I wish he had a neighbour to tell me what I can do in times like this.

The door opens. He looks a mess: he’s in boxers, and his hair is sticking out every which way. His eyes go wide. The memory of his yellow eyes resurfaces. I feel a little weak in my knees.

‘Good morning, love. I came to see if everything is okay,’ I say, ‘and I brought breakfast.’ I show him the paper bag. The food inside still smells good.

‘I thought —’ He doesn’t need to complete his sentence for me to know what he means. It’s written plainly in the furrow of his brow, the sadness in his eyes. Damn it. I didn’t want to be proven right about that.

‘Of course not. You didn’t see my message?’

‘I haven’t checked my messages. Sorry.’

‘Oh.’

‘Please, come in. Are you off work today?’

I nod.

His flat, too, is in disarray. It looks just as if an animal went wild in here. Pillows and books are all over the floor; some of the former have been ripped apart. Sunlight shines through the gaping holes in the curtains. Nothing’s broken, at least. George’s head hangs low. ‘I haven’t had the time to clean up … nor was I expecting visitors. I called in sick to work and went back to sleep. I forget what happens when I don’t take my meds before I transform.’

‘Let me guess — the last time that happened was a year ago?’

‘Yeah, probably. I don’t know. That was — that was different. I guess I was too excited about our date that I forgot what yesterday was.’

I walk him to the sofa, and we sit down. The food is left to sit out on the coffee table. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, stroking his arm lovingly. ‘I wasn’t … I’m not freaked out or anything. I love horror and supernatural shit after all.’ I chuckle nervously, more so because I hate my tendency to resort to awful humour in an attempt to defuse tense situations. ‘So, um … I owe you an apology for laughing at you when you first told me.’

‘Don’t. I could’ve said something else. I didn’t. I wanted the clothes fast, and after the night I’d had, that was the most out-there thing I could think of in a snap.’

‘Yeah, then I made it into a thing between us! I call you “wolf boy”! You never asked me to stop! And I told everyone how we met! Everyone knows you’re a werewolf!’ I gasp. So. Many. Exclamation. Marks.

‘This is our thing. Only you know for certain. I feel like I can breathe now.’

I lay my head on his chest. ‘You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to hide.’

‘That first sentence sounds like something I’m supposed to say.’

‘So, George … about last night … was that because you were about to — or …’

His words come out almost in a snarl: ‘I wanted you. I want you.’ His lips are centimetres away from my neck. His breath is hot on my skin.

‘Are we like … mates now, then?’ I giggle as I draw an indiscriminate shape on his chest with my finger. I may or may not have spent a considerable amount of time last night reading up on wolf behaviour. The thought of what lies in store for me is a little exhilarating, an observation I had a mild developmental crisis over when I felt that first pang of passion from applying what I read to our relationship.

‘Yes.’

He licks my neck. My core tingles with excitement at the ramifications of his declaration — for the record, I meant it as a light-hearted question — and at what’s about to come next, based on my research. Then he pushes me down onto my back, and I see his eyes, still blue, flicker with the same intensity as last night. He hikes up my dress and gets straight to nuzzling my mound. He laps his tongue over my underwear and inner thighs, the strokes long, soft. I hum impatiently. My underwear is getting soaked. He slides it off my pelvis, and he promptly buries his face in my folds. Fingers come into the picture soon after. I writhe in his grasp, desiring release.

And Lord, does it come.

I don’t get to wait for my legs to stop quivering, as he rises from between them and says, ‘On all fours, love’, his voice a lusty rasp. I scramble to my hands and knees. He’s never asked for this before. I’m liking this greater sense of freedom he now has around me. How much had he been holding back? I spread myself for him. He pushes his cock up against my slit. I let out a small, startled ‘Oh’ when he enters me. I feel pinpricks where his fingertips are. Each thrust is deep and brutal. It hurts a little, but it hurts so good. I press the side of my face into the couch and close my eyes. Stars crash into each other in the blackness behind my eyelids.

Though he’s the werewolf here, I’m the one whimpering and moaning like an animal, too, while he huffs and growls with each movement. The sounds encourage him. ‘Please, don’t stop, don’t stop …’ I breathe. My walls convulse around his girth and fill up with an unbearable heat and wetness. Come drips out of me and trickles down my thighs. Then his thrusts become shallower and rough, his fingertips threaten to leave bruises on my skin, and he empties himself inside me. He lets out a strangled howl; my lip almost bleeds from how hard I’m biting down.

I feel so empty, almost a little sad, when he pulls out. I settle into a lounging position on the sofa. He wedges himself behind me. I gently fondle his business, still hard. He resumes licking my neck, sometimes rubbing his face on my skin.

‘I’m sorry if that was … weird. It’s the first time I fucked like that — and the first time I fucked after the full moon.’

I turn around and kiss him. ‘You were amazing.’ His ears turn pink. ‘Am I your first girlfriend who knows?’

‘Yes. About being mates …’ He pulls me closer to him. ‘I can do something about that. If you want. No pressure. It’s a huge decision.’

I won’t lie and say I didn’t consider the idea at least once last night. The dream I had about transforming and running alongside him on all fours can attest to that. But I tell him, ‘I need to think about it first.’ I don’t want him to think I’m rushing headlong into something I have little to no knowledge about. (Tabbing back and forth between pages about wolf behaviour for at least two hours doesn’t make me an expert. I’m not even sure if it’s relevant.) I also wasn’t expecting this question to come up so soon, considering he thought I’d leave him. I sweep my thumb across his lips, then his nose. ‘Maybe if I see you in your wolf form first …’

‘Fair enough. Promise me you’ll still love me the same after you’ve seen him. He’s more fun than I am, even when hopped up on industrial-strength bear tranquiliser.’

‘It’s going to take a lot to top what I’ve seen in the last year — and the last hour.’

He chuckles. ‘I’m in trouble.’

I spend the day at his place. (What? I’m taking a mental health day, and being with my boyfriend does wonders for my mood.) We fuck several more times, unable to get enough of each other; we’re like lovesick puppies. He lets shades of his true self slip through on occasion. He assures me it’s not because of the full moon. I assure him I know. Until today, I didn’t think it’d been possible for him to become more alluring. I give him my answer to his offer before sunset, which he happily accepts. At the end of the day, I lie in my wolf boy’s arms, waxing gratitude for the graveyard shift at the corner shop a year ago.

#exophilia #terato #werewolf #monster love #monster romance #mine

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neochannel · 5 months

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youtube

i7 4790k vs Ryzen 7 2700 Test in 15 Games or R7 2700 vs i7 4770k OC

CPU benchmark Intel Core i7 4790k OC 5.0 GHz vs AMD Ryzen 7 2400 in 15 Games or R7 2700 vs i7 4770k OC. Intel Core i7 4790k (4 Cores 8 Threads) 2014 vs AMD Ryzen 7 2700 (8 Cores 16 Threads) 2018. Comparison of Intel CPU from 2014 and AMD CPU 2018. How much is the 4 core i7 4790k OC behind or ahead of the 8 core R7 2700. p.s. Detailed graphs with CPU benchmark results. One of the best on youtube. 👇👇👇 Look at what bonuses I offer to sponsors: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCO346ZpBN8jnD0fsqgF2stA/join Voluntary donations for the channel: https://www.youtube.com/c/NeochannelNeochannel/about

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m-e-n-z-e-p-t-h · 2 years

Text

XIX.DHARMA: T H E "D E M O N" S H A I (The Shah Of Africa): An 'African' tradition of non-sacrificial tribal abortions and ritual cremations, as it pertains to an unborn fetus that was not meant to be conceived by the mother because of her tribal birthright. Unlike the father whom is usually not of royal status, thus declaring an null birth. Therefore an decree of power to abort is passed down unto the upper tribal rankings; because of the mother's position within that particular tribe's hierarchy. However the individual performing the task has not named claim to any altar-shrines of (Bal) Ba'al nor became a 'Witch-doctor' by engaging in sacrificial-ceremony or voodoo. Instead they're risen afterwards as infertility-statutes; thusly named 'Demons' by default of a ritual-mural. Furthermore not keeping onto certain spiritual traditions and sacraments, abiding to the African customs for fertility (Deity).

Henceforth an tribal-armour is received for the ritualistic 'Death' beaten of both paternal parents that are usually killed by being bludgeon with the fist of an individual (I.Warrior) that became an infertility-deity (Demon). Considerably admissible pending on the patriarchy of the tribe; as to which of the paternal parents should be beaten to death, for the non-sacrificial burning of the unborn baby. Mainly based on the bias of marital status. Thus whether or not the cremation ceremony of the fetus was kept within the 'Gold' being as one with it traditionally, and properly buried. Thereby either the paternal-mother, demon, and/or both can receive an crown that is not to be passed down to the tribe of which has already denounced the 'Gold'(Crown).

Hence another pregnancy hidden onto ceremonial decree, tribally declared by a sacrificial ritual and burning for rebirth/resurrection in abidance to fertility. Thence renaming themselves prior to being risen as an statute of infertility (Demon) onto the shrine of the 'non-sacrificial' altar to be raised again based on an ritual-mural, if not that particular 'demon' and/or individual can be burned alive. Thereby to be anointed as I.Warrior in death.

However if so, for that individual to maintain an 'warrior' status without being sacrificially cremated must keep to the ritualistic rites of fertility. Only then shall any tribal 'non-tribal' warrior can be able to receive their demon name; thusly known as. . . (DEMON-Shai).

Unlike most tribes, including 'Zulu' turned to other means to invoke power for their own tribe instead (Voodoo).

♾NUBIAN CREED: SATANIST: THE DARK GOD OF VOODOO. . . .

#XIX.Ceremonial Mural (Rituals/Tribe)

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astraljedi · 3 years

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Oblivion | Part I (The Mandalorian)

Summary: The Mandalorian was summoned to Nevarro by Greef Karga for a specific quarry after one of his favorite hunters is presumed dead.

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader (she/her)

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Mention of death, lost of memory, violence, blood, abuse, curse words, drugs and some traumatic shit. ALSO SOFT DIN

Word count: 3K+

A/N: I’m new to the Star Wars fandom and to be honest I’m a little scared posting this. Please don’t scream at me if I made any mistakes, I’m still catching up with everything. Also, this is going to be a two part story and It has taken me about three days to fully finish the first part, so I hope you guys enjoy and happy new year’s eve!

The warm volcanic air of Nevarro greeted The Mandalorian as he exited the Razor Crest and headed towards de cantina to meet with Greef Karga. As per usual, everyone's eyes landed on the shiny beskar helmet while The Mandalorian quietly walked by himself with his Amban sniper rifle on his back.

Walking into the busy cantina, Mando moved towards Karga, sitting on the room's far end. "Mando!" Karga greeted him, ushering him to sit down on the opposite seat before Karga.

"What's the job?" Mando asked, cutting straight to the point and skipping the "friendly" welcome. Karga sighed, his hands landing on the beverage on the table.

"Right to the point, okay." Karga began. The Mandalorian watched through his visor at the man before him, who leaned in closer, not wanting anyone to eavesdrop on the private conversation.

"No offense, but you're one of my faithful hunters who knows how to get the job done, no questions asked. But I also have my favorite hunter, similar to you, without the beskar armor." Karga announced, his eyes wandering around the others surrounding them inside the cantina. He didn't want to drive more attention to the table, more than its already been drawn by the beskar armor. "She's strong, straightforward forward, and never fails me. Reasons why I gave her the quarry only her or you could've handled, especially when the rich would pay any amount to end any theft from their fortune. You were away with other pucks, and she was free, so I gave it to her."

"Let me guess, she failed you, and now you need me to do the job?" Mando sighed under his helmet, crossing his arms over his chest.

"We presume she's dead; some members of the Guild found her ship raided and full of blood. It's a loss we all felt deeply, which you don't see a lot in here. She cared for everyone, and it rubbed off on some of us. Her death is on that quarry's life, and I count on you to avenge her death." Karga was resting his back on his seat, waiting for a response from the hunter in front of him.

"Do I need to bring them in alive?"

"No, only bring the body for confirmation." Karga disclosed, sliding the puck over to Mando with the tracking fob. "It's double the amount of what I originally offered. It's going to be a heavy payday for you, Mando."

"She was that good, huh?" The Mandalorian stood up from his seat, hanging the sniper rifle again behind his back. He was a bit curious about the girl and how comparable she was to him.

"You might have seen her before. She used to work here from time to time in the cantina. And now that I think of it, one time you came here to meet with me, and she was serving me the drinks that day." Karga remembered, and so did The Mandalorian. "The bounty's last known location was Maldo Kreis. Good luck, Mando."

On the way back to his ship, Mando was deep in his thoughts. He remembered that day very clearly.

He remembered the girl. How could he forget?

"I don't want to be rude, but I would offer you a drink, but I know you can't take that shiny bucket off." Y/N chuckled, grabbing Karga's empty cup to replace it with a new one full of spotchka. She had watched him arrive earlier into the cantina; her older brother used to talk about The Mandalorians when they were children. She had never seen one in person before. She watched him glide through the people in the cantina towards Karga, how only a few dared to look at the man in the beskar, and others had their eyes on the floor. Too scared to even look at the feared hunter.

Karga chuckled at her comment before taking a sip of his new drink. Mando tilted his helmet at her in curiosity. She wasn't intimidated by him and made a light joke about his armor.

When The Mandalorian didn't answer, she sighed and looked away from the tinted T shaped visor. Y/N walked away with Karga's previous empty cup and headed towards another table to serve them with her funny jokes instead, where others will appreciate them.

Thankful for the helmet, he heard Karga tell him about the previous bounty Mando had captured, how he never disappoints in getting the job done. "You might give my favorite hunter a run for her credits." Karga joked, emptying his second drink of the day. But The Mandalorian's eyes followed the girl. She was behind the bar now, laughing with her other customers as she leaned herself on the counter. Her mid-length dark hair bounced around every time her shoulders moved from her laughing and her tiny figure moving around the back of the spacious bar, gliding through without a hassle. "Y/N! Get your pretty face over here with another refill, sweet face." Mando's eyes shifted to the very drunk customer far away from the bar where Y/N stood.

She laughed at the drunken state he was, filling up his cup with some water instead, cutting him off from his usual drink. "That's enough for the evening, Gyan. You have a family to get to, remember?" Her sweet voice passed right him, the sweet scent from her hair hitting him with a whiff.

Y/N, now the girl who he watched over had a name.

Many people were intimidated by the beskar armor, but she didn't even flinch from making a joke about it. Even after he didn't answer her, she didn't shake in fear, and she walked away disappointed. Was she expecting something else? The Mandalorians came across as cold and people of not many words. She knew that, but deep down, she didn't believe it entirely from all the stories others would tell about them and their creed.

Mando landed on the ice planet two days ago.

Tracking down the bounty was surprisingly too easy, Mando thought. The tracking fob immediately started going crazy on the first day while he hunted around the planet. Once he found him, he watched his every move.

Not only did he want to assure a good plan, but he also wanted to figure out how the girl got herself killed for a simple quarry that didn't even bother hiding.

Maz was wanted for theft, and he owned a lot of people's credits. The usual. Maz had the same routine strangely; he visited the markets early, creating chaos with innocent villagers, and then spent the rest of the day in a cantina with possibly other bounty's.

One of the things Mando noticed first was that Maz wasn't ever alone. He always had to be surrounded by people to praise him and make sure he felt he had the power. Maz still had six guards with him. Four of them guarded the outside. While two were by the back of the cantina, the others guarded the front door. And that left the Maz and two other bodies with him inside.

Mando could quickly grab the guards in the back successfully and then attack the ones in the front before dragging them with the rest of the bodies behind the cantina. He liked those odds.

Part of his evening entourage, he brought one woman with a metal neck collar hooked on to a chain for him to drag her around like some pet. The woman had barely any clothing on for the shivering weather, and it was torture and cruel.

They had her wearing a tiny leather top that did nothing to hide the purple bruises on her neck and shoulders. Mando also noticed marks that could only be caused by a whip on her exposed back. She also wore a torn skirt that didn't cover much of her barely functioning legs. But Mando never saw her face. They always dragged her around with a bag over her head.

The Mandalorian prepared for his attack on the third day. As planned, he managed to seize the men on the back of the cantina without any problems. And then he followed with the other two guards by the front door. Maybe the guards were for appearances because they went down quickly and quietly, or The Mandalorian was that good. Mando swiftly dragged both bodies towards the back and huddled all four of them in a pile against the bar's walls.

The cantina's door unlatched and revealed The Mandalorian standing under the frame while the snow flew into the cantina. Immediately, all eyes were on Mando as his eyes scanned the place, looking for Maz. The air in the cantina stiffened at The Mandalorian's presence. Every single pair of eyes followed him while he proceeded to take a seat by the bar, a safe distance to the corner of the room where he spotted Maz with the girl sitting down on his lap miserably.

"Two chowders to go," Mando ordered, trying to blend in as he wasn't there for a quarry. He passed some credits to the bartender while his eyes caught a glimpse of the girl's face when she moved uncomfortably on Maz's lap.

"Y/N." Mando thought to himself, how could he forget her? Her hair was longer, and she looked slimmer, probably caused by the lack of meals Maz didn't give to her. Mando's blood boiled as he watched the dirty man's hands caressing Y/N's bruised and sensitive skin while he chatted away with another person sat on the table as well.

Y/N dozed off, her head feeling heavy, and her exhausted body was about to give out on her. She couldn't even remember how she got there and what they gave her to tame her down. Everything was a blur.

If she could, she would've blown up the whole bar into ashes. Make every living being that touched, drugged, and tossed her around to burn into oblivion.

Mando had a plan to grab Maz, but it flew out the window once he noticed who the girl was. The seat that Maz's "friend" occupied was now free, and while "waiting" for his chowder, he slipped into the empty chair.

He regretted his change of plan the moment his eyes landed on the poor girl. The open wounds that would heal into scars horrified him. It angered him the most. Mando was going to make Maz pay for every mark he left on her body. "A Mandalorian? Thought those only existed in stories." Maz tried to hide his widened eyes from the hunter. Mando smirked under his helmet, sensing the fear in Maz's eyes.

Mando's hand rested on top of his blaster that rested on his side. Tilting his helmet, he studied and watched Maz, and he knew the guy would never be the criminal to carry a blaster. He needs a pack of guards because he didn't even know how to handle a blaster by himself. He was all about appearances and less about his fighting skills. "And now they are going to exist in your worst nightmares."

The first shot from Mando's blaster went off and hit the closest guard to Maz in his chest. The first guard's body fell to the floor with a loud thud while others either stared at the fight that was about to break down, and some decided to leave the bar. Before it, all got a little too messy for their liking.

Maz shot up from his seat, not caring that Y/N had fallen to the floor. He gripped on the metal chain tied to her neck collar and dragged her up to her feet as he made a run for the door. Mando had purposely let Maz get a head start; he knew he couldn't get too far with Y/N's weakened state.

The final guard, who was the furthest, made a run towards the hunter, but Mando was quick to his feet and grabbed one of the knives on the table and flew it across the bar for it to land on the guard's shoulder. Stomping his way towards the guard, he hovered over his unbearable body and sent his final shot from his blaster to his chest.

The bartender rose from behind the bar, where he had found shelter from the fight. He watched as the hunter exited the cantina to catch up to Maz, who hadn't gotten very far as Mando had anticipated.

One thing The Mandalorian didn't expect was seeing Maz holding a blaster to Y/N's temple. "God, she can't even lean on him for support from the pain she's in." Mando thought to himself, his grip tightening on the snipper he pulled out from his back. He aimed it at Maz, taking slow steps towards his quarry.

"Give up, Maz. We both know you don't stand a chance." Y/N heard Mando's filtered voice from afar. She was thrown around by Maz for a long time, that the little hope she had of being rescued from the torture had faded every time the sun left the horizon and left her in complete darkness.

Maz had the safety on his blaster. What an idiot.

Mando was about to shot at Maz's shoulder when suddenly, from the corner of his eyes, he watched Y/N slip out a blade from the waistband of her skirt. She must have gotten it after she fell from the first guard laid on the floor after Mando shot him. Maz didn't even know what was coming for him.

Y/N used the little energy she had and pushed the knife into Maz's abdomen, causing him to force her out of his grip and fall on to his knees from the sudden pain. He shrieked in pain while holding the knife still pressed into his body in shock. "He did tell you that you didn't have a chance." Y/N coughed only a few feet away from him, looking straight at Maz as the blood-stained the pale snow underneath him.

"Should've given you a painful death the night we took you." Maz groaned, pulling the knife out of his stomach. "You were worth-" Maz's words caught short, Mando shutting him up with a shot to his chest. Maz's eyes rolled back, and he fell onto his back on the snowy ground.

Tears spilled out of Y/N's eyes. She never thought she was going to make it out alive at all. "Hey, we need to get you out of this weather." Mando knelt to her level on the floor, wrapping his cape around her shoulders to bring in a little bit of warmth to her body. She nodded in response, but before she could force herself to stand up, he already had her in his arms pressed into his chest.

Instead of going to his ship, he preferred getting those chowders he had ordered earlier for her to eat before the flight back to Nevarro. "You might want to eat first." His voice was soft, caring for the petite hunter before him.

Food. Y/N hadn't had a warm meal in such a long time that she devoured the first bowl of chowder too quickly for her liking. Mando sat silently across her, watching her finish up the first bowl in minutes. "Want the other one?" Mando asked, sliding the second bowl towards her.

"Please, I'm starving." It was good that she was eating. The drug that made her doze off was wearing off quicker thanks to the food. The other great news was that Mando had managed to break off the metal collar from her neck. She was free to walk and eat without the cold metal pushing up against her neck. "Thanks again for everything." She went from living a nightmare to finding some peace. Maybe it won't last that much longer, but she enjoyed it a little bit. She enjoyed the hot meal.

After she finished the second bowl, Mando brought the empty dishes to the bar counter a few feet away from the table where he previously sat with her. He tried passing the bartender some extra credits for the mess he caused earlier, but the bartender refused to take the credits. He was merely glad that Maz was gone from his cantina.

Mando nodded as a thank you towards the bartender when he gave them extra food for the flight. "She suffered a lot in the hands of those criminals. I'm glad she's safe now." The bartender explained to the hunter as they both watched her from afar snuggled up into Mando's cape.

After Y/N and The Mandalorian said their final goodbyes to the cantina's owner, he pressed her close for her to lean on him as they walked to her rhythm towards his ship with Mando dragging Maz's body behind him with the same chain Maz had tied up to Y/N neck collar. Y/N was grateful for the food, but she was even more when Mando's ship greeted her with its warmth. "I have never been this excited to see a Razor Crest before." She chuckled, her cheeks gaining a slight red tint.

Mando moved around the ship, trying to gather up a couple of blankets he had stored away. "I don't have a change of clothing, but I did grab these for you."

Y/N mumbled a thank you to Mando and pulled off his cape from her shoulders to replace them with a slightly thicker material to keep her even warmer. "I suggest you rest for a while if you can." He suggested, sitting on the pilot seat and getting the ship ready for departure. Y/N made herself more than comfortable on the chair behind him by the right side of the cockpit.

Y/N relaxed her shoulders as she let the soft material of the chair rest snug to her body. "Thanks again for rescuing me, metalhead." She mumbled, sleep consuming her quickly.

Mando snorted under his helmet. Even after going through what she did, she managed to make fun of him. He watched her over his shoulder, her chest rising up and down while she faded into her deep sleep. He pulled himself away from staring and sent the Razor Crest into hyperspace after placing the coordinates to Nevarro.

"You don't need me to rescue you. You saved yourself out there." Mando whispered, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

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