#RISE with SAP Cloud

[ingenx]

SAP isn't just about software; it's about empowering you with knowledge. With SAP ABAP development technology consultant services, you get customised reports that act like a crystal ball for your business. These reports provide a deep dive into your company's health, from financial performance to operational efficiency. By identifying trends and spotting potential issues early on, you can make informed decisions that drive growth and innovation.

[noisilyimminentcore]

ToggleNow Becomes an Official SELL Partner for RISE with SAP and GROW with SAP in India!

We’re proud to announce that ToggleNow has been officially recognized as a SELL Partner for both RISE with SAP and GROW with SAP in India.

This milestone reaffirms our commitment to delivering business transformation through cloud innovation, helping organizations modernize their ERP landscape with greater agility, security, and scalability.

As a SELL Partner, we’re equipped to:

* Guide enterprises through every step of their RISE with SAP and GROW with SAP journeys * Offer tailored solutions that align with your strategic goals * Enable faster, smarter cloud transitions backed by industry expertise

Let’s build intelligent enterprises—together.

Get in touch to explore how we can accelerate your transformation with SAP.

What This Recognition Means

The SELL Partner designation means that ToggleNow is now fully authorized by SAP to sell and implement both RISE with SAP and GROW with SAP offerings. This recognition not only reflects our technical competence but also positions us as a trusted advisor for organizations looking to modernize their ERP systems and migrate to the cloud.

RISE with SAP is SAP’s holistic transformation-as-a-service offering for large enterprises, enabling them to move to the cloud at their own pace while modernizing their business processes and infrastructure.

GROW with SAP is tailored for mid-sized and fast-growing businesses, providing ready-to-run cloud ERP solutions with built-in best practices, enabling quick deployment and fast results.

As a SELL Partner, ToggleNow is uniquely positioned to bring these transformational packages to organizations across India, backed by SAP’s world-class capabilities and our own commitment to delivering end-to-end value.

Our Role as a SELL Partner

At ToggleNow, we believe in co-creating success with our clients. As an official SELL Partner for RISE with SAP and GROW with SAP, we are now equipped to:

Guide enterprises at every step of their transformation journey—from assessment to implementation, optimization, and beyond.

Provide tailored solutions that match your business vision, industry needs, and growth ambitions.

Deliver faster, more efficient cloud transitions using our proven methodologies and deep understanding of the SAP ecosystem.

 Drive innovation and intelligence by helping businesses leverage AI, analytics, and automation tools embedded within SAP platforms.

Ensure long-term value realization, offering continuous support and strategic advisory for ongoing improvement and scalability.

Why This Matters for Our Clients

This SELL Partnership is more than just a badge—it’s a gateway to a new era of opportunities for our customers. With our enhanced capabilities, clients can expect:

Faster ERP modernization with minimal disruption

Reduced operational costs and improved resource efficiency

Seamless integration with existing systems and third-party tools

Access to the latest SAP updates, tools, and best practices

Increased flexibility to scale and adapt to changing business conditions

Whether you’re a growing startup or a large enterprise, this partnership enables us to bring SAP’s most powerful cloud solutions directly to your business, making transformation simpler, faster, and smarter.

Our Vision: Building Intelligent Enterprises

At ToggleNow, our mission is to help organizations become intelligent enterprises—those that use data-driven insights, automation, and cloud-native solutions to run better, faster, and more sustainably. This SELL Partner status further strengthens our ability to deliver on that vision.

We’re not just offering technology—we’re offering transformation. We’re here to partner with you through every phase of your digital journey, ensuring you gain real business value from every step.

Readmore: https://togglenow.com/

[indusnovateur-sap-partner-india]

Unlock the Future of Business with SAP Public Cloud

In today’s fast-paced digital world, staying ahead means embracing solutions that transform operations, enhance agility, and ensure scalability. The SAP Public Cloud is one such revolutionary platform, empowering organizations to thrive in the era of digital transformation.

[ross-frank]

RISE with SAP and Its Role in Digital Transformation

In the modern business landscape, digital transformation is not just a buzzword—it's a necessity. Solutions like RISE with SAP provide an all-in-one pathway to business success for companies looking to stay ahead of the competition. CBS Consulting, as a leader in end-to-end digital process solutions, helps organizations leverage RISE with SAP for smoother transitions and enhanced operations.

What is RISE with SAP?

RISE with SAP is a holistic offering by SAP that aims to simplify a company’s journey towards digital transformation. It provides a comprehensive suite of solutions, including SAP S/4HANA, SAP BTP, and cloud services, designed to optimize business processes. The goal is to provide companies with everything they need to transform digitally, whether they are migrating from legacy systems or optimizing existing SAP environments.

Data Migration Software: Ensuring Smooth Transition

One of the significant aspects of digital transformation is data migration. As businesses move to SAP S/4HANA, the need for efficient Data Migration Software becomes apparent. This software ensures that critical data from legacy systems can be moved seamlessly to new platforms without the risk of data loss or inconsistency.

SAP BTP Integration: Unlocking New Possibilities

The SAP Business Technology Platform (BTP) is central to RISE with SAP. SAP BTP Integration allows businesses to connect various data sources, systems, and processes, creating a unified ecosystem. It’s like creating a highway for data, allowing smooth and efficient communication between various parts of the organization.

SAP Data Migration: A Crucial Step in Digital Transformation

At CBS Consulting, we understand that SAP Data Migration is a crucial step when transitioning to new systems. It involves transferring data from older systems to SAP S/4HANA, ensuring that no valuable data is left behind. This process requires meticulous planning and expert execution to avoid disruptions.

Conclusion

RISE with SAP offers a powerful approach for businesses looking to embrace digital transformation. Combined with efficient Data Migration Software, SAP BTP Integration, and well-executed SAP Data Migration, companies can experience a smooth transition. CBS Consulting is here to guide organizations every step of the way, ensuring that they leverage these solutions to their fullest potential.

[nickmarksblog]

RISE with SAP: A Trusted Partner

Ready to elevate your business to new heights? Discover how RISE with SAP is revolutionizing the way organizations navigate digital transformation. In this video, we dive deep into how RISE with SAP partners empower enterprises to streamline operations, enhance customer experiences, optimize supply chains, and master financial management. Whether you're looking to drive innovation or improve efficiency, RISE with SAP offers a comprehensive solution tailored to meet the unique needs of larger organizations. Learn why RISE with SAP stands out in the ERP landscape and how it can transform your business into a future-ready powerhouse!

[iyal09]

SAP Implementation Services

SAP Implementation Services

Samah offers comprehensive SAP Implementation and Support Services. Their expert team counsels develops and maintains customized SAP solutions. It's a one-stop solution for multiple business functions. SAP collects, stores, and processes data across business applications and functions in one simplified platform. For more SAP services like SAP HANA S/4 on public cloud, SAP S/4 HANA Cloud Application implementation, Rise with SAP implementation, Grow with SAP implementation, BI, BO, Analytics, Data Visualization, S/4 HANA Cloud Upgrade, SAP Successfactor, SAP Annual Maintenance Service, and SAP AMS service provider.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

If you’re still taking ideas for tonight 🫶🏻 maybe H and y/n going on their first walk as a family - either baby in the carrier on Harry’s chest or y/n pushing the pram, all wrapped up warm on a winter walk then going to meet Anne for a coffee so baby could have nanna cuddles 🥰

Spring Walks.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!!

in which, it’s your’s and harry’s first walk as a family of four, and even though it’s spring, the weathers very chilly and your little one is in the pram whilst your four year old is sat on his daddy’s shoulders.

word count - 1k.

It’s just past ten on a chilly spring morning, the kind where the sky is washed in soft blue and the clouds seem like afterthoughts. The forest trail beneath your feet is damp from last night’s rain, but it smells incredible—earthy, fresh, and full of that green-sap scent that only comes with early leaves.

You wrap your coat tighter around you and glance down into the pram. Your daughter is sleeping soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling under the knit blanket Anne gave you just before she was born. Her face is impossibly small, features still undefined in that newborn way—more like a dream than a person just yet.

“S’out cold,” Harry says, leaning over your shoulder to peek in at her. “Like her mum, snoring by nine.”

You laugh quietly, nudging him. “I do not snore.”

“Y’do a little puff. Like a baby hedgehog.” He makes a tiny snuffling sound and then grins, proud of himself.

“You are so lucky I’m sleep-deprived and too tired to argue.”

He chuckles and shifts his grip on your four-year-old son, who is perched high up on his shoulders, little wellies bouncing lightly against Harry’s chest with each step. His tiny hands are tangled in Harry’s curls, his cheeks rosy and wind-bitten.

“Daddy, look!” your son shouts, pointing toward a squirrel sprinting up a tree. “He’s got something in his mouth! Is it a sandwich?”

Harry squints. “Looks like a bit of leaf or something, buddy. Probably not a sandwich. Squirrels don’t have lunchboxes.”

“They should,” your son decides seriously. “We could give them some snacks.”

You join in, “That’s how you make forest friends, you know. You leave them tiny peanut butter sandwiches, and they send thank-you notes made of twigs.”

“Really?” He gasps, eyes wide.

Harry laughs, “Well, sort of. But you’ve got to be very, very quiet so you don’t scare them.”

Your son nods solemnly and immediately whispers, “Okay.” Then, a second later: “BUT IF I SEE A FOX I’M GONNA SCREAM!.”

You and Harry both burst into quiet laughter, trying not to wake the baby.

You fall into step beside him, the gravel crunching underfoot. The path is scattered with fallen blossoms from some early-flowering tree, pink petals caught in puddles and clinging to your boots.

“Can you believe we’re here?” you say softly. “Family of four. Two whole kids.”

Harry exhales, long and warm, like he’s been holding that feeling in his chest and is only just letting it out. “I know. Feels unreal. Like we blinked and suddenly… we’re outnumbered.”

You laugh. “You’re the one who wanted more chaos.”

“I did,” he admits, smiling. “And I’d do it all again. Every nappy, every midnight bottle, every ‘I want juice’ at four in the morning.”

You glance at him with a smirk. “That last one was you.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? Apple juice tastes better at night.”

A soft wind stirs the leaves around you. You adjust the pram handle, and Harry watches you for a moment before speaking again.

“Y’amazing, you know,” he says quietly. “Like. I watch you with them, and I think—how did I get so lucky?”

You look over at him, touched. “You were charming. And tall. That helped.”

“That’s it then?” he laughs. “Tall and charming?”

You lean into him a little, shoulder brushing his. “And you make a very good climbing frame.”

From above, your son yells, “I’m a tree-climber! I’m on top of Daddy Mountain!”

“Hold on, little explorer,” Harry says, pretending to wobble. “Daddy Mountain’s feeling an earthquake in his back.”

“Don’t fall, Daddy! I’m too small to raise a baby!”

That has you both laughing so hard you have to stop for a moment. You reach up and steady your son’s leg while you catch your breath.

The trail starts to widen, and ahead you can see glimpses of the high street through the thinning trees. The edge of town greets you with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery and a faint bell from someone opening a shop door.

Harry glances over. “Mum said she got us the corner table outside. Figured we’d want space for the pram.”

You nod, grateful. “She always thinks of everything.”

“She’s been dying to show off the baby,” he adds. “I think she’s printed pictures for strangers on the bus.”

“She’s so excited to have another granddaughter, she’s got so many plans already.” Harry adds. “For both of them.”

You smirk. “Like what?”

“She wants to take her first grandbaby to the petting zoo, just them two. And she said we should have a nap together while she watches the baby.”

You blink, surprised. “A nap together? Like… sleep?”

“I know,” Harry teases, “remember that?”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest bloom. You’d give anything for just one afternoon of that quiet kind of closeness again. But for now, this walk—this moment—is enough.

As you turn onto the main road, your son gasps. “There’s Nana! I see her!”

Anne is already waving from her spot at the café, wearing a scarf you bought her last Christmas and holding a takeaway cup in one hand. When she sees you, her whole face lights up. She stands before you even reach her, arms out.

Harry gently lifts your son off his shoulders, setting him down. “Go on then, give Nana a cuddle.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice—he races ahead, nearly colliding with her in a hug. Anne laughs and scoops him up effortlessly, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Then she turns to you, eyes misty.

“There’s my girl,” she says, kissing your cheek, then leaning over the pram. “And there’s my littlest love. Oh, she’s perfect.”

Harry wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into him. “We made some good ones, didn’t we?”

You lean into him, smile tugging at your lips as you watch your family. “We really did.”

Anne looks up. “Well, I’ve ordered you both tea, and I got extra pastries because you’re both barely eating anything proper—”

“We eat!” you protest.

“You nibble. Like nervous mice,” she says, waving her hand. “Now sit. Warm up. I’ll cuddle this one in a minute.”

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Undo My Grave Mistake

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 6383 Tags: emotional hurt/comfort, Dream's low self-esteem, 1889 emotional residue, Hob's insecurities, getting together, dream encounter, dream sex, Dream is forever about the Story, they'll communicate later, top Dream, bottom Hob, brief oral, anal fingering, anal sex, sap, cuddling

Notes: Putting this out during @teejaystumbles pre-S2 centennial reblog spree for 1889 since that meeting is addressed in this. It's half overdue conversation and half dream sex; if you prefer to skip that bit, leave off when they move to the bedroom and pick up again several paragraphs from the end, at 'It is over, then'

Title pulled from a semi-relevant song:

I wish I could undo My grave mistake And say the words unsaid Obsession grows like flames Time only makes it worse [...] Will you open the door to me once more Always yours

- Beast in Black, 'Ghost in the Rain'

Summary: Dream steps into Hob's nightmare and discovers that Hob's fears are not what he had imagined they would be

On AO3

Hob is having a nightmare.

Dream does not, historically, peer into the dreams of his friend, has never paid them more heed than any other dreamer; but since he has at long last made up their missed meeting, and then met him again, and again, to the establishment of a recurring pattern, he finds himself…attuned, to Hob's presence in his realm, in a way that he was not. Before.

He centers his attention on this nightmare, to feel out the shape of what frightens Hob so, what about him frightens Hob so. For it is about him, that much is plain to tell; there are few dreamers to whom he is known such that he could be dreamed about, and it tickles at his awareness when they do.

It is but the smallest effort to find Hob and step into his Dream, a mere gesture to dismiss the diligent nightmare, his faithful subject, who was directing the dreamscape. It is no effort at all to slip himself into his own shade within the dream, to face the reality that Hob fears him, some part of him, no matter his own feelings on such a revelation.

It is not unexpected, after all; he is a creature to be feared, respected, admired perhaps, but not befriended, not sought after for his companionship. It was inevitable that Hob should see this, particularly now that Dream has given him a name, the briefest explanation of function, greater frequency of meetings in which he can observe and discover Dream's faults.

(He does not delude himself. He had not expected it to happen so swiftly; Hob is kind, and forgiving, and welcoming in ways that make Dream yearn—but no. Hob was always going to see.)

(He was always going to lose Hob's regard.)

He is in the New Inn, standing at their table, turning away as Hob rises to follow.

"Dream, wait, please don't go—" There is fear in Hob's voice, reedy terror and trembling desperation.

Dream does not stop. Dream continues to storm angrily from the pub, as expected of him, as sewn into the fabric of this nightmare. Hob grows ever more distraught as he gives chase, calls behind him.

"I'm sorry, forgive me, I beg you don't go don't leave me—Dream, please!"

The last is very much a sob.

Enough.

He stops, turns, outside the Inn now, grey clouds scudding overhead.

Hob blinks at him from a tear-stained face.

Dream plucks at the threads of the scene around them, searching for the words or actions that had transpired before his arrival, but there is nothing. "And for what should I forgive you, Hob Gadling," he intones, improvising while he feels out the shape of this nightmare.

The question takes Hob off guard and his brow furrows, his lovely wet eyes blinking several times. "I…I. I did something wrong? I offended you, I made. I made you leave."

It is hazy, non-specific in the manner of dreams, but that in itself is very telling. Dream has changed the prescribed course of the dream and Hob's mind is unsure what to do with the shift. Hob is so very different, here, in the grip of his nightmare; he is physically smaller, shorter than Dream, his usual confidence nowhere in evidence. He is anxious, terrified, wide-eyed and uncertain and trembling, and while Dream had stepped in with the resigned expectation that he would find Hob cowering from the full horror of understanding what Dream is, the true shape of Hob's fear shines startling and unexpected before him as he reaches for it.

Hob does not fear Dream.

Hob fears losing Dream, fears giving offense when he means only kindness, fears driving Dream into a fury and out of his life.

"I am yet here," Dream says, adrift in the shifting sands of realization within him. "You have given no offense, Hob." He is certain it is the truth, regardless of whatever Hob's subconscious may insist; the crux of the nightmare is Dream leaving and the specifics of why matter little.

Hob glances skyward, drawing a deep breath to steady himself; Dream is transfixed by the watery shine of his beautiful eyes, the firm press of his lips as he attempts to gather his composure.

"Did before, didn't I?" he says, bitter and self recriminating, another tear sliding down his cheek, and Dream is struck low by how deeply he aches to wipe it away. "Drove you off in 1889, said more than I should've—" He breaks off, choking back a sob, and Dream. Cannot simply stand here, witness to Hob's grief and distress, and do nothing.

"Peace, Hob," he says, low, soothing, past the curl of his own guilt.

The fault is his, after all.

Hob shakes his head, breathes deeply, striving for control. "I try," he says, a hint of lucidity creeping into his voice, "I really do. You came back; you called me Friend. You gave me a name and a, a glimpse at who you are and you've come back again, and again, and you're here now. So why am I still so afraid I'm going to fuck this up? Why am I so terrified I'll make you leave again?"

The guilt curls deeper, drawing Dream's thoughts in with it. Hob is justified in holding such fears; if Dream is to name him Friend, he would do well to assuage them.

"You have carried this fear more than a century. It will not be dispelled in the span of mere months." Indeed, that is the point of this nightmare; but again. It is within Dream's power to offer at least an attempt at reassurance.

It does not come easily, as it encompasses admission of fault, but. He must try.

"Hob." He waits until Hob's wet eyes are fixed on him. "I am…difficult, and my temper. Is volatile. It is very possible, perhaps even probable, that I will. Take offense where it is not meant, someday again, but know this." He can feel the truth of it settling into the core of his being before the words are spoken. "I will always return. To you. However long it may take my temper to cool. I will not forsake our bond so lightly."

"Our bond, is it?" Hob flashes a watery, lopsided grin.

"Would you not name it so? Is friendship not a bond?"

"Yes. Of course. My dear friend." There is something in Hob's smile now that is both pleased and sad, a bittersweet note that sings of take what is given and do not seek for more and Dream. Can feel the thread of it plucked throughout the dreamscape, resonating with the notes of do not push and do not invite rejection that sound within himself.

Is it possible, then—

Does Hob feel toward him. Any semblance, of what he feels for Hob?

"I appreciate the promise," Hob is saying, his smile bright, sincere, his eyes still damp. "But if I'm dreaming, is it gonna do me any good awake?"

"I am the lord of dreams, Hob. If you do not remember when you wake, I assure you, your subconscious will still be eased." He pauses, then adds, "And I will. Make, the opportunity, to give you such assurance in the waking world as well."

Hob blinks, pleased, but clearly also surprised. "That would be a kindness."

It is the least Dream can do, when this fear has grown and taken root because of him. Had he not fled their meeting in 1889, had he not then been. Absent, in 1989, Hob would not have reason to worry so. Had he been. Honest, with his feelings, that last time—

But no. He had instead taken offense to Hob's boldness in assuming any attachment, used anger to mask the hurt of Hob naming it 'friendship' where Dream had dared, in the deepest most hidden places within himself, to wish it something more.

The fault is not Hob's, but he has borne the fallout for decades regardless.

And if Hob's feelings indeed are a match for Dream's, then it has all been. Entirely. Needless. And Dream will not let it continue.

"Do you wish to know, Hob. How I would have ended our final meeting at the White Horse, were I not such a coward?"

"I. Yes? You're no coward," Hob answers, gamely flowing with the dream-worthy non-sequitur.

"But in this, I am," Dream asserts, and abruptly he is storming away from the White Horse as he had in 1889, rain pouring down on him mercilessly, Hob yelling after him.

"—it'll be because we're friends! No other reason!"

Oh, how those words had cut him, back then, excavated the secrets kept buried in his heart and sliced them to the core, left them bleeding and vulnerable in the rain.

He whirls, stalks to Hob, who is blinking his confusion because this is not how it happened—

It is not, but it should have been, for oh, how Dream had wanted—

He seizes Hob by his lapels, there in the middle of the street, and kisses him fiercely in the pouring rain.

Hob squeaks, a shocked and muffled sound, and Dream has an instant to fear that he has acted wrongly—and then Hob melts against him, opens to him eagerly, grasps and holds to him with fervor, and Dream is lost in the tide of want that swells to consume him.

It is a thrilling, satisfying moment spent indulging this long-held fantasy before he is able to draw back. His grip has gentled, his hands curled softly in Hob's lapels now, and Hob is cupping him behind the elbows, holding him close in a way that does not encircle or entrap him. Careful. Considerate. Unnecessary, but appreciated.

Hob's eyes flutter open, dark and adoring, wonder in their depths. "Dream…my Stranger, my Friend…" He is gazing up into Dream's eyes from a breath away, blinking away the pouring rain that runs over his face, mats his lovely hair flat. "What is this?"

He looks less as though he is truly concerned with the answer and more as though he longs to be kissed again; conveniently, Dream wishes to kiss him again, and so he does.

'This' is an uncertain certainty, an inadvisable course that he has resisted out of necessity, propriety, for so much of their acquaintance; he does not care to resist any longer, should Hob be amenable.

The eager curl of Hob's tongue beckoning Dream into his mouth speaks volumes of his amenability.

Still, Dream thinks, even as he follows that invitation, he should ask, should speak of his own feelings and make clear his intentions in words, where there is no mistaking the why of what he has done. He should seek Hob's intent as well, confirm his interest, leave no doubt between them on either side.

But Hob is dreaming. Hob has already expressed concern over how much he may remember; better, perhaps, to save such conversation for the waking world, where they both can be certain of Hob's full awareness. Hob would appreciate this consideration, he is very sure.

If he feels marginally relieved, not to have to bring the words to bear right now, well.

The dream shifts about them, as dreams are wont to do, directed by Hob's subconscious. They no longer stand kissing in the middle of the street; now Dream is pressing Hob back against the wall of a narrow alleyway, still more or less 1889 London, still beneath the pouring rain. His arms are tight about Hob's waist and Hob's are wrapped behind his neck, one hand threading up into his hair as they kiss. It is an ardent touch, full of care, longing, devotion and Dream. Will deny himself no longer.

He moves, reaches to grasp the backs of Hob's thighs and lifts, still pinning him to the wall, still kissing him fiercely.

The sound Hob makes is delectable, a warm bouquet of surprise and approval over arousal and excitement; his hands shift to touch Dream's face, cradling it while Dream devours his mouth. Dream holds him up by the grip on his thighs, by the press of his own body into the spread of Hob's legs, where Hob's thoughts on the situation are very much in evidence.

And Dream wants.

"I would have you," he manages, the words brushed against Hob's parted lips, and Hob whimpers, plainly audible beneath the rushing of the rain.

"Please. Please do—"

Dream surges back into him, kissing with abandon as Hob's hands tangle into his hair, rain pouring over both of them, cold runnels across his cheeks and down his neck a sharp contrast to the warmth of Hob's touch and the heat of Hob's mouth.

The dream shifts again; they are now in a sumptuous room, spacious but cozy and richly-appointed, with an enormous canopied bed dressed in black and darkest blue to one side. Dream understands that this is 'his bedroom', as Hob would envision it, and he feels a flash of deep pleasure at the overstuffed bookshelves that dominate the wall opposite. He has shared enough for Hob to know the importance of stories to himself and his function, and Hob imagines an appropriately-robust library spilling into the private space he sees for Dream; it is pleasing, a worthy nod to his station, and Dream appreciates it.

But he has. Better uses, in this moment, for such a sturdy bookcase.

With barely a thought he is across the room; he slams Hob's back against the loaded shelves, still gripping tightly about his thighs, and kisses the startled noise he makes straight out of his mouth. They are still soaked from the rain, thin tendrils of Hob's hair dripping on Dream's damp face, clothes clinging wetly against skin but the discomfort is trivial. Insignificant. Hob is kissing him back with such fervor, such hunger, he feels all but ravenous in return, starved for the intimacy and connection that Hob offers him so freely.

The dream ripples, slightly, and their clothing is gone, the remnants of the rain with it. He cannot say if it was Hob's doing or his own, and it matters not at all. He presses closer, mouths kisses down the bared length of Hob's throat as Hob's head tips back, grips Hob's thighs all the tighter; they are thickly covered in fine hairs, pleasing beneath his fingers, a beautiful surprise. Hob's chest is likewise adorned, a dark and inviting pelt, and Dream is not inclined to resist the temptation of rubbing his cheek against it.

"Dream," Hob murmurs, breathless above him, voice soft and full of wonder and yet urgent all the same, and Dream leans up to kiss him again immediately. Hob's hands are warm on his shoulders, legs warm around his hips, all of Hob's skin gloriously warm everywhere that they touch; he is hot, where the hard length of him nestles against Dream's stomach, and Dream hitches him marginally higher against the bookshelf just for the pleasure of the wanton sound that he makes.

"This is all—so much—so fast," Hob babbles, while Dream kisses hungrily along the column of his throat again.

"Would you have me stop," he murmurs to the stubbled underside of Hob's jaw, the soft vulnerability just beneath his ear. He wants, desperately, to seek out every such place on Hob's body, to kiss each in turn, to make known his ardor in a million tender touches before and during and after making love to him. Hob should know, how dear Dream holds him, and Dream longs to show him.

He will stop, if Hob asks it.

He hopes Hob will not ask.

"No, no, please don't," Hob sighs, legs tightening around Dream's hips. "Bit overwhelming but I want this, I want you, so much—" He hitches a shaky breath as Dream closes careful teeth on his earlobe and tugs gently. "I've always wanted you, like this, never thought I'd be allowed but it's always been you, Dream—"

Dream lifts his head, looks Hob in the face, the want and adoration simmering warm in the dark of Hob's eyes, and silently names himself a fool for choosing not to look for it before.

"My Hob," he breathes, heartfelt and aching, and surges back to Hob's mouth in a desperate kiss.

It is no effort at all to lift Hob away from the bookcase, to turn, to carry him to the bed. He places one knee on the mattress and leans down, lays Hob carefully among the silken pillows and hovers over him, looking his fill for just a moment. Hob is beautiful, dark hair splayed over the blue silk with its silver edging, the threads of silver at his temples carrying the motif full circle. His eyes are wide and dark, full of wonder and adoration, his mouth wet and kiss-swollen and just open enough to be inviting.

Hob dreams himself the wide-eyed ingenue, the hapless mortal drawn into a world he could not hope to comprehend, pliant and in awe.

Dream is. Amenable, to the role that this suggests for him. He will lead this encounter, guide Hob, overwhelm him with all that Dream has kept within, have him and take him as he so clearly wishes to be taken, here. For Dream is greedy, and disinclined to hold back from claiming what is offered, that which he has silently yearned for throughout so much of their acquaintance and the entirety of their friendship.

"My Hob," he breathes, again, and dips his head to reclaim Hob's waiting mouth.

Hob's hands touch reverently, carefully, as though suddenly uncertain he's allowed. Dream thrills to the story of it, lowers his body over Hob's and kisses him artfully, ardent and overpowering. Hob opens to him, makes a high plaintive sound in his throat that lances Dream to his core with want and heat and he answers in kind, a rumbling groan from deep in his chest. He touches Hob's face, combs an errant lock of hair back from his temple to behind his ear, strokes his cheek as he breaks the kiss for the barest second.

"Touch me," he murmurs, soft against Hob's mouth, and kisses him again.

Hob whimpers, meets his ardor with overwhelmed eagerness and wraps his arms around Dream, clutches at his back, squirming closer. His legs fall further open, welcoming, inviting, and Dream will not be so uncouth as to refuse such an offering. He rolls his hips, grinding smoothly against Hob, hard prick to hard prick and the sound Hob makes is sweet on his questing tongue.

He would devour this man, if it were permissible; would allow Hob to devour him in turn, would have them each as part and parcel of the other, one being intertwined. He would fashion himself a ribcage that Hob's heart might beat within him, would be the very breath to fill Hob's lungs, the blood pumping hot through his veins—

Dream corrals his thoughts, funnels them away to the deeper corners of himself; it would not do to let them shape Hob's dream away from the romantic fantasy it had become, never mind that it had begun as a nightmare. He will keep to the ardor and sweetness that Hob expects, this first time.

His hand is spread behind Hob's neck and he takes it in a gentle grip, tilting Hob's head back, softly breaking their kiss with a lingering pull of Hob's bottom lip between his teeth. He moves without pause to Hob's chin, kissing over the beloved prickly dimpled curve of it and down into the stubbled softness of Hob's throat, pleased with the way that Hob pants beneath his touch, the helpless little sounds Hob does not even try to hold back. He shifts his body down along Hob's, kissing his way over clavicles and furred sternum and belly, delighted with the way Hob's hands pet delicately at his hair and fall aside as he reaches the apex of Hob's beautiful thighs.

Hob's prick stands ready, flush with color, and it jerks at the touch of Dream's tongue. Hob gasps, makes a desperate little mewling sound as Dream tastes him again, a slow lick from base to tip, lingering over the wetness seeping there.

"Dream—!"

Oh, his name in that breathless tone from Hob's throat will be his undoing; Dream groans wordlessly in return, takes Hob fully into his mouth, strokes his hands along the insides of Hob's lovely thighs, pressing them further open as he suckles.

The sound Hob makes then is ripe with overwhelm and anticipation; the dream shifts, shimmering with Hob's want, and Dream allows himself to be shifted with it. He is kneeling between Hob's legs now and Hob is on his stomach, is canting his hips up toward Dream, and there is a bottle of 'intimate lubricant' in the sheets beside them.

I would have you, Dream had said, under the rain.

Please do, Hob had answered, eager and willing, and here he is presenting himself for the fulfillment of what they both desire.

The strength of Dream's wanting threatens to consume him.

He runs his fingertips delicately over Hob's flank. "Up," he murmurs, applying the slightest pressure, and Hob scrabbles to get his knees under him, lifting his arse higher. His shoulders remain on the bed and his hands grasp the sheets near his face; his eyes are slitted open, angled back toward Dream, as if he cannot bear the thought of losing sight of Dream even for a moment.

Dream bends to kiss one shapely hairy cheek, then trickles lubricant over Hob's hole and runs one fingertip around it, barely touching. Hob whines, arches his back; Dream strokes across him properly, a light touch, spreading the slickness about with gentle precision. He does not press inside, not yet; it is pleasing to touch Hob in this fashion, to hear the stutter of his breath and the rushing of his pulse, to taste the way his wanting permeates the very air of his dreamscape.

It is only a moment before Hob is trembling, panting, keyed up in his readiness. "Dream—please, I need—you're teasing—"

He is, he discovers. The sounds Hob is making are delectable, tempting him into drawing out each step of the process, but he would not prolong it to the point of torture and his own patience is thin besides. He stills his fingertips, directly over the slick but still tightly furled entrance to Hob's body, and applies just enough pressure to make Hob gasp.

"Would you have me inside you, my Hob?"

"Yes. Please—" It is fervent and heartfelt, conveying quite plainly that Hob could not possibly want anything more in this moment; he flexes his hips, as if he could deepen Dream's touch by strength of will alone.

There is more lubrication now on Dream's fingers because he wills it so—does not wish to spare an instant to reopen the bottle—and he presses one inside; he watches the black of his nail sink into Hob's body and savors the way that Hob keens as he is breached. He pushes in deep, all the way in, delighted with the warmth of Hob tight around him; he is both careful and thorough, stroking and stretching, using two fingers as Hob begins to open to him. Hob's voice lilts and trembles with his pleasure, fanning the licking flames of Dream's own anticipation, the inevitable thoughts of his prick sinking into Hob. He is quite smitten with the way that Hob dreams himself, an eager offering for Dream to partake of, and he is more than willing to oblige.

He should like very much to take Hob's prick within himself, as well, to lay Hob on his back and ride him to completion, to take Hob's seed inside that it might become a part of him in truth. But this dream is Hob's, is shaped by the words they have shared and the wants they have expressed and the quieted fears of the nightmare that had brought them to this point; another time, perhaps, he will act on such thoughts. Now, here, he will fulfill the story Hob's dream has set around them.

His fingers flex deep inside of Hob, and Hob gives the prettiest little cry of wanton delight.

He could shift more details of the dream if he wished, could make Hob ready to take him with little more than a thought, but he does not. Hob's mind had moved them to this act, and Dream is pleased to prepare Hob in the way that he is used to. There is. Great pleasure, after all, in opening him with care, in working him to mindless trembling readiness on the slender length of Dream's own fingers. The way he groans and pants when Dream strokes him firmly within, the way his hands grasp at the sheets and the greedy clenching of his body if Dream makes to withdraw—these things stroke Dream's ego, feed the fire of his own arousal.

"Please, please," Hob is begging, his body tense and damp with sweat, face pressed sideways against Dream's sheets. His prick hangs rigid and dripping; there are fine tremors running the length of his beautiful thighs with every measured stroke of Dreams fingertips within him and Dream is. Certain, that he is nearly at his peak.

He wishes to be inside Hob when it happens, to feel the first time he trembles through it, shakes apart, from the work of Dream's hands and Dream's body alone.

He withdraws his fingers swiftly, dips to lave his tongue over the slick openness of Hob's body and Hob's whimper of protest chokes into a gasping cry. He is pushing into Dream's touch, clearly eager for more, and Dream will return to this quite gladly, will indulge him at another time; at present, he can no longer bear to not be within his Hob and so his tongue traces a warm wet path up the length of Hob's spine, body flowing smoothly behind until he is draped over the slope of Hob's back and his own prick is sinking unerringly into Hob's waiting hole.

The sound Hob makes is exquisite and he is pushing up, closer, even as the weight of Dream atop him bears him all the way down to the bed. He squirms, knees splayed wide and thighs trembling, hands clenched in the sheets and face turned into them, panting, little whines of pleasure curling off the end of each breath as Dream seats himself fully. Dream noses into the hair at the nape of his neck, damp and fragrant with sweat, gives himself a long instant to savor the pulsing heat of Hob's body around his cock, then pushes up and braces himself, draws out, sinks in again with a sigh.

Hob cries out, tosses his head, gasping, so clearly on the edge; Dream fucks into him smoothly, steady and unhurried, dips down to brush his lips whisper-soft against the stubble-rough corner of Hob's jaw. "My Hob," he murmurs, to the tender skin beneath Hob's ear. "How I have. Longed, to have you this way��"

Hob shudders, breath catching; Dream noses up the back of Hob's ear, follows with the tip of his tongue while driving tenderly into him and Hob goes rigid beneath him, chokes on a strangled cry. His body seizes, clenching tight around Dream in rhythmic pulses as he spends himself into the sheets; Dream closes his eyes, feels with every trembling fiber of his being as Hob's pleasure peaks, then subsides. Hob wilts beneath him, limp, sated, and Dream shifts with him, kisses softly between his shoulder blades again and again.

Hob makes a soft sound, a short note of longing and pleading, squirming under Dream, and then the dream ripples, shifts. Dream again allows himself to be shifted with it and finds himself seated cross-legged on the bed with Hob speared in his lap, wrapped around him, kissing him. He welcomes it, opening to Hob's desperate ardor, letting it stoke his own. He slides both hands to Hob's backside, grasps each cheek firmly and flexes up into him, licking the little gasp Hob makes directly from his mouth.

"My Hob," he breathes, flexing into him again, gripping to spread him decadently open; Hob squirms into it, grinding down, panting into the space between their lips. He shifts, contorting easily within the dream to get his knees beneath him without losing the connection of Dream's cock inside him. He leans forward and gingerly pushes Dream back, cautiously bold; Dream moves as urged, reclining slightly into the pillows behind him. Hob's eyes are dark with want and brightly eager, holding Dream's gaze with something that is very nearly worship.

"Hard to believe this is real," he breathes, hands warm on Dream's shoulders, knees splayed to either side of Dream's hips. "That you should want me the way I want you, Dream—" He leans in for a kiss and Dream meets him with ardor, lifting him marginally at the same time and pulling him flush down into his lap again. Hob whimpers into his mouth and Dream lifts him again, encouraging. Hob takes the cue, rises on his knees and sinks back down, moans decadently to fill himself with Dream's cock, again, and again. He breaks the kiss, tosses his head, clutches at Dream as he squirms low and writhes, panting with it.

Dream watches him, watches his face, speaks his own helpless awe and rapture into the space between them. "Hob, my Hob—" He ducks his head, brushes his cheek against the rich sweep of Hob's chest hair with a groan. "You bring me. Low, with wanting, my beautiful Hob, you will be my undoing—"

"Dream—oh, fuck, Dream—!" Hob's hands on his shoulders grasp tight, trembling, and he moves faster, and faster still, rising and falling and clinging and perfect.

In no time at all he has found his rhythm, gasping out the loveliest sounds as he quickly loses himself to the pleasure of it and Dream gives himself over in turn, lets the plunging grip of Hob's body draw him ever closer to the precipice. He wraps an arm about Hob's waist, holding him close while Hob rides feverishly up and down in his lap, head thrown back, his cries sharp and breathless. Dream's other hand cradles the nape of Hob's neck and Dream's mouth whispers over the arch of Hob's throat, silent declarations of possession and adoration for which he does not care to find the words.

Hob moves faster, faster, breath coming shorter and shorter—and then at last yet in no time at all he is wailing, grinding hard into Dream's lap, and his spend blooms warm between them, runs down Dream's stomach in lazy rivulets. Dream twitches within him, keyed up and fraught with his own need for release, and then Hob slumps against him, spent but yet unsatisfied.

"Dream," he whines, shifting his hips restlessly, tucking his face down into the crook of Dream's neck, arms around him. "Dream, love, please—"

Dream nuzzles into Hob's hair, enchanted by the scent of him, the warmth of his skin, the weight of him in Dream's arms. He is vibrant and alive and oh, how Dream has wanted for moments just like this, for ages. He kisses softly along the arch of Hob's neck, into the hollow beneath his ear, takes the lobe gently in his teeth and lets it slip free. "What would you have of me, my Hob?" he murmurs, alight with the intensity of his own want, holding it in check—he wishes to be a generous lover, after all, wishes for Hob to know him as such.

Hob gives a trembling sigh, a gusty exhale that sweeps across Dream's clavicle. "Anything. Everything. Dream—" He shifts, brushes warm lips across Dream's shoulder; the dream shimmers around them but remains unchanged, Hob's will to direct it quieted.

Dream plucks at the threads of it and finds only that Hob wishes fervently that Dream might fuck him now, ardent and relentless, claim him so thoroughly that none could ever doubt to whom Hob belongs—

The possessive greed that surges in him then is somewhat unseemly, perhaps, but Dream does not care. Hob wishes to be his. Dream will not let that want go unfulfilled.

He moves, fluid and urgent, tumbles Hob onto his back with Hob's legs wrapped up about him and lets go his restraint.

Hob is pliant and open beneath him, welcoming, eager, and Dream drives into him with fervor. The way that Hob arches and clings and cries out only spurs him on, fans the flames of his ardor, and he bends to Hob, kisses him fiercely, feasts on the sweet sounds of pleasure Hob is offering into his mouth. He is wanted, he is sought after, he is desired, Hob desires him, and Dream is lost to the elation of it all. He fucks, and fucks, bent close over Hob's yearning body, clasps one of Hob's hands to the sheets beside his head, kisses Hob with all of the wanting and adoration that he had not dared to speak in 1889.

He hardly dares to speak it now, not in so many words, but it pours out of him all the same, plain to be read in every touch and every kiss that Hob allows him, every ardent helpless sound that escapes his own throat, that he smothers against the warmth of Hob's skin.

Hob comes again, he is aware, though he is very much lost in the rise of his own pleasure when it happens. The intimacy of Hob spilling between them spurs him on with primal satisfaction; Hob is marking Dream his, after a fashion, and Dream can hold back no longer from marking him in kind. He moves with utter abandon, hips rolling in thunderous waves, his pleasure cresting higher and higher until at last it breaks and he falls, trembling, into the ocean of Hob's regard, the eddying tides of Hob's want, the harboring shores of Hob's arms twining about him and the sweet welcoming press of Hob's lips to his temple.

It is over, then, and Dream is left pleasantly boneless and sated, entwined with Hob still, breathless and undone. He does not need to breathe but Hob's subconscious expects it, and Hob's dream provides it, and how else should he convey the magnitude and intensity of what they have just shared?

"My Hob," he pants, between kisses to Hob's face, his lips, the dimple of his chin, anywhere Dream can reach.

"Yours," Hob breathes, unfettered joy radiant in his smile, which Dream simply must kiss again.

"Would that I had named you thus when last we met at the White Horse," he murmurs, awash still in tender warmth at the feel of Hob in his arms, the reality of it. He sprawls on his side, pulls Hob closer. "Decades, I might have known the pleasure of your touch, of holding you thus, had I been forthcoming with the wishes of my heart."

He does not think he would speak so plainly to Hob in the waking world, nor even in the Dreaming proper if Hob were fully lucid. But here, in the warm and hazy cocoon of Hob's dreamscape, where Hob wishes to hear such things, there is safety in the imperfection of Hob's memory and it is not so difficult to. Confess.

"No matter," Hob says, snuggling into him, warm and content and overflowing with gentle happiness. "We've all the time in the world to make it up, haven't we, love."

Love. To be named such by Hob—it is an honor Dream is uncertain he deserves; greedy as he is, he will accept it all the same.

The room ripples softly and now Dream lies reclined in this bed that Hob has imagined his, sated, quiet, Hob curled against and over him. Hob's head lays on his chest, Hob's arm around his ribs, Hob's breath the even peaceful rhythm of sleep. Ordinarily a dreamer who sleeps in their dream fades from his realm, but Dream is selfish, and holds just enough of Hob's dream intact to keep him here longer.

He is aware that he will have to speak with Hob in the waking world, to confirm the truths of his dreaming mind, to make known that what has transpired in this dream is not mere fantasy and that Hob might have it in his waking life as well, should he wish it.

Dream shies from the notion of laying himself so bare, still. Despite what has been shared here, despite his certainty that Hob will welcome his revelations, there is vulnerability in offering himself up for the possibility of rejection and Dream. Does not relish the prospect.

He owes it to Hob, however. He knows this. And he will not shirk it, not when the taste of Hob's nightmare yet sits so fresh upon his tongue.

Hob fears to lose him.

Because Hob values Dream's presence in his long long life.

Because Hob holds him dear.

It is a comfort, and a wonder, and he is glad to simply sit with such undeserved knowledge while Hob slumbers across his chest and the moments stretch like spidersilk, just as beautiful, just as delicate.

"Dream?" Hob stirs against him at last, naked and warm and content, lifting his head to blink muzzily up at Dream. His smile is soft and sleepy and sweet, and Dream's chest aches as if there truly were a human heart within it. He touches Hob's face, caresses it, draws him up and bends to press his lips to Hob's forehead.

He has been selfish long enough.

"This dream is over," he murmurs, and lets Hob slip through his fingers as Hob's consciousness slides toward waking and the room dissolves around them.

With the barest thought he is clad in his robes once more and back in his palace, striding the halls with purpose. He will visit Hob today, in the waking world. He will have the necessary conversations. And, if fortune will but smile upon him a little longer, if Hob remains willing when he is awake, then. Perhaps a new chapter in their story will unfold.

= Started: 2/25/24 Drafted: 6/23/25 Posted: 6/28/25

EDIT: Now with art by the fantastic @teejaystumbles ! ❤️

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Do you want to read 670 words of Harry being a complete and utter sap? You do?? Well look no further, because that is exactly what I have written for @ginnystrophyhusband microfics, using the June prompt of Band.

---------------------------------------------------

He loves watching her dance. 

Hell, he just loves watching her full stop. 

She fizzes with life and energy, her smile wide and her eyes bright as she twirls in the centre of the floor. He leans back in his chair, tucked away at a table to one side of the marquee, making no attempt not to stare. He’s sure he must look like one of those ridiculous Muggle cartoon characters with literal heart eyes, but he doesn’t care.

Her smartly-suited partner reels her back in, taking her in his arms. Even from his vantage point on the opposite side of the dancefloor, Harry can see the way that she gazes up at him adoringly, before settling contentedly against his chest. She looks so happy. That’s all Harry wants these days—for her to be happy.

A moment later, the band changes tempo and the spell is broken. Ginny takes half a pace back and rises on her tiptoes to say something into her partner’s ear. He smiles indulgently and nods, kisses her on the cheek and releases her. Then she’s striding across the floor, straight to where Harry’s sitting. Her long white dress billows around her as she walks, caressing her with every step and shrouding her feet. She could be floating across the floor on a cloud of satin. Given the beaming smile on her face, maybe she is. 

Merlin, but she looks so beautiful. 

According to Hermione, every bride does, but he’s sure none of them has ever looked quite as radiant as her. She’s practically glowing, in the soft light of the enchanted candles that hover overhead.

Now she’s a bit closer, he can read other emotions too. There’s determination in the set of her chin and mischief swirling in those molten chocolate eyes. He knows what she wants, and his heart plummets. 

As soon as she’s within earshot, she confirms his worst fears. “You didn’t think you were going to get away with not dancing with me, did you?” 

“I already danced with you,” he points out. 

“That doesn’t count,” she dismisses him.

“How does it not count?” he protests. “Literally everyone was watching.”

“Exactly! That was our First Dance,” she explains, and he can hear the capital letters. “That dance is for everyone else. This is just for us.”

“You sure your dad won’t take you for another spin?” he asks, nodding to where Arthur is now chatting to Bill, glass of champagne in hand. “He’s a much better dancer than me.”

“Harry James Potter—are you telling me you don’t want to dance with your wife?” she pouts, but her eyes are still sparkling, giving her away.

He pulls a face, because he is no sort of dancer, something of which they are both painfully aware. “I’m more concerned about seriously injuring her to be honest.”

She laughs. It’s his favourite sound in the world. “Percy’s girlfriend’s a Healer, so I’m sure it will be fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, red like fire, like the sunset, like the blood he’d spill for her in a heartbeat. “Besides, I’m tougher than I look.”

“I know.” And he does. She’s stronger and braver than anyone he knows. He adores her.

“Come on, Potter—channel that inner Gryffindor and dance with me?” she asks, offering her hand. 

He agrees. Of course he agrees. He doesn’t think he could ever refuse her anything, his beautiful wife of—he checks his watch—six hours. Best six hours of his life, he reckons. 

The ring on his left hand feels heavy and alien as she leads him to the centre of the floor, but also right, like it belongs there. He tugs her back against him and gathers her into his arms, and that feels right as well. Like she belongs there.

Everything else seems to fade away; the band, the music, the guests. Everything but her and the feeling of her, the feeling of them.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He doesn’t think he ever will.

[kinzhae]

Sailor﹏𓊝﹏

Set in Jujutsu High, 2006, Second-Year Timeline

Gojo x Fem!Reader

Angst with no comfort.

Pls don't let this flop 💔

Spring Nights at Jujutsu High...

The spring air smelled of sakura blossoms and mischief as you sat on the rooftop of Jujutsu High's dormitories, your legs swinging over the edge. The distant hum of Tokyo's lights flickered on the horizon, a reminder of the world beyond the chaos of curses and missions. The night was quiet except for the occasional sound of laughter from the courtyard below—students blowing off steam after an especially grueling week.

And then there was Gojo.

He emerged like he always did: unbothered and obnoxiously tall, his silver hair messy from the wind. He was carrying a bag of snacks he’d likely stolen from Ijichi’s stash. Gojo’s presence was never subtle. Even before he spoke, you could feel the weight of his energy pressing against you, warm and electric.

“I knew I’d find you up here,” he said, plopping down beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. He unwrapped a lollipop and popped it into his mouth.

“You’re like a bad habit,” you muttered, taking a drag from the vape pen you’d smuggled into the school.

He smirked. “A habit you can’t quit.”

♡♡﹏𓊝﹏

The Way He Looked at You

He didn’t make it easy. Gojo Satoru had always been more than a little infuriating. He knew how to get under your skin, but it wasn’t just his teasing or his stupidly attractive smirk that kept you off balance. It was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

Tonight was no different.

“You know, when you sit here like this, with the city lights behind you, you kind of look like Anne Hathaway,” he said, resting his chin on his hand as he studied your face.

You snorted. “What, from Princess Diaries?”

He grinned. “Nah, from The Devil Wears Prada. You’ve got that whole ‘too cool for this’ thing down, but with just enough softness to keep me interested.”

“Softness?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a cloud of vapor. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” His grin widened as he leaned closer, stealing the pen from your fingers. “You wouldn’t let me sit this close if you weren’t soft on me.”

You tried to snatch it back, but he held it just out of reach, laughing when you gave up with a groan.

♡♡﹏𓊝﹏

The World Fades Away..

It wasn’t always fun and games with Gojo. When it was just the two of you, the walls he put up for everyone else seemed to crumble. You’d seen him at his most raw—after missions that went sideways, after friends were hurt or worse. Those moments made it hard to stay mad at him, no matter how much he annoyed you.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” you asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He paused, the lollipop stick dangling from his lips. “Leaving Jujutsu High?”

You nodded.

Gojo’s smile faltered, just for a second, but he recovered quickly. “Sometimes. But then I think about what I’d miss.” He nudged your shoulder. “Like you.”

“You’re such a sap,” you teased, though your chest felt tight.

“Only for you.” He wasn’t joking, not this time.

♡♡﹏𓊝﹏

Won’t you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor?..

It happened before you could think—his hand cupping your cheek, his lips brushing yours. The kiss was as reckless and consuming as Gojo himself, leaving you breathless and buzzing.

When he pulled back, his eyes were alight with mischief. “Well? What’s my flavor?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “Annoying. With a hint of cherry.”

He laughed, throwing his head back, and for a moment, the weight of the world didn’t exist.

“You’re lucky I like annoying things,” you shot back, crossing your arms in mock defiance. But the warmth in your voice betrayed you, and Gojo, ever perceptive, noticed.

He tilted his head, his grin softening. “You know, you’re pretty bad at hiding how much you like me.”

You scoffed, turning your gaze back to the horizon. “And you’re pretty bad at staying humble.”

He leaned back on his hands, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Why should I be humble when I’ve already got the best thing in the world sitting right next to me?”

“You’re unbearable,” you muttered, though your lips twitched upward despite yourself.

Gojo studied you for a moment, the laughter in his expression giving way to something more serious. “You ever think about what we’re fighting for?”

The question hung heavy in the air.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “When it’s quiet, like this.”

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the sky. “It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend so much time fighting things most people can’t even see. We save lives they don’t even know are in danger. And yet...” He trailed off, his voice dropping. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s never enough.”

You turned to him, your heart aching at the rare vulnerability in his voice. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand finding his. His fingers curled around yours, strong and steady.

“It matters to me,” you said quietly. “You matter to me.”

For once, he didn’t have a witty comeback. Instead, he looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

♡♡﹏𓊝﹏

Hating the Wait...

You leaned back, your head resting against his shoulder as the sky began to lighten. “It’s crazy,” you said quietly.

“What is?”

“How much I hate being away from you. Even sleeping feels like too long to wait.”

Gojo chuckled, the sound low and warm. “So, what I’m hearing is that you’re obsessed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe a little.”

“Good.” He tightened his arm around you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because I don’t want to wait either.”

♡♡﹏𓊝﹏

The Night’s Promise..

The two of you stayed on the rooftop until the first hints of dawn began to creep over the horizon. When Gojo finally stood, pulling you up with him, he didn’t let go of your hand.

“Let’s run away,” he said suddenly, his tone light but his eyes serious.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Just for a day,” he clarified. “No curses, no missions, no responsibilities. Just you and me, doing whatever the hell we want.”

“And where exactly would we go?”

“Anywhere.” He grinned, swinging your hand playfully. “We could hole up in some cheap ramen shop or sneak into a movie theater. Or we could drive to the coast and pretend we’re sailors, running away from the world."

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sailors?”

“Yeah.” His grin turned softer, more genuine. “We’d be free. Just for a little while.”

The idea was ridiculous. Irresponsible. Impossible.

But with Gojo, it felt like anything could be real.

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do it.”

His smile lit up the entire rooftop. “That’s my girl.”

And in that moment, with his hand in yours and the weight of the world forgotten, you thought that maybe, just maybe, he really could be your savior.

♡...﹏𓊝﹏....♡

Why wait?...

The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of the wind outside. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty pillow beside you. The blankets were untouched on his side, as if you’d been too afraid to disturb the last remnant of him.

Your voice came out weak, shaky, and tired as you whispered to no one, “I want to go back…”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of longing. You were sleepless, your mind caught in a cruel loop of memories—his laughter, his teasing, the way his hand had felt so solid and sure in yours.

But now, that hand was gone, and the other side of the bed had been cold for days.

You clutched the fabric of your shirt over your chest, as if pressing against your heart might stop it from aching so much. The emptiness in the house wasn’t just physical; it was suffocating, a void that swallowed every ounce of your strength.

Whenever you closed your eyes, he was there.

You’d see his smirk, hear his voice, and feel the warmth of his touch as if he were still beside you. But then you’d wake up, and the cold, stark reality would hit you like a curse you couldn’t exorcise.

“What’s the point?” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “Why wait for someone who’s dead?”

You wanted to scream at yourself, to shake away the foolish hope that clung to your chest like a parasite. Satoru was gone. No amount of waiting, wishing, or praying would bring him back. You knew that. You’d seen it with your own eyes, felt the world crumble beneath your feet the moment his light went out.

But the memories wouldn’t let you go.

You remembered the way he’d look at you, so full of life and mischief, as if daring the universe itself to try and stop him. You remembered the quiet moments, too—when the bravado melted away, and he was just Satoru, the boy who carried too much but still made room to carry you.

"You are my savior, savior from this dull life... Satoru."

.

.

.

.

[ingenx]

SAP for Small Industries, coupled with the transformative power of RISE with SAP solutions, empowers businesses to streamline processes, gain insights, and innovate, all while laying a solid foundation for future growth. Remember, the cloud isn't just a trend; it's the future of business operations. Embrace it with SAP and unlock your full potential.

[synthetickitsune]

To Save The World ✧ h.js

Pairing: Joshua Hong x gn!reader Genre: angst Summary: Joshua made his choice. Now he has to commit to it. The world must go on. And for that, he has to make you go. Word count: 1.6k Warnings: blood, knives, reader dies A/N: inspired by @chugging-antiseptic-dye's post here bcs you can't say "joshua slitting your throat" and expect me to be normal, and also it's highly recommended to read this as well

The night falls. The stars twinkle above, yet the light seems dimmed. The world must be asleep. Perhaps it might be as kind as to close its eyes to what he’s about to do. If there’s one thing the world’s always been good at, afterall, it’s turning away from those who need its help the most. There's a duty to them that he always carried on his shoulders. He’s always tried to make up for what the universe couldn’t do. Now that he’s in need of help, however, who will save him? 

He never thought that burden would eventually end up being his own demise.

Joshua’s breath comes out as thin clouds that soon evaporate into nothingness. Just the same as him. Every breath is a thought, a memory, a part of him. He wills them to be. He needs to send them all off, so that he can at least hope to be saved one day. He hopes the wind can carry all of him far enough that he won’t be tainted. 

He spent what felt like hours standing under scalding water. As if filth can be washed ahead of time. 

Anyway. 

Washed as best as he could make it and free of all scent, he feels naked. A blank sheet. Now all that’s left is to cleanse himself of himself. Not a man, but a hero. A fragile puppet dancing however fate and duty pull its strings. Empty. To be filled again with a different substance. Transformed. A copy of himself only on the outside.

The cold makes him feel frozen in time. If it doesn’t start ticking again soon, he will surely lose his mind. But perhaps that’s an option he’d gladly take. There is little chance of that happening soon enough, though. No, it’s not going to happen until it’s too late.

He hears lone footsteps slowly approaching. Bile rises up his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a couple of long, deep breaths. He tries to keep them even. To keep the tremors out of his breathing at least. He can’t be heard. He has to keep standing but his knees can barely support him. If only the darkness of the alley could swallow him. If only the wall behind his back could turn into goo. Trap him like an insect in tree sap. Keep him trapped in amber so that everyone could witness his cowardice that even outweighs the sin he’s about to commit.

‘Hero’ is a funny world. A joke.

In the end, he couldn’t save everyone. Forget everyone. Just one person.

The sound gets closer. Have you always walked with a skip in your step when you were rushing home to him? The bile again. His stomach twists. He has to force himself to swallow. The street remains empty. Everything else aside, Joshua can’t let anyone see his face ever again. He won’t ever look at his face again. His hands feel clammy. He can’t breathe. He can’t—

The knife almost slips from his hand. He only sees your side profile for a split second. He can’t double over. Not now. He’s already a coward hiding in the shadows. So it feels like a cruel joke, the sight that his eyes let him see. It’s like the clouds part and you’re suddenly bathed in moonlight. Are the stars taking you before he can? He only has fractions of a second to pray it is so. To hope his hands will pass right through you. That the moon saves you and cradles you in its cold silver arms.

It’s with practiced ease that he reaches from his hiding spot. It’s with hard-earned skill and speed that he grabs you and pulls you back into the shadows, away from the light that exposes his weakness. He ensnares you in the darkness with him before you can make a sound or register what’s happening.

With tender strength he holds you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist perfectly, pinning your arms to your sides. It should be like this. You belong with him. He should always hold you. What does heaven have that lying with you, your head above his heart and his arms around you doesn’t provide? Your body fits against his like you were made for him. And lately he believes you were, just to make your fate that much crueler. To start his punishment long before he knew he’s going to be punished.

You can’t make a sound with his hand covering your mouth. He wishes you could. Blame him. Hate him. (Love him.) Your struggling is useless. He’s always been stronger than you. Could always easily pin you down. Why can’t you pout about it now? (Please hit his chest. Please call him mean. Please laugh and pull him down for a kiss.)

Your efforts double when the glint of the blade catches your eye. He has already messed up. He shouldn’t have held you one last time. It comes so naturally to him, though. Instincts can’t be overridden. He had to. He tries to make his voice deeper, unrecognizable. To his own ears he doesn’t sound like himself when he shushes you. You sound every bit like yourself when you whimper. (Can’t he hold you tighter? Can’t he pull the blanket over you like he’s always done and shield you from the rest of the world?)

In his memories, it’s always your hair, your cheeks that he caresses. Your lip under his thumb. As he moves his hand lower though, he discovers that the skin on the vulnerable column of your throat is surprisingly soft too. (Did he not explore your body enough? Will this be one more regret to haunt him day and night?) Your breathing, your heartbeat, he can feel it all with his touch. It’s so fast. Like the little bunny’s that you promised to adopt with him. The one you won’t make a half-orphan because you never brought it home. Your eyes look like prey animal’s caught in a trap too.

His thumb strokes over your windpipe. You deserve that. You deserve something more intimate. You deserve something warmer than the cold steel of the knife. You deserve him. Not a stranger.

But he can’t. He’s a coward. His strength isn’t as tender now. It’s desperate. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t make a sound.

(Please whine. Please tell him to let go. Please call him clingy. Please tell him to let you hug him too.)

His hand stops before it can dip under your shirt. His fingertips barely brush against your collarbone. How selfish he can be. You must be so scared - a stranger holding you, a stranger touching you. Joshua knows if it was him you saw holding a knife so close to your face, you wouldn’t be scared at all. 

(Smile at him. See him.)

As if sensing his hesitation, you move. Just one lone, weak attempt to break free. Just a jolt of an animal that doesn’t wish to be pet.

He leans his head against yours. (Hurt him. Do it. Please.) You stay still. For a blink of an eye that lasts an eternity, you settle and relax. Like he’s holding you while you cook dinner. Like he’s comforting you after a long day. Like you’re watching the storm outside from the warmth of your home. Like he’s saying goodbye.

Like you know what’s coming.

It’s with an order, an impulse to his nerves that doesn’t, that can’t have, come from his own brain and free will that the knife in his sweaty palm turns. Your breathing picks up more. The blade presses against the side of your throat and he—

Joshua!

The shriek pierces the silence of the night.

It rains. Crimson splatters on the ground.

But all he hears is your voice.

Did you recognize him and called his name in shock? Betrayal? Understanding?

Were you calling him for help?

Did you want his name to be your last word?

The knife clatters on the ground with echoes of his name, of your voice. Nothing else is real.

His hand clutches your throat and presses against it with force. He’s trying to pull the split tissue together but it won’t listen and the blood keeps pouring.

The warmth encompassing his hands must be your hands grabbing his. Slipping your fingers between his.

You’re just standing in the shower. It’s hot water rolling down your bodies. You’ll laugh. You’ll scold him for simply holding you instead of washing up.

What’s the point if his hands are forever dyed red.

No shower will ever be enough.

And your life keeps trickling down his fingers and pooling under his feet.

He collapses with you.

His head falls, forehead resting against yours.

(Look at him.)

He holds you like you’re dancing. Your silly wish to look at him after he twirls you. To lean back into his arms and look up at him.

So look at him. 

There’s nothing interesting to see at the back of your skull.

He sobs, but he only hears your voice. Only feels the claws of guilt and pain tearing at his throat from the inside.

Did you know? Could you tell he held you? Did you know you’re not alone? That you don’t have to be scared? 

Look at him. 

Tell him.

The world did not end with a bang. Nor with a whimper. The world did not end at all that night.

But there, in a dark alley where blood pools on the cobblestone, a life and a soul were crushed to save it. 

[the-kr8tor]

To Live Simply

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 13.1 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing) (Hobie is mentioned taller than her), CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW abuse mention, CW drinking, CW violence mention. Wild west AU, Cowboy AU.

A/N: I wrote my late dog in this to remember her by, please be nice to the dog ❤️

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9

The journey to Hobie's farm was excruciating, yet quiet and peaceful. If not for both yours and Hobie's still healing injuries it would've been a more pleasant ride. Surprisingly enough, there wasn't anyone who wanted to ambush you, and no one to point a gun at; no one to hurt you and Hobie.

The entire time you were afraid, afraid that something would happen the least you expected it. You were waiting for disaster to hit, you've never been at peace on the road, so you were high strung, hands gripping tightly around the reins while you kept your gun fully loaded and ready on your back. Luckily, nothing noteworthy happened during that one whole month of traveling west and away from the south.

Hobie clung to you like sap on wood, and you did too. You both never spoke of what happened that day, it was horrible, even now hallucinations still linger in the back of your head. Sometimes you see her staring at you on the side of the road, sometimes you smell burnt coffee out of nowhere. Hobie understood what they put you through while he lay asleep dreaming of you. He did everything he could to help you return to reality with every grasp of your hand, and with every kiss on your temple— effectively shaking you awake. You take care of him too, changing his bandages in camp, wincing with him whilst you clean his wounds.

It was just you and him, and you've got everything to lose if they ever find you.

You both were careful on the road, always traveling at night under the stars. Lighting small fires that are enough to keep you warm. You've even started to hide your face under a bandana. If it was absolutely needed to go into town, you and Hobie never stayed too long to make an impression. To everyone else, he was Larry Smith and you were his wife. To him, you were his wife in everything but on paper. To you, he was everything. You suppose it was all the same.

The horses are well kept despite the long rides, they slept well, ate even better than you and Hobie. You've noticed Cherry has become friendlier towards Bucky, and Bucky seemed to like the added attention.

Your back aches from the long ride, dawn has just begun to break. The breeze hums in your ears as you and Hobie finally make it to his farm. A piece of land in a valley and in between monstrous mountains that rise up into the clouds; and what seems to be thousands of miles of nothingness. There's nothing but land everywhere you look, the town you passed through hours ago is nothing but a dot in the far distance.

You're situated in the middle of nowhere.

“It's not much, but it's home.” Hobie stands before you, shoulders relaxed, eyes glancing towards you as if he's waiting for approval.

The farmhouse isn't as grand as your old home, it doesn't have the gilded awnings or marble pillars that seem to rise up towards the heavens. The house is made out of wood, two stories high with a simple porch that wraps around the entire structure. Its white paint is chipping, doors weathered by the elements and time. Empty flower pots sit nearby, just waiting to be used once again. Further away, a barn sits near a small pond. The structure’s red paint faded into a murky brown with dead vines covering its side. A windmill stands next to it, the blades squeak in the wind, wood creaking whenever a harsh breeze blows.

The picket fences around the property lay broken with its old chalky paint cracking and melting away. The land surrounding it doesn't look any better, it's barren and dry save for the tall brown grass growing everywhere. There are also stumps left behind by cut trees, a couple have survived long enough to grow as tall as the barn and they both sit behind the farmhouse a few paces away. It lacks any greenery you'd expect for a farm. With its dry soil underneath your feet, you're sure that there's nothing that could grow here. But you can try, plant and sow over and over again until a single leaf will sprout, until a plant bears fruit.

There's nothing else all around the place, nothing but stretches and miles upon miles of empty land. You like it that way. It's just you and him, him and you. You'd never have it any other way.

For the first time in a very long time, you feel like you can finally breathe. Fate has finally granted you reprieve.

“It's perfect.” You smile, stepping forward, reaching for his hand and then squeezing it once. “It's home.”

Hobie's lips slowly curl up into a smile, intertwining your fingers around his own. “What are we waitin' for?” With a sudden arm around the back of your knees, he gracefully carries you in his arms, earning a surprised yelp and laughter from you. You grasp at his vest, giggling against his chest. “Let's get inside.”

Even in his arms, you still feel the gnawing in the back of your mind. The danger that lurks behind the mountains, a danger that you both are ignoring for now in place of bliss. It's as if a heavy blanket is laid upon your chest, crushing you under its weight, breaking your rib cage in half, squishing your heart until a mush of blood and muscle is the only thing left in its wake.

Then, there's the nature of the man from the place you once called your home. You think he'd kill you the moment he sees you in the arms of Hobie, laughing against his chest, holding on to him as if he's your husband. Should I tell Hobie? You thought to yourself, it will ruin him. It will ruin you in his mind. Your heart thuds against your chest akin to a train engine just from thinking about it. You think it'll never go away, that it will continue to eat at you like you're a carcass left for the vultures in a dry humid desert. But for now, you stay laughing against his skin, kissing every inch of his face as he brings you inside. Until you're ready, you promise yourself that you'll tell him, even if it ruins you.

Hobie, unbeknownst to the inner turmoil you're having; kisses you back gently, dry lips against your sweaty forehead, he doesn't mind as he peppers your face. It's a battle, where you two are the winners.

You kick about in his arms, the stubble on his chin tickles you, and of course he notices it. He decides to hear you laugh, really laugh— so he nudges your head away, rubbing his stubble up and down your neck. Your giggles immediately fill the home, leaning away, hands patting his chest rapidly. If not for his hold on you, you would've fell seconds ago.

“Enough!” You shriek, but your own laughter betrays you. With every nudge, you forget about your thoughts, only focusing on the man before you.

Hobie wheezes, moving an inch away from your neck. “You sure? I don't think ‘m done yet.” He fixes his grasp on you, hand placed just above your ribs, fingers flexing, threatening to tickle you there.

You scoff, a sound similar to a giggle. “We've been on the road for a long time, Hobie, and we haven't had a proper bath in weeks!” He opens his mouth to speak. “A dip in the river doesn't count.”

With furrowed brows, he leans closer, lips curled mischievously. “You tellin’ me that I smell?”

You chuckle, hand patting his cheek lovingly. “No, I'm saying that I smell.”

“Really?” Hobie starts to lean closer but you stop him with your hand on his forehead. He smiles, trying to wiggle his head. “I was just about to check!”

There's the same glint in your eyes. You hum, cradling his jaw, pushing him gently upwards. The scar on his neck is in full display to you, Hobie tries to shake his head in protest, his sudden insecurity for the raised scar makes him think that you were second guessing your choices. But with your simple movement of pulling yourself up, enough to be eye level to the scar, and with your lips resting upon it makes him think otherwise.

He turns into honey under your touch, and you're the one licking his sweetness off of your finger tips.

You feel his staggered breath under your lips, Hobie almost drops you the second you kiss his scar. He feels your love through it all, fingers digging into your side but not enough to leave a mark. Closing his eyes, he lets you peck as your thumb runs along his Adam's apple that bops up and down with every nervous swallow. He even leans upwards to give you more space.

“I missed you.” Hobie says in a breathy whisper while you continue to attack his skin, hand pressed on your back, helping lift you up. “I should've told you that when I first—” You hold onto his nape to kiss higher, nipping gently, earning a shaky exhale from him. “—fuckin’ hell, you'll be the death of me. Five minutes in and you're already tryin’ to—”

“Knock knock?”

“Oh fuck—!” You suddenly drop down to the floor, butt aching as you stare at the visitor standing in the doorway.

“Shit—” Hobie fumbles, none of the coolness he exhibited during your journey. He tries to help you up, but then immediately decides to get his gun out that he also flounders over. His gun falls, bullets falling out, metal clanking on the dusty wooden floors. “Ah, fuck!” Kneeling down, he tries to pick up all the scattered bullets.

“Caught you in a bad time, huh?”

You glance between Hobie and the woman in the doorway. Hobie sighs, eyes staring daggers at the stranger. Her curly hair is styled in braids, leather chaps and jacket matching, hands casually placed inside her jean pockets. The sun behind her drapes her in gold, the same colour as the hat sitting atop her head. Her genuine smile is one of those contagious smiles that turns your frown into a friendly grin, you smile wider when you meet with her eyes that are laced with amusement. She gives you a wink, and then returns her attention towards Hobie who has given up on picking up his ammo.

“No, no, take your time, Hobie.”

He sighs, head falling down in shame. “What are you doin' ‘ere, Riri?”

“I was on my routine check. Imagine my surprise when I saw Bucky frolicking outside with a new horse.” Riri enters, hand reaching towards you. “The name's Riri, a friend of Hobie's.”

You smile up at her, taking her hand as she gracefully lifts you back up on your feet. “Y/N, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” She shakes your hand, leaning slightly to whisper in a louder tone. “You're even prettier than what this loser told me.”

Hobie sighs, “Riri, c’mon—”

“Why don't you get up, cowboy?” Riri lets your hand go, she then crosses her arms over her chest whilst you watch them interact.

Hobie stays kneeling, turned away from you and Riri, hand conveniently on his lap. “Don't you dare tell her shit, Riri.” He says, green eyes narrowed into slits.

You tamp down a laugh, glancing down at Hobie who just shakes his head with a ghost of a smile. You're tempted to tease him too, but Riri catching you two in the act was enough embarrassment for him.

“You told stories about me?” If your cheeks could run any warmer, you can boil water on it.

“He's a chatterbox when he's drunk.”

“He is?” You turn towards the said man, beaming at him.

“Don't you have anythin' better to do—?” Hobie gets ignored as Riri continues to chat with you. He resigns, huffing in place.

“Mm-hmm, he says the craziest shit. You think he's all that out there but the second he drinks his third glass, he's out in my saloon yammering about something. Sometimes that something has to do with you.” She pauses, nudging your shoulder. “Don't worry, he only tells me the good stuff. I practically already know you.” Your eyes widen. “Not in a weird way, in a…”

“Good job, Ri, you made it awkward.” Hobie eggs her on.

Riri rolls her eyes. “She knows what I'm talking about, right?” She turns to you, smiling softly like she's already trying to apologize.

“That so? Don't worry, I understand what you meant.” You flick your eyes towards Hobie, who's still unable to stand up. “Since you already know me—”

“Ah, yes!” She claps her hands in understanding. “You may go to my saloon and dig more details about what Hobie's been doing these past five years.” Riri meets Hobie's eyes. “You never know, you might even come across our old gang.”

You copy her, teasing Hobie even more. “The more the merrier then.”

“Great,” Hobie huffs, finally standing up. “You've created a monster, Riri.”

“Don't call her a monster!” Riri acts offended for you.

“Yeah! Don't call me a monster!”

Hobie could only sigh in defeat. He mumbles under his breath, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “If I wasn't so tired.”

“Oh that reminds me.” You say excitedly, you've finally found a friend after everything that has happened. “Do you want to stay for tea?”

“We don't have anythin', love.” Hobie gestures towards the near empty kitchen cabinets that were left open.

Riri smirks at the name he used for you. Hobie warns her with a look. “That would be great, but I gotta go back out there. I heard there's a huge deer roaming around and I want to be the one to get it before anyone else does.”

“That's too bad.” You're genuinely disappointed.

“Yeah, that's too bad.” Hobie copies sarcastically, less disappointed.

Riri chuckles, “don't worry, Y/N, my saloon's always open for you.” She clasps your shoulder. “Welcome to Scarlett Meadows, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Riri. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, love,” Riri mocks him. Hobie audibly groans, she smacks his chest. “Welcome back, loser.” With a flourish, Riri exits the house and then jumps back on her horse to ride away. Hobie closes and locks the front door behind her.

“I like her already.”

Hobie wraps his arm around your middle, pulling you close for an embrace. “‘m glad, she's a good friend.”

You nuzzle his shoulder, to which he takes your cheek, already leaning down to meet you halfway. “The mood's ruined, Hobs.”

“Goddamnit.” He says, yet he still chuckles against your lips. Letting you go, you stay locked with his eyes while walking backwards towards the stairs. “Where are you goin'?” There's a growing smile on yours and Hobie's lips.

“You coming, cowboy?” You ask, and you see him flustered once again. Biting his lip, tapping his foot, and hands on his hips. As you head upstairs, you hear his heavy footsteps follow you; until you feel his arms wrap around you impatiently, carrying you the rest of the way while your laughter rings around the house.

—

Hobie, under the gaze of the sun, with his sweaty work shirt sticking to his skin as he hammers the windowsill in place; fixing the once shoddy workmanship left by the previous owner. You ogle him unabashedly. The ring that was previously hidden under the fabric of his bandana now sits upon his ring finger, you cried when you first saw it there for the first time in five years. He held you then, just like how he cradled you back when he gave the identical one to you.

He clings on the tresses that are filled with dried vines and creaking from his added weight. He hangs precariously, as if he's an expert climber at heart; you can't help but stare at him as he works on your shared home. You suppose you could use the old shakey tresses as your excuse on why you're watching him instead of tilling the land like you're supposed to. Telling him that you're only keeping watch of him just in case he falls so you could catch him. Which is impossible by itself, you'd break all your bones if you tried. But you suppose it'll be alright if it's for him. As if he feels your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, a smile slowly curling on his lips as he spots your form still kneeling on the same spot he left you in twenty minutes ago.

The soil balled up into your hands sits there forgotten. A bag of cherry tomatoes sits next to you, wind almost taking them in its breeze as one passes by. You don't look away when he calls you out after you were caught. Instead, you stare harder, unabashedly winking at him. To which earns a hearty laugh from Hobie who almost falls from his bout of laughter.

You stagger, hands raised towards him as if you can catch him from where you are. “Careful!”

Hobie continues to laugh, calming your worries. “‘m alright, you should watch your tomatoes—” a strong wind picks up, with summer almost completely gone as the colder breeze carries your bag of seeds away from you. “And there it goes!” His guffaw fades from behind as you scramble for the seeds.

“Fuck!” You yell, hand placed on your sun hat so it doesn't get blown away. Despite you running at full speed towards what could be next season's meal, you smile widely, you're at peace here.

Hobie follows after you, running and catching up to you in a mad dash. “Hurry slowpoke!” He passes you, laughing as he goes.

“Slowpoke?! C’mere you little—!” Hobie suddenly stops and then turns around to catch you mid sprint. Your body slams into him, earning a grunt from Hobie, but his smile stays as he holds you in his arms.

“Gotcha!” He embraces you in place, face nudging your shoulder fondly.

“You're all sweaty!” You shriek out happily, hand placed upon his waist, fists clumped in his shirt. The seeds belong to the wind now, you suppose.

“You're no better! You're covered in dirt, lovie!” Hobie playfully wipes his cheeks on your airy shirt, leaving streaks of sweat on the soft linen. You laugh louder, trying to scramble away. And he feels like he has finally found his home in your arms.

You wipe your soil marred hands on his shoulders, leaving your hand prints on his once pristine shirt. You suddenly stop giggling, Hobie thinks he did something wrong until he follows your line of sight. There, a few ways away from the two of you, stands a black dog eating from your bag of seeds.

“Is that a coyote?” You ask, still holding on to him.

“Don't think so.” He whispers back.

“She shouldn't eat that, it might get her sick.” You untangle yourself from Hobie, and then you slowly make your way towards said dog. Hobie stops you halfway, hand gently on your shoulder.

“It might bite you.” He roams his eyes over to her black coat and long tail, her ears are floppy on the side of her head as she continues to munch on the crunchy seeds. There's no collar or any indication that she has an owner, she looks fine and somewhat healthy. Before he could take you away just in case the dog decides that you're a better meal, you're running back towards the house in a mad dash. “Where are you goin'?”

“I'm getting some jerky!”

“What? Why?!” He yells back as you get further and further away.

“Just stay there and watch her!” Your dusty boots are already stomping away inside as Hobie does what you told.

Hobie crouches down, elbows sitting atop his knees, watching the dog chow down. The black labrador pauses from eating from the presence watching her, head peeking out from the bag. Her dark eyes blink at Hobie, he waits for her, hand reaching out in a friendly manner and trying not to scare her away with any sudden movements. The dog sniffs, tail slowly wagging as she walks forward.

You watch from behind, eyes growing wider as you see Hobie let the dog sniff at his hand. When she finally lets him pet her head, Hobie looks back at you with a soft smile.

“Look at you, you're an animal whisperer.”

“Nah, I bet she was just hungry and knows how to swindle.”

Chuckling, you saunter towards them slowly, kneeling beside Hobie, you place the dried meat beside her. “There you go, it's better than some seeds.”

Hobie observes how you gently smile at the friendly dog as she tentatively sits in front of the meat. You let the dog approach you, waiting patiently as she eats until there's none left. She sniffs your knee, nudging you with her snout. He laughs as you surrender the rest of the beef jerky.

It's a peaceful silence of him and you just sitting there on the dry grassy ground while the strange dog eats his entire supply of jerky. He suppose he can always run to the general store for more.

The sun is high up, yet it's a comfortable heat on his skin. He preferred summers here, the searing heat always kept him awake and alert. But with you now here, he prefers how the cooling wind nips at his skin, how the leaves are now turning into sunsets that you always adore. And how much you wake up clinging to his side every morning. He prefers this, living with you, finally experiencing life again as if he picked up a book from where he left off years ago; it took some time and a lot of hurt to get here, but he would've done it all over again if it ended just like this. Maybe he'd do better, maybe he would make better decisions— for now, instead of lamenting about all the things that have happened, he'd rather stay in the present where you're currently in.

“I think we should keep her.” You say after a few moments. Hobie just now noticed how the dog now lays on your lap, probably sleeping off her meal. Your hand rubs softly on her back, eyes shining under the sun. “My aunt never let me have pets, she said that a proper lady shouldn't smell of wet dog.”

“Look at you now, covered in dirt, sweat and dog slobber.”

“She'd fucking die.” You laugh, it's the first time you've ever laughed after mentioning her. You finally feel like the shackles of her memory are starting to loosen up against your ankles.

Your happy laughter is slowly replaced with a sob, Hobie, with tears in his own eyes, holds you against him. Arms enveloping you, hands cradling your head as if the simple movement would take it all away. He wishes it did, but he knows that it will take time, and he'll wait, and be there for you no matter how long it takes. Even if it doesn't fully go away.

Under the sunshine of autumn, dry blades of grass underneath you, breeze whispering and carrying your sobs into the wind; Hobie holds you like nothing else matters, like it's just you and him, him and you against the bloody, forsaken world.

—

Clover the dog has taken upon you, you named her after the first piece of clover that sprouted along the property after you and Hobie toiled away for weeks just trying to keep it all alive. You've both fallen into a routine, you two wake up later than you both intended, snuggling under the thick covers. Always rushing through the routine to have more time to tend the house. You share chores, you cook in the morning while he cooks dinner. He fixes the house, while you try to revive the farmland. At night, you check all his previous injuries for any signs of it opening up; and he does it to you too, as gentle and careful like you were. All in all, you're proud of what you two have accomplished.

It's your very own borrowed heaven.

The house is now fully painted a soft blue; the same shade you both saw when you crossed the ocean to this new land. The door that was once a murky, muddy brown is now in a snowy white that matches the windows and picket fences. The fences aren't complete yet, the rest are still laying next to the barn where Cherry and Bucky hunker down every night after an energetic ride around their pen that used to be covered in piles of old wood and metal scraps. It took an entire week to clean it up even with the combined powers of you, Hobie, and Riri, who decided to pay you two a visit from time to time. She said that she was only making sure that the ‘loser’ hasn't hurt you in any way. To which Hobie promptly rolled his eyes and threw a plank of wood at her feet, to his words ‘make yourself useful instead of being a pain in my own home.’ You joked that he's starting to sound like one of those old men who would chase people out of their property if someone would step a foot onto his grass. And of course he had to call you grandma for the rest of the day in front of Riri because of it.

You sigh in content, smiling eyes roaming along the greener grass from the porch where you sit; and following along bucky and cherry who are running freely around their paddock. Clover huffs in your lap, and you chuckle, wondering what she's dreaming about. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees, and carrying it in its breeze. The swing under you shifts from the strong wind, hinges creaking along as you push with your socked feet. Hobie built you this swing right on the porch when he found you looking at the stars with your back aching from the lack of a seat. To add to it, he made it so that it'll fit you and him together with Clover sleeping on your lap.

You cover yourself more with Hobie's jacket, shivering slightly, nose and fingers cold. There's a sudden warmth on your cheek, you don't flinch or gasp from the surprise, knowing that it's Hobie with a warm cup of tea.

“Hi,” you smile up, Hobie returns the grin. He looks softer, edges rounded up. He's fresh from a bath, skin smelling of lavender and citrus. He prefers to wear softer and fleecy clothes now, leaving all the leather behind unless he's going for a ride towards town. Now he likes wearing knitted jackets that keeps him warm and comfortable without the stiffness of leather. He prefers jeans now too, and shirts with no collars that clings to his scar uncomfortably. A testament to how the first two buttons on his work shirt are unbuttoned, showing off his chest. “You look handsome.”

“When do I not?” He holds your cup in one hand and a glass of amber in the other. The golden ring in his ring finger shines in the afterglow.

You tilt your head playfully, taking his glass instead of the mug, eyes never leaving his own. He raises a brow when you take a sip from the glass, feeling the burn from the alcohol line your throat. “You're right, never. You always look good.” Your words are only for him and him only as you whisper it.

“Damn right.” He accepts defeat, letting you drink his whiskey while he drinks from your mug of tea. Clinking his glass against your own, you let out a snort, scooching to allow him space as he sits.

The warm liquid seeps into his calloused hands, eyes flicking over to you and between the land that he once thought was barren. Your plants still haven't borne fruit, but the greenery has sprouted like a miracle on dead soil. You almost gave up on the first month when nothing was working in your favour when the ground was still dry and grey. But you didn't, you kept at it everyday, tilling the soil, planting and replanting, watering everything until a single sprout appeared overnight. You jumped for joy when you saw, he still smiles remembering you running towards him with Clover in tow, and slamming yourself against him just to snog him until he was breathless.

He couldn't have made this into a house without you. This wouldn't be a home without you either.

You poke his cheek, feeling how much softer it is than before. “Whatever you're thinking about, stop it.”

“You want me to stop thinkin’ ‘bout you?”

You groan with a smile, head plopping down on his shoulder. “You never fail to rile me up.”

“Pot meet kettle, love.” He looks at you lovingly, like how a man would stare into the eyes of his wife.

Smiling, you place the mouth of your glass on his lips, letting him sip from the amber while he does the same with his tea placed on your own lips. You both drink, arms crossed over the other, lending each other's hand over the other.

You gulp down the warmth, letting it seep through your bones and muscles, letting it relax into you like a hug from a beloved.

Meanwhile, Hobie never let his eyes off you. Deep green eyes, the same colour as the sea of clovers in front of the home, has found its place on your lips, watching you drink from his cup while he drinks from your own.

A comfortable silence settles over the three of you. Clover snores on your lap, happy and content after finding her home. Hobie's hand kneads at your nape, letting his cool hands settle over your warm skin. With your head placed on his shoulder, you bask in your personal paradise. The birds chirp just a few ways away from you, finding their nests settled on the windmill that you two haven't fixed just yet. The sunset paints the entire farm in shades of orange and pink, hues of autumn blanketing the peaceful place you and Hobie built.

This is home, not the marbled walls of the manor you used to reside. Not the fine silks you used to sleep on, *this is home; with it's rough edges, broken pipes that groan in the night, with its walls made from wood and brick that feels cold on your skin— it's home, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You feel him shift closer to you, lips pressing softly against your temple. His hand tracing above your scar. “Shoulder feelin’ alright?”

Humming, you close your eyes as he peppers kisses from your temple down to your wind whipped cheek. “It's feeling much better now, thanks to you.” He takes your glass and places it down on the floor right next to his own mug.

“I didn't do much.” Hobie chuckles, returning to your side not a moment longer, his knuckles brushes along your collarbone. “‘sides, you did all the healin’”

You sigh, eyes meeting up with his own. He can see love in your simple gaze. “Yeah, only because you've cleaned it every night before bed.” Hobie chuckles when you poke his stomach, in return, he nudges his nose against your own, earning a soft hum of approval from you. “How's your head? And everything else?” You narrow your eyes playfully, “can you still count to a hundred?”

His loud guffaw makes you laugh. Shaking his head, he pulls you closer. “It's good,” he says against your lips, breath fanning across your soft skin. “I've got a good nurse.”

“Your nurse didn't go to school for it.” You joke again. Hobie pecks your lips once, twice, until you're pulling him in by his shirt. You feel his smile throughout it all. He kisses you gently, yet he holds you like he's about to lose you.

The much needed kiss is interrupted by Clover sneezing on your lap, snot covering your flowy skirt. You pull away with a laugh, eyes still closed as his fingers still grips your chin, already feeling him pull you in once again.

“Hobie.” You call while he continues to snog you, kissing along the shape of your lips, etching how your lips feel, and how you sigh against him; how you kiss back wholeheartedly.

He hums, murmuring your name while the sound of his kisses echo around the porch and atop the songs of birds flying overhead.

You giggle as his searing hands find its way under your shirt and onto your stomach. He pauses, eyes blinking slowly at you. You clamp down, shining lips shut closed as he raises a brow.

“What? You ticklish now?” Hobie asks with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You shake your head with a smile. “Nope.”

There's a grin slowly forming on his equally shiny lips. “I think I need to reacquaint myself, I don't remember you being ticklish—” he pokes your side. “—right ‘ere.”

You gasp in feigned offense, “I'm not!”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Wiggling his fingers, you laugh, reaching for his hands before he could attack.

“Okay! Only on that part.” You confess with a breathy laugh. He nods, tucking that information inside his head to be used one day.

Hobie returns to his drink, opting to sip at what was supposed to be your tea. The tea is now tepid, but he still drinks it anyway. You push the swing with your feet, softly, the swing sways back and forth while Clover lays asleep with your hand petting her head.

“We should take Riri up on her offer.” You say into the growing dark of the farm, watching the sun go further down and the light fade away. “It's been three months since she first invited us over.”

“She can wait,” Hobie has latched himself on you, arm snaked around your middle as he finishes his tea.

“Want to hog me all to yourself then?”

“That obvious?” He glances at your beaming face before his eyes stare at Bucky and Cherry trotting inside the barn on their own. Sometimes he thinks those two are actually humans trapped inside a horse's body. He has never seen smarter horses than them.

“Are you worried? About me getting back out there?” You play with the button of his work shirt, letting his scent waft over you when a breeze carries it towards you.

“What if…” Hobie sighs, eyes staring at you with worry. It's a grip taking hold around his body. “What if someone finds us again?” He remembers all the times you two were found by both the law and your aunt’s hired guns even when he took extra precautions. There's still that looming threat especially with how suspiciously peaceful your journey to the farm was. He has every right to be worried, you are too. “As much as good you are with a gun, I don't want to see you shootin’ it at someone again. ‘m… not tryin’ to control you, I just—”

You hold his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw tenderly, feeling all the tiny scars left on his skin. “No, I understand. You're not like them, Hobie. No one will ever control me ever again.” At your words, he leans towards your touch, hand lifting up to meet with yours. “I won't let them.” Nodding, he kisses your palm, you notice how his hand shakes above your own. You don't mention it. “It's been five months since the train, they might have given up.”

“Let's hope so.” He softly says, green eyes gazing at you. Eyes that haven't seen peace in years, until now.

“Yeah, hope.” It's a fickle thing, but it's enough to light a fire in you. If they come, you'll fight with everything you've got. You've got everything to lose now, and you're willing to wield a gun once more to protect it all. If not, then it'll be a gift that you won't throw away, you'd live here peacefully, live the life you've always longed for. You're afraid that it would be the former.

—

You saddle up the horses in the barn, Buckeye watches your every move as you strap the saddle over to Cherry. There’s worry in his inky eyes, a look that you're all too familiar with. Clover runs around the barn, sniffing everything she comes across.

“You alright there, Buck? What's got you all worried, huh?” You don't expect him to answer, but he neighs in response, a sharp one that has you raising a brow. You've never heard him make that irritated sound. “What's gotten into you?” As you slide your hands down on Cherry's stomach to finish the saddle, Bucky, neighs loudly, hooves thumping against the ground. He looks like he's about to rush into you and throw you over. “Bucky, calm down!” You put your hands up, staying away from both horses.

“Buckeye!” Hobie's booming voice ricochets around the barn as he enters, putting a stop to Bucky's tantrum. Even Clover stops running for a second before returning to her adventure. “What's gotten into you, boy?” He pets his snout, effectively calming him down.

“I was putting on Cherry's saddle and he suddenly got mad.”

“He looks alright.” Nodding, Hobie roams his eyes all over his horse, checking each of his horse shoes in case there's something embedded in his feet. “Nothin’s wrong with him. What about Cherry? He's been overprotective of her lately.”

“Ah shit, do you think I put it on too tight?” Hobie keeps his hold on Bucky's reins, just in case. You check all the belts and buckles on the saddle, finding the fit just right. Until you get to her stomach. “Wait—” hands roaming around, you feel a bump. “What is that?” Cherry looks at you, if horses could raise their brow, she would've done it already. “Are you—?!” You gasp, eyes meeting with Hobie. Glaring at the horse next to him, you embrace Cherry. “Bucky, what did you do to Cherry!”

He already knows what you found. “I think it was a combined effort, love.” Scratching the back of Bucky's ear, Hobie chuckles at your reaction. “You did not waste time, huh, boy?”

“She's smaller than him!” You look at Bucky as if he can explain himself, to which the horse just huffs at you. Hobie keeps patting Buckeye on his back, while Cherry isn't even listening in on the conversation anymore. She prefers the pile of hay next to her, eating without a care.

“And? You are too compared to me.” Hobie unabashedly answers for Bucky. You gasp then laugh, a laugh that changes to a playful offended chortle. You grab a bucket from the ground, ready to throw it at him.

“You should run, Hobie!” Before you could finish yelling, Hobie's already sprinting back inside the house. You run after him, bucket in hand, ready to throw carrots at him.

Hobie waits for carrots to be pelted at him, only to turn around to see you gawking at the planted vegetable patch before you. He stops by the steps on the porch, hands on his hips as you let go of the bucket with a thud.

“What's wrong?”

“They've grown.” You whisper in disbelief, Hobie almost didn't catch your words. Chuckling, you look at Hobie with tears in your eyes. “We’ve got tomatoes!” Pouncing on him, he catches you, arms holding you in place while you celebrate against his neck.

He roams his eyes downwards towards the tomatoes until he spots a handful of it just under a bunch of leaves. “Holy shit!” Hand behind your head, he jumps up and down, matching your excitement. “You did it, love!”

You lean away, and then immediately peppers his face with a dozen kisses, leaving him almost dizzy. Before he could kiss back, you're already back on the ground, plucking the ripest looking one. It's as big as your hand, red and plump; ripe for the taking. All the countless times you've read botany books have finally borne fruit.

Wiping the dirt off of the tomato on your shirt, you hand it to him. “Wanna do the honors?”

“This is all you, lovie.” He gently places it back in your palm, hand lingering on yours; identical rings shining brightly.

You nod as thanks, heart beating rapidly. With a tentative bite, you let the juice coat your mouth, overflowing until it's dripping from your chin. It's perfect, and Hobie thinks you look perfect even with juice sliding down your chin and arm.

“Do you want a room? Because I can go.” Hobie jokes, you laugh heartily.

“Here,” you say, mouth full. “Try it.”

Hobie takes it, biting down just as the same as you, with juices flowing down his arm and onto his shirt. “Fuck!”

You nod rapidly, pride filling your chest. “Right?!”

“Y/N,” he calls, mouth still taking bites of the produce. Gesturing towards the neighboring plants, he watches as your expression morphs into pure elation when you spot your potatoes growing out of the soil, like bald heads peeking out from underneath.

There's dozens of them all lined up and ready to be harvested. You almost guffaw, satisfied and successful at growing something on the once thought barren land.

“We're gonna need a basket.” Perhaps your trip to Riri's saloon will have to wait.

—

The trip to town took longer since Cherry was out of commission, and you only had Bucky to take with you on the ride. By the time you and Hobie make it to Riri's saloon, lunch was in full swing. The place is smaller compared to the other establishments you've been in, and yet, it doesn't lack the energy. Customers line the bar, eating and drinking their fill. Jaunty music fills your ears just as when the saloon doors close behind you, Hobie's hand is placed on the small of your back, fingertips pressing softly, leading you towards the far end of the saloon where the bar is placed.

You roam your eyes around, the band plays on a stage in your right, cello, fiddles and trumpets play alongside the piano. Customers dance around with their partners, smiling faces whizz past you, giving you a polite greeting as you go. There are numerous tables littered around with the people sitting there and chatting energetically, their conversations rising above the music.

A hearty laugh above reaches your ears, when you look up, you see a spiral staircase that leads to the second floor with a balcony. A few patrons look down at you with their drinks in their hands, some are watching the poker game with amusement in their eyes. Drinking glasses clink around while you continue to make your way towards Riri who happens to be tending the bar.

The walls are in a creamy white with rows upon walls of paintings full of portraits and landscapes. There's a giant moose antler above the bar, looming over everyone. The place smells of booze and whiskey. Oddly enough, the scent of melted chocolate lingers above the fog of rum and moonshine. A crystal chandelier hangs high up on the ceiling, the centerpiece of the saloon. Sunlight from the windows filters through the brightly coloured glass, drenching the walls and floor with a kaleidoscope of light.

“Hey, Hobie!” Someone yells from above, Hobie gives them a curt nod. A handful of people recognize him, some greet him kindly like an old friend would. Some gaze at him with trepidation in their eyes.

A stranger with an eyepatch clasps his shoulder before staggering outside. Hobie chuckles and rolls his eyes at the older man.

“Someone's popular.” You whisper.

“A side effect of my reputation.” He smiles gently, fingers tapping on the small of your back. Leading you towards the corner of the bar, the far end where the back door sits behind it; he settles the two of you there, further away from strangers that could make you uncomfortable.

“Finally!” Riri exclaims, “the prodigal son returns!” Everyone at the bar hoots and whistles at Hobie. He ignores each of them, earning some booing and hissing from the crowd. You chuckle from seeing Hobie hide his smile under the brim of his hat. Riri slides in front of you, beer bottle in hand and then plops it in Hobie's waiting hand. “And with the prettiest girl this side of town has ever seen. What have you two been up to in your little slice of heaven, huh? Haven't seen you in months.”

“Busy with the farm.” Hobie says against the lip of his bottle, hand never leaving your back.

“Farm? Your dirt farm? You sure it's not you getting busy with our girl here, eh, Hobs?” Riri gives you a knowing look, you're flustered enough as it is. Hobie just shakes his head, eyes roaming everywhere but your eyes or Riri's.

You clear your throat. “We actually managed to grow something out there. We've got tomatoes, potatoes and even some carrots and strawberries blooming.” Your genuine smile turns Riri's playful one to a proud grin. “We'd bring you some of our harvest but we only rode on Bucky. We didn't want to stress him out further.”

“Why's that?” Riri cleans a glass with a cloth, “Is Cherry sick? We've got a veterinarian here for that.”

“No, she's pregnant.”

“Goddamn, Bucky did not waste any time.”

Hobie nods, “that's what I said.”

“Let's hope his rider doesn't do the same, eh?” She sends you both a wink.

“Fuckin' hell, Riri.” Hobie squeezes the bridge of his nose whilst you're left blubbering from her words. “Is there lunch left for us?” He says with a sigh.

“If you're nice about it, yeah.” Riri looks over at you. “Except for you, pretty, there's always a meal here for you.” You smile, head tilting towards Hobie's shoulder from bashfulness.

“Roast beef still on the menu?” Hobie asks, bottle half empty, stomach growling.

“Say please.” Riri says pointedly.

Hobie huffs, flicking his eyes towards you briefly before surrendering. “...please.”

Riri smirks, “it's always on the menu.” Hobie rolls his eyes at that.

He pokes your back, knuckles tracing around where he poked you. “How ‘bout you? Riri's chef can cook anythin’ you want.”

“Don't steal my words, Hobie.” Riri raises a brow. “Karl can make you anything you want.”

You laugh nervously at the eyes staring and waiting for you. “Uh, I'll have what he's having. And…” Hobie encourages you with a smile and a squeeze on your back. “Soup, any kind of soup you've got available.”

Riri pats the back of your hand with a soft smile. “We've got pumpkin, is that alright?”

“It's perfect.” You turn towards Hobie who's beaming at you, hiding his face with the brim of his hat from the rest of the customers.

—

You watch and listen with a smile in your seat, hand clasped around a glass of orange juice. The band ramps up their set, the music has gotten jauntier and happier right after you finished eating. More people have left the bar to either dance or play poker upstairs. Hobie still sits behind you, fingers curled around your belt loop lovingly. You feel him tapping rhythmically to the sound of the snare drum.

Looking over your shoulder, he nods at you with a soft smile. “They're good, aren't they?” You ask, chin atop your shoulder.

“Yeah, but I think you can beat them.”

You roll your eyes with a chuckle, fully twisting around on the bar stool to wipe a drop of sauce at the tip of his chin, fingers lingering there for a moment. “It's not a competition, Hobs.”

Before Hobie could give a reply, Riri slides over with a slice of chocolate cake. “You know how to play?”

You eye the dessert. “The piano, but I haven't practiced in a while.”

“She's bein’ humble. She's bloody brilliant on the keys.” Hobie takes the plate from Riri with a quick thank you, and then he places it in front of you casually.

You almost protested, thinking that Hobie yanked another customer's order. But Riri proves your thoughts wrong when she, herself, hands you a small fork for your dessert. You mumble a soft thank you, too shy, too grateful to say it louder lest you burst into tears. The cake has chocolate swirls with a large, plump strawberry on top of it. You don't waste time digging in.

“Isn't there an old broken piano at your place?” Riri continues the conversation, eyes flicking to your happy face with a soft smile.

“Yeah, been thinkin’ ‘bout fixin’ the damn thing but I have no idea how.” You almost actually cried on your cake when Hobie said those words.

“I think old man Roberto can fix it.” You savour the cake, listening in on the conversation.

“Your pianist?”

“Yeah, he's a doctor too, did you know that? Pretty great if you ask me—” Riri pauses, you follow her confused look. You see Hobie's stony expression, green eyes aflame like greek fire engulfing an entire fleet of ships. You and Riri have the same idea by following his gaze. She clears her throat at the sight, while you only see a broad shouldered man on the stairs, watching the band play.

“You okay?” You feel worried all of a sudden, what if this was another Culver situation? “Do you know him?”

“An old…acquaintance. Don't worry, he just owes me money.” Patting your back, he doesn't want to lie to you. What would that even bring?

“Oh, alright.” You slide the plate over to him. “I saved you some cake.”

Hobie chuckles, “nah, it's all yours, love.”

“Thank you,” you take the plate back. “I was just being nice.” Hobie shakes his head with a chuckle, you miss how he's having a silent conversation with Riri while you chow down.

“What did you even put in this, Riri? It's so fucking good!” With your fork, you scrape the plate to gather the rest of the chocolate icing. You have no shame at this point, it's the best cake you've ever had.

Riri takes a while to reply, so you lift your head up to see what's going on. You're met with her genuine smile. “Don't thank me, thank my grandma, it's a family recipe.”

“Well, thank you, Riri's grandma.”

Hobie stares at something behind you, Riri interrupts you before you could look over your shoulder. “Do you want to meet the band?”

“Holy shit! Really?” You grin from ear to ear, turning to see Hobie give you a nod and a small smile. “Do I have something in my teeth?” You grin widely, Hobie shakes his head, amused by you.

“Yeah, they're really nice. Come on, let's get you acquainted.” Riri jumps over the bar effortlessly, taking you by the hand and leading you towards the dance floor.

“I'll be back, Hobie!” You excitedly say over your shoulder as Riri twirls you around in the middle of the crowd. Hobie chuckles in his seat, drinking a cup of tea. He hears Riri ask you to dance, to which you happily agree.

Hobie keeps an eye on you, and he trusts Riri to keep you safe until he's done dealing with him. Hobie watches as Miguel saunters off towards him, spurs clinking as he sits down on your seat.

“Looks like Riri took your girl.” He says while ordering a beer from the other bartender.

“Why didn't you tell me that it was her, Miguel?”

Miguel catches the drink in his open palm as the bottle slides from the other end to his hand. “Simple, I didn't know who she was.” He cracks it open by banging the cap against the edge of the bar. The metal clanks on the floor as it falls.

“Bullshit, O’Hara.” Hobie says through clenched teeth.

“She has a sweet tooth doesn't she?” He refers to your almost clean plate.

“Miguel.” Hobie utters more pointedly, taking the beer from his hand before he even takes a sip. “Why didn't you tell me it was her?”

Miguel sighs, “I didn't know it was her. But I had a hunch. People at camp talk y’know. And you're a blabber mouth when you're drunk. A deadly combination.” He eyes his beer bottle, Hobie waits for more answers. “The guy who gave me the job just gave me her description. The same description I gave you, Hobie. Not my fault you didn't recognize her.”

“Who gave it to you?”

Miguel flexes his hand, asking for his drink back. Hobie clenches his jaw before sliding the bottle back to him reluctantly. “You should thank me. I got you two together again.”

“Just tell me, Miguel, or I'll ask for that bounty you owe me.”

“You technically didn't complete the job, so…” Hobie stares at him with the same look that Miguel has only seen him sport when he has his target in his crosshairs. “It was a middleman. He said his boss was an oil baron of some kind.” He’s about to take a sip, but doesn't. Grimacing when he brings the bottle back down to only see Hobie having the same fiery look. It brings a shiver down his spine. “Can you stop?”

“Who?”

“Don't know, didn't ask.”

“She could've died, Miguel.” That thought has him trembling in place. Hobie balls his fists, hiding how the mere thought of it shakes him to his core.

“She would've died either way, Hobie. But she had you, if I gave the job to any other person, she would've. Trust me, I did not know it was her, or that you even knew her. It's not like I made her come here.”

Hobie inhales sharply. “It wasn't you who sent the letter?”

“What fucking letter?”

“I sense some tension in the air. You know, conducting business in my establishment isn't allowed. Except if you involve me.” Riri jumps to Miguel's side, taking the beer from his hand, chugging it as sweat drips from her brow. With a sigh, Miguel orders another beer.

“Where's Y/N?” Hobie answers his own question when he sees you playing the piano with the rest of the band. His lips curl up into a smile, fists unclenching at the music you're playing. You're having the time of your life.

“Relax, Romeo, she's fine.” Riri claps to the rhythm. Hobie hears your hearty laugh from where he's sitting. The saloon's band seems to be having fun too.

In Hobie's mind, everything clicks in place. “It was you who sent my letter.” Hobie jabs his finger on Riri's shoulder blade.

She snorts, “of course it was me. I couldn't handle your sulking any longer. Seriously, I was losing customers because of your weekly letter writing and crying session.”

Miguel laughs, he sees Hobie's glare and tamps down to a snicker. Riri leans in the bar to yank a bottle of whiskey from underneath the shelves.

“Why?”

“You weren't happy being a lone ranger.”

Hobie feels like lightning struck him. “Fuckin' hell, Riri, you could've said somethin'. Warned me ‘bout it.”

“And? You'd somehow find it in your heart to immediately forgive her and pick her up from the docks?” Riri pours the whiskey inside three glasses, handing it to each of the men. “You’re like a brother to me, Hobie. We came up in this fuckwad’s gang—” she points at Miguel who's caught in the middle. He just pinches the bridge of his nose. “—at the same time. Do you think I'd let you wallow and die alone in that dirt farm of yours?”

Hobie doesn't answer. He knows that the journey was needed. But if Riri actually warned him about it beforehand, would you be here right now? Or would you be dead somewhere along your journey to him because he couldn't find it in his heart to come to you?

“See? Not everything's my fault. Just a freak coincidence.” Miguel pipes up, now eating a slice of cake just as you have.

Riri ignores him. “I know you had a slight apprehension towards her because of what happened.”

“She could've died, Riri. When I found her, she was trying to steal food.”

Riri breathes shakily, eyes glossing over. “And I'm sorry for that, truly. I never thought that would happen, or that her people would put a bounty on her. I only knew her from you, Hobie. I'm sorry. And I'll apologize to her, I promise.”

“She's really good on that piano.” Miguel comments before returning to his cake. Hobie and Riri continue to ignore him.

Hobie sucks in his teeth. “‘Slight apprehension’ didn't cut it back then.” He whispers.

Riri looks at him with a frown, eyes downturned. She knows his story, and she knows his side of it. “You know when I was a kid I used to hate the edges on bread. I always asked my mom to cut it off for me which added more workload for her, but she still did it.” She smiles fondly. “And now as an adult I love the edges, it's the best part of the bread for me.”

“What are you sayin'?”

“I'm saying that people change. And I'm not just referring to her.” Hobie understands her double entendre.

Hobie scoffs, stealing a quick glance at you. “It's bread, Riri.”

“I can see that she may have thought you were a burden back then but I highly doubt she has the same thoughts now.” Riri takes a sip from her glass. “How would you even know that you were a burden to her when the exact words didn't come out of her own mouth?”

“She told me it wasn't her, I know that now. It was all Hicks, the same fucker that did this to me.” Miguel straightens in his seat, Riri flicks her eyes at his scar knowingly. “They're still lookin’ for her, I know it.”

“If they ever find you both, we have your back.” Riri clasps Hobie's shoulder. He holds her hand briefly before letting go with a thankful nod. “It's the least I can do.” Miguel agrees with a grunt and a pat on his gun.

“It's more than enough, Ri.”

You wave towards Hobie from the small stage, jumping down to walk past the crowd and to him. Hobie's heart feels a little bit lighter from the conversation, like a bullet taken out from his skin.

Miguel stands up, and then pats Hobie and Riri in the shoulder before putting his hat back on. His hazel eyes meet with yours for a second, you give him a polite smile as you navigate your way out of the jam-packed audience.

Miguel fixes his hat, eyes zeroing in on the ring around Hobie's finger. “Nice ring. You two tied the knot without inviting me and the rest of the gang?” You pause by the menu, acting like something caught your eye while you listen in. The saloon is noisy enough for his words to be muffled, but you understood it perfectly.

“Not really,” Hobie glances towards you for a second before flicking his eyes over at his ring that he keeps twisting and turning around his finger.

“Well you've got everything else covered. And I've seen the way you look at her. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.” Miguel clasps Hobie's shoulder in a parting goodbye, his face is unreadable from where you are. Miguel leans in closer this time, hazel eyes staring into Hobie's soul. His expression turns serious, lips pursed into a thin line, whispering words that you couldn't hear from where you stood. “You gonna tell her all the things you've done to survive this place?”

Hobie stands up to greet you halfway. “Worse, she has seen it.” Miguel leaves, and Hobie holds your hand with a proud smile, but you can tell something happened while you were gone. He sees it, so he leads you back to the bar where Riri waits to tell you everything.

“Did he pay you back?”

“Nah, he didn't have the money on him.”

“What an asshole.” He laughs, not bothering to hide his affection for you in front of the whole saloon any longer.

—

You lean back, smiling at the lavender sunset before you. Hobie's hands are occupied with the reins, but he still finds the time to nuzzle his chin on your shoulder. A small act that has you grinning as you cup his cheek for a moment.

Riri's confession was a surprise to you, but after the shock ended, you couldn't help but let out a loud guffaw in the saloon. You stood out like a sore thumb whilst Hobie rubs your back from how much you were laughing. You even thanked Riri for what she did on Hobie's behalf, to which she sighed in relief from your reaction. If she didn't send that letter, you'd still be in that wretched place, you'd still be half dead, surviving but not living. The journey to Hobie was tough and marred with pain and bloodshed, and yet, you'd take that journey all over again if you knew that he'd be holding you like this once again; that he still loves you despite everything that has happened to him and to you. With a parting hug, and a promise that you'll visit again, you and Hobie set off back on the road towards home.

The route home is filled with an abundance of scenery. Fields of flowers and tall grass line the sides of the bumpy dirt road. Daisies, poppies and baby's breath are in full bloom, its colours bringing even more brightness to the land. Cows and horses graze all over, they look up at the sound of Bucky's hooves thudding against the soil.

Hobie gathers up the reins in one hand, arm holding on to your waist before bending down from his saddle. Buckeye still gallops away as you immediately try to get a hold of Hobie before he falls.

“What are you doing?!” You ask, voice shaky, eyes up front while he has his palm open, gathering flowers on the side of the road.

“Just hold onto me!” Numerous flowers gather in his hand, its petals are filled with dew, sweet smelling and colourful against his leather gloves. Some of the stems are broken from the motion of the galloping horse. But you don't mind as he sends you a wink while he's on the side like he's doing the most mundane thing.

Laughing, you help pull him up. He hands you the bundle of flowers from behind, lips brushing along the shell of your ear. “That'll be five bucks.”

You giggle, thumb brushing along one of its red petals. “That's expensive for a roadside bouquet.” Hiding your face behind the flowers, you take a whiff of the sweetness whilst you gaze behind you through your fluttering lashes. “I think you're swindeling me, cowboy.”

“Fine,” he dramatically sighs, earning a soft laugh from you. His viridescent eyes remind you of the clovers back home. “I'll give you a discount.”

“A kiss then?”

“I was goin' to say ‘three bucks’ but that works too.” His eyes are on the road, but he briefly gazes into yours with tenderness.

“I'll pay my dues then.” You crane your neck back as far as you can. With a hand running up behind his head, you push him gently to meet with your own for a quick peck. “There, all paid.”

Hobie grins, trying hard not to indulge more lest he crashes Bucky into a tree. “Nah, that was half.”

“Half?” You feign a scoff. “Fine, I'll give it to you in installments.” Your neck is starting to ache from the position, but you can't help but keep still when he even looks this good in this awkward angle.

Bucky slows down, you hear the rush of a body of water before you see it. Hobie clicks his tongue, Buck completely stops from the command. “I'll take it.”

“You're not gonna ask when I'll ‘pay’ you?”

Hobie places his hand around your throat, not clenching, nor digging in; no, he does it to gently straighten your neck to save you from a crick in your nape. You follow willingly, never have you felt this soft kind of grasp around your neck— it's been the opposite before this, before him.

The pads of Hobie's fingers rub along your nape, soothing the growing ache. “Surprise me.”

Your smile grows when you quickly look forward, you see a small dock in a shining lake that's surrounded by oak trees and cattails growing on the side. The water shimmers under the afterglow like diamonds laid upon silk.

Hobie raises his brows with a smile, you're sure he's patting himself on the back. He smoothly gets off his horse with a flourish. With his feet back on the ground, he holds your waist, waiting for you to push yourself off so he could help you down. As if you ever need it, but you sometimes like to be spoiled this way, especially if It's Hobie spoiling you with his affections.

You hold the bouquet against your chest while he looks up at you lovingly, not telling you to hurry up or attempt to yank you off. “They told me that you're so mashed. What does that even mean?”

“Who's they?”

“The band, they said and I quote, ‘that Hobie is properly mashed for you! We've never seen him look at someone like that unless—’” You pause, hands on his wrist, pushing yourself off as he guides you down on the ground carefully. You floated for a moment, you then tuck the flowers in Bucky's saddle bag for safe keeping.

“Unless what?”

You bite your lip to tamp down a laugh. “‘Unless you're one of Riri’s homemade chocolate cakes.’” Poking his chest, you playfully jab him while he has his hands up in mock surrender. “I knew you wanted that cake!”

“It was yours! And I've had it a thousand times before, love.” He grabs your wrists, stopping your poking to pull your hand over his neck so you'd hold him closer. Toe to toe, you close the gap even more by scooching closer.

You poke him with your chin on his clavicle. “And here I thought you were being nice.”

“I was,” Hobie utters against your lips, “don't worry, I ordered one for myself while you were playing on stage.”

You gasp in feigned offense. “You dare?!”

Nodding, Hobie pulls you closer by your wrist. “I dare.” He mocks teasingly.

“Guess I have to jump in the lake to let the waters wash away this betrayal.” Moving away, you walk backwards towards the dock while keeping an eye at him.

Hobie watches you go. The second he steps forward, you sprint away, giggling. Milkweeds and poppies brush along your legs as you run while stripping off your boots and jacket, you then throw it all behind you. The fabric hits Hobie's face, he hears a splash as he yanks it off, laughing with you. Stripping off his coat, belt and boots, he jumps in right after with a louder and bigger splash.

The water is colder than you expected when it hit your skin. But you suppose it's worth staying for a little while even if it means getting a cold. You wipe your face from the splash that hit you, shivering slightly and incredibly happy without a care for the rest of the world.

“Hobie?” You twist around, swimming in a circle to look for him.

Hobie doesn't resurface after his jump, your grin slowly turns into panic when you see bubbles rise up from where he jumped.

“Hobie!” You feel bile rise in your throat, panic and worry settling in your stomach. “Hob—!” You're suddenly lifted up, thighs perched on his shoulder with his head in between. “You ass—!” You see him give you a smirk before tossing you behind with a splash.

He once again lifts you up, by your waist this time. He's met with a glare from you, and he has the audacity to laugh at your face. You splash, wiggling and thrashing in his hold. “‘m sorry! I saw the opportunity!”

“Not funny! I thought you drowned!” Continuing to splash at his face, Hobie embraces you against his chest until you've tired yourself out. You manage to give him one last splash to his face before you gave up, and then you slouch against him.

“Good thing I taught you how to swim, huh?” He softly says, floating around the lake.

“Yeah,” you hide behind the crook of his neck, nose nudging his skin while you try to forget how your aunt reacted when you came home drenched and dripping on her carpets.

“You okay?” Hobie rubs in between your shoulders. “‘m sorry, I thought it was funny.”

You sniff from the cold, leaning away to meet with his eyes. “It was, just don't take too long to resurface.” Smiling, you wipe water droplets off his pierced eyebrow. “Remember the day you convinced me to let you teach me how to swim?”

“Yeah, I told you that you wouldn't be able to swim if the ship you're on capsizes.”

“It scared the shit out of me.”

“‘m sorry that scared you.”

“Stop apologizing,” you cup his jaw, feeling his stubble, “besides, we ended up here years later. It's a good ending.”

“Yeah, a good ending.” He fixes your blouse, laying the collar flat so the edge doesn't poke your eye out. Noticing your far off stare behind him, he imagines the worst. But when he turns, he sees a huge deer with large antlers drinking from the side of the lake. “Holy shit.” Hobie moves, but you stop him so he doesn't startle the deer.

It continues to drink calmly. A bush from the side shakes, Hobie almost went for his gun but he's proven wrong when a white tailed doe appears.

“She's gorgeous,” you whisper, hugging him from behind while you watch the doe drink next to the deer. “Do you think they know each other?”

“Maybe.” He doesn't believe his eyes, “maybe they're mates.”

You kiss his cold cheek. “You think so?”

With your hands intertwined with his own underwater, he pulls you closer until there's no space left in between. He once dreamed to be this close to you, now that he's skin to flesh with you, he will never let go. He'd rather be buried alive again rather than be apart with you.

The deer nudges the doe's head before they gallop away from the lake. Hobie sniffs, finger brushing along your ring. “Yeah, they are.”

—

The sun has fully set now, dark blue engulfing you with the night howling its cold breeze against your wet skin. The large oak tree behind you shields you from the harsh wind. It reminds you of the one back home where he carved both of your initials on the trunk. Hobie embraces you from behind, sharing his warmth while you two wait for the clothes on your back to dry before riding home. Bucky sleeps next to you, huffing in his sleep. The bonfire roars, warming you in its orange glow, flames dancing in your vision.

Hobie hasn't taken his fingers off your ring that he rolls around your finger since you sat down. His eyes stare at the fire, shoulders relaxed, yet his jaw is clenched. You think his body is acting on instinct, and is still getting used to the calm.

“You're quiet, I'm worried.” You say, head leaning on his chest, back slouched to look at him.

Hobie raises a brow, eyes glancing down at you before returning back to the fire. “‘m thinkin’.”

“That's a first,” you joke, squeezing his hand. He chuckles, pecking the top of your head once before sighing in your hair. “Okay, now I'm worried. What's wrong?”

“I was thinkin' that we're practically married.” Something flashes behind your eyes that he missed. “We've got the rings, the house, the love and everythin' else.” He can't let Miguel get to him, but he can't get his words out of his mind either. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.

You give him a soft shaky smile, eyes glossy against the light of the bonfire. Cradling his face, he leans against your palm, placing a heavy kiss on your cool skin. A sob threatens to escape you, clawing at your chest to be let go. You don't let it.

“We kind of are, huh?” He asks, eyes closed while holding your hand against his lips.

“I–it's close.” You manage to choke out. “I suppose we are, Hobs.” Tears collect in your lashes, blurring him in your vision like water colours bleeding in together. “Are you afraid of it?” Of us? You fear waking up one day and finding his side of the bed empty except for a note addressed to you. It's irrational, you know it is.

“No,” he sniffs, “it's the opposite. My fear isn't anywhere near that.”

You blink to clear the tears, letting it fall without a sound. “What are you most afraid of, cowboy?”

Hobie opens his eyes and you're met with a sea of green, shining and glittering just like the lake near you. “You, you're what I'm most afraid of.” You turn to fully face him, body placed in between his legs that comfortably cage you in. You don't let him go even when he burrows his chin on the top of his chest. For a moment, he doesn't say a word, until he sniffs and returns to meet with your eyes. “Losin’ you, seein’ your blood stainin’ my hands.” He holds both of your hands in his own. “That's what I'm afraid of, not my own death, yours. Because I can't live another five years without you. Especially a life lived without you isn't a life well lived.”

You feel his love and all the ache he carried in those five years like never before. He doesn't want to lose the life he built with you here; he doesn't want to lose all the mornings with you, he doesn't want to sleep without you by his side. He doesn't want to lose you.

You never even thought for a moment that you deserve this kind of tenderness after all the hatred that was thrown at you like a hail of firestorm. And yet, here he is, he loves you, the kind of love that reverberates through your very bones and settles into your soul. You still don't think you deserve it, but who are you to deny such love, especially from him? You did not beg for this kind of love, nor prayed for it. It's not the kind of love that the fates or the universe have thrust upon you in a shower of meteors. It was gradual, it came in a trickle and then a wave. And when you two were finally on the same page— you love him with every single bone in your body— you love him intentionally and wholeheartedly.

Kneeling to level with him, hands holding his cheeks, you hope that your simple touch is enough to let him feel all the love and affection you have for the man before you.

With your forehead against his own, you softly utter the same three words you've been telling him every morning and and every night before bed. “I love you.” He nods, whispering the same words atop your lips like a mantra; a song that replays in his head over and over again. You kiss the corner of his lips before leaning away. “I–if that ever happens, I'll live for you. I'll bring back my blood inside me if I have to.” You wipe away his stray tear, “Just promise me you'll do the same.” You know that you won't be able to do anything if it does happen to you, nor he, if it happens to him. They're empty promises meant to fill the holes in your chests for comfort to hold onto— to help ease your minds throughout the night whilst he lays his head upon your chest at night.

The weight of the looming threat feels like a reality. As if someone laid a pillow to his sleeping face. Hobie takes you in his arms, embracing you; hand placed on the back of your head as if he's already trying to shield you from what he fears most.

The mere thought of you loving him so much that you'd defy death itself, and despite the blood underneath his nails has him tethering upon the precipice of paradise. Maybe that's all there is then, to be loved despite the blood staining his hands, and despite his gnashing teeth that could take your flesh if he so desires; that he'll never desire to do to you— It's enough for him to be with you, and for you to be with him until you're both old and frail, until you're both six feet under; behind the same house he made into a home for you.

He has everything to lose, and he'll raise hell itself if need be just to bring you back. *When they come for you, there won't be enough bullets in the world for him.

With determination in his eyes that fans the flames in his chest, he utters an impossible promise on your skin.

“I promise.”

You hug Hobie, hand splayed on his back while the other kneads at his nape. Opening your eyes, you see the same deer and doe on the other side of the lake, standing side by side peacefully with their reflections on the lake. The sounds of the night echo above the glimmering depths of the water. It all brings you hope despite the conversation, they won't find you, that's your hope. You get to stay here forever with him, that's your only wish in this world.

Amidst the swaying grass, and in his arms, you feel infinite. You finally feel like you exist with the gentle wind and the raging rivers. No more do you feel like you burn everyday, where there's ash in your mouth, embers hidden underneath your hands; living in a house built to be kindling in your all consuming flames of loneliness. Earthbound once more, alive again.

[nickmarksblog]

RISE with SAP vs GROW with SAP

I will give an quick overview on this what is RISE with SAP vs GROW with SAP : What should you choose

RISE with SAP is a comprehensive cloud package for large enterprises seeking a full-scale digital transformation. It offers a single contract for software and services, ideal for complex overhauls.

VS

GROW with SAP is tailored for small and medium-sized businesses aiming for growth. It provides flexibility and scalability, focusing on customer and employee engagement.

Conclusion

Choose RISE for extensive transformations, complex supply chains, and sustainability integration.

While you can Choose GROW for business expansion, customer focus, and agility.

[palmyre-fallstar]

Henry of Skalitz’s Journal

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65668018/chapters/170274145

I stand before the massive wooden door, its contours barely discernible. Is it the vertigo, or the tears clouding my vision? Once I cross it, there’ll be no turning back. Nothing left to do to fix what’s just been broken.

My hand is frozen on the handle, seized by the thought of the void that awaits me on the other side: death, or a life stripped of the one person who gives it meaning. Which amounts to the same thing.

A bottomless despair seizes me, surging in waves like a frozen tide.

Am I truly going to leave without a word, without a glance? My throat is too dry to speak, clenched tight by invisible hands.

A sound rises above the silence: Hans’s ragged breathing.

It hits me like a slap, jolting me out of my stupor.

Overwhelmed by my own emotions, I had forgotten the most important thing.

I slowly turn back to my Lord.

I don’t know what torments are flooding him at this very moment, but I can’t help noticing that his natural grace remains untouched. He stands before the hearth, magnificent. The gold embroidery of his doublet glints in the lazy rhythm of the flames. His face in profile, half hidden in shadow, is slightly bowed, as if in prayer.

And all the love I had so vainly tried to bury surges through me, like sap through a tree.

For the second time, my body moves on its own.

I lock the door with a steady hand that mirrors my resolve.

He can’t miss the sharp click of the latch or the sound of my footsteps drawing dangerously close.

When our eyes meet, I’m near enough to read the disbelief in his gaze. The blue of his eyes shines in the dim light. So I wasn’t the only one who had surrendered to tears; the thought twists my stomach.

I need no more.

I seize his arm and turn him to face me. Now we stand eye to eye. My hand slides to his waist, pulling him closer, while the other runs along the nape of his neck, drawing his face to mine until our breaths mingle.

Nothing can stop me now. My lips meet his, finding immediate response. The logs Hans had been holding crash to the floor as he wraps his arms around me, tightening the embrace.

A blaze ignites inside me, consuming me entirely.

This time, I welcome the loss of control. I surrender to it, even at the risk of losing my mind.

Hans’s kisses are as soft and delicate as mine are hungry.

I never truly imagined this ending for us, yet what I feel now defies all understanding. The wall has given way, collapsed, and we dance upon its ruins.

I hear him sigh between our kisses; a shiver runs through me. Every part of me yearns for more contact, more closeness. My body moves as if it knows exactly what to do, though it knows nothing. Without breaking the kiss, I instinctively guide us toward the canopy bed.

The mattress creaks softly under our weight. I choose that moment to break the kiss. I want to meet his gaze. I want to see everything we haven’t dared to say aloud. I’m not disappointed. His eyes speak for him, beyond words. I hope he, too, found in mine what he was searching for.

I cradle his neck as he lies back on the mattress, accompanying his movement with all the tenderness I can muster. I stretch out above him, surrendering once again to the pull of his lips and the shivers that his nearness sends through me.

This foretaste of heaven will never come again. It is a moment that belongs to us alone. I intend to savour every second, fully aware of the gift we've been given. And above all, I want him to know how deeply I love him, how much this means. No matter what follows, I want to have no regrets.

[melpomenelamusa]

Sap and Thorns - Chimeras

~Special chapter~

CW: Blood and injuries, kidnapping, attempted murder, dehumanization, distorted references to Catholicism, bound and gagged, restrains.

A/N: Thanks to @theasexualwriterrat for the idea of an OC trapped in a net covered in spikes.

Elafi thought he had finally escaped the traps.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

He had wandered into a new area of the forest. He had decided to follow the trail of deer tracks, hoping to see them in their natural habitat (and with the distant hope of being able to communicate with them). The air smelled of damp earth, due to the recent rains. The tree trunks were covered in soft layers of moss, and some mushrooms grew among the carpet of leaves on the ground. Elafi identified some of them, sadly inedible.

Not far from there, he spotted a black wooden building hidden among the trees. It looked like some sort of house. It reminded him of the Cazador’s cabin.

Shuddering from the bad memories of his experience as that mad hunter’s prisoner, the boy decided to leave the area. He was disappointed not to have found the deer he was searching for, but he knew it was best to stay away from potential trouble, especially before Warrick began to worry about his long absence.

And that’s when it happened.

His hoof stepped on a mechanism hidden beneath the leafy ground. There was the sound of a spring snapping, and suddenly a net closed around him. The teen didn’t even see what hit him before finding himself curled up on the ground, with the sensation of hundreds of tiny knives stabbing into the skin on his arms, legs, and back.

What is this?!, he thought, trying to get up, but every movement increased his agony.

He was caught in a net bag made of thick threads, which were covered with a series of small, sharp metal spikes. One of the spikes was just millimeters from his open eye.

Fear quickly took hold of him.

He was trapped.

Wherever he moved, he was met with pain—metal digging into him, cutting and tearing his skin and clothes. Soon, several streams of blood were already running down his body, staining his garments. His heart began to pound wildly, speeding up his breathing. Even the rise and fall of his chest made the spikes dig deeper into his flesh.

The weight of the net pressed down on him, and his flight instincts clouded his judgment, making him thrash like a frightened animal, trying to shake the net off to no avail.

“Help! HELP!”

He screamed until his throat hurt. Tears began to fall from his eyes.

How was he going to get out of this now?

The branches of the trees around him swayed gently, without the wind’s intervention. Elafi tried to focus on them, to feel their roots through the earth.

Call Warrick, please!,  he thought, trying to reach them.

He wasn’t going to be able to escape on his own. All the wounds stung, and the strong metallic scent and blood loss were starting to make him dizzy.

Suddenly, the deer boy heard footsteps—hesitant and snapping twigs as they approached him. The net kept him immobilized, so he couldn’t turn his head to see who was coming; however, a chill ran through him when he realized the sound was coming from the direction of that old house he had seen between the trees.

Elafi’s instincts drove him to struggle again and try to escape, but just like before, he only managed to hurt himself more, his mind inching closer to panic.

Then, an elderly woman appeared in his field of vision. She was dressed humbly and wore a necklace with a cross that hung over her chest. Her hair was gray and disheveled, and she carried a thick branch in one hand. She squinted at Elafi, as if trying to make sense of an abstract painting.

“I caught the demon,” she murmured before shouting, “I caught the demon!”

“I-I’m not a demon,” said Elafi, his voice strained with pain.

The woman’s eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and the way she moved—uncoordinated and staggering—made Elafi wonder if she was under the influence of some strange substance. Maybe those mushrooms he had seen earlier?

“You are a demon!” she yelled, pointing at him with a bony finger. “I’ve seen it—the one with horns, with the legs of a goat, trying to make me sin, trying to steal my soul!”

Hearing the woman terrified the deer boy. It was clear she wasn’t sane, but that only made her more dangerous. Elafi hadn’t grown up in a traditionally religious family, though he did believe in the existence of demons and other mystical forces; but the woman seemed consumed by irrational fanaticism, clutching the cross on her necklace and muttering quick prayers under her breath.

“I’m not a demon!” Elafi repeated, his voice laced with desperation. “Please, really, help me!”

“Don’t try to trick me!” she screamed, gripping the thick branch and striking Elafi on the back with it. The spikes of the net dug even deeper into his body, and the teenager couldn’t hold back a scream of agony. “You won’t take my soul, servant of Satan! Now that I’ve caught you, I’ll get rid of you!”

Elafi felt his whole body trembling as more tears fell from his eyes.

“P-please...” he whispered.

The woman didn’t hear him. She pulled a long handkerchief from her pocket, threaded it through the net, and began dragging Elafi toward her home.

“No, please, believe me, I’m not a demon, please!” Elafi cried, as she dragged him across the forest’s uneven ground. Every movement worsened his wounds, his limbs hitting pebbles and branches along the way. His clothes were soaked with blood and mud.

Suddenly, thin roots burst from the ground, grabbing the net and stopping the woman from dragging him any further. She kept pulling, but when she couldn’t move him, she grabbed the branch again and struck Elafi several more times. The boy screamed from the pain, and the roots withdrew into the soil.

“Cursed demon, don’t try to use your tricks on me!” said the woman, resuming her mission to drag her victim.

Each tug made the teen cry out in despair. A trail of fresh blood was left behind.

She stopped when she reached her house. She opened the front door and stepped inside, leaving Elafi outside. The boy managed to catch a glimpse of the building’s interior and saw that the walls were plastered with distorted Catholic imagery. The sight only deepened his despair.

The fanatical woman returned shortly after, carrying a bucket full of liquid, and she began sprinkling it over Elafi—what he assumed was holy water—while loudly praying unsettling prayers.

“Please, let me go!” Elafi begged, shrinking from the burning sensation as the liquid hit his open wounds.

When she saw that whatever she was trying wasn’t working, she grumbled and went back into the building, returning moments later with long strips of cloth and a knife. Seeing them, Elafi panicked.

“No, please, please don’t do this, please let me go, I’m not a demon, please believe me!”

His pleas and cries fell on deaf ears. The woman crouched beside him and began cutting the threads of the net with the knife. Elafi screamed in agony as she ripped the net—with the spikes still embedded in his flesh—from his body, worsening his wounds and making him bleed even more.

The deer boy didn’t even have time to try to escape before his captor slammed him to the ground, pressing down on his injuries. He writhed, but couldn’t stop her from tying his wrists behind his back and binding his ankles together, all while she continued muttering prayers and chants.

Elafi kept begging, trying to reason with her somehow, still clinging to a sliver of hope for freedom.

“Shut up, demon! Your lies won’t work on me!”

The woman took a long scarf and tied it around Elafi’s mouth. It didn’t completely silence his screams, but it did make his words unintelligible. Then, grabbing him by the antlers, she began to drag him toward a pile of dry wood and branches stacked at the back of the building.

“Mmmph! Lmh mm gh!”

Elafi felt more and more exhausted. Only adrenaline kept him fighting against the pain, terror, and blood loss. The woman dropped him onto the pyre, his struggling now useless. She went inside the house and returned holding a bottle of oil—which she poured over the wood—and a box of matches.

With a chisss, the first match was struck. Elafi screamed, shaking his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the small flame.

“Return to the fires of hell from which you came.”

“Step away from him!”

Warrick’s voice was like thunder announcing rain in the middle of the desert. The man appeared holding a pistol in one hand, aiming it at the woman.

“Back away,” he growled, striding forward with firm steps.

The woman jumped back, startled. The match burned down to her fingers, making her let out a small cry of pain as the flame singed her skin.

“W-who are you? Another servant of Satan? Get away from me! I must save my soul! I must kill the demon before he devours our souls!”

“The only demon here is you,” Warrick declared, his voice like a verdict.

The woman looked from the newcomer to Elafi, then back to Warrick.

“The demon has already twisted your mind! His innocent face has blinded your eyes and pulled you away from God!”

She tried to strike another match, but Warrick snatched the box from her hands. She tried to shove and hit him, but he stopped her easily. She lost her balance and fell to the ground.

“Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot,” Warrick warned, before rushing to Elafi’s side. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said once he reached him.

With a pocketknife, he began cutting the fabric around Elafi’s wrists and ankles. Warrick seemed very sure of what he was doing, but inside he was alarmed by the trail of blood in the forest and the numerous bleeding wounds all over the deer boy’s body. When he finished, he removed the gag and then picked Elafi up, but the boy thrashed in his arms.

Elafi’s mouth was open, his pupils dilated, like a fish out of water.

“Tree, tree, tree—tree!” he shouted, desperate.

Warrick shivered, startled by his sudden behavior, but when he followed Elafi’s gaze, he saw a young oak tree not far from the house. As he approached, he discovered a thick golden substance, like honey, oozing from a small hole in the bark. He laid Elafi on the ground, next to the tree. The teenager began to strike the trunk with the tips of his antlers until the hole widened, releasing more of the strange golden sap. Then Elafi began licking and consuming it with a hunger that unsettled Warrick.

As he drank more, Elafi’s wounds—on his face, shoulders, arms, chest, back, abdomen, and legs—began to close.

“The demon! The demon!” the woman screamed, watching the scene from afar, still on the ground where Warrick had left her. However, she didn't try anything, too terrified.

When Elafi finished, there was no sign of his wounds except the blood soaking his torn clothes. He stood up, slightly shaky, his gaze still distant, and his skin pale and cold.

“This is the part where I’d like to faint,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think I can after drinking the healing sap.”

“I can still carry you home if you don’t want to walk,” Warrick replied. “At least part of the way.”

Elafi nodded. Warrick helped him settle so he could give him a piggyback ride, and then the two walked away from that sinister place.

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba@morning-star-whump@lancedoncrimsonwings@3-2-whump. @whumped-by-glitter @string-of-broken-hearts @alyscat @oddsconvert @what-if-i-just-did @bacillusinfection @writinglittlepains @washing---machine@bilightningwhumper@enasolos@inhurtandincomfort

Elafi: Warrick... Do you think it's possible that I might actually be a demon? I was born a chimera, I have these strange powers...

Warrick: Shut up. You're no demon, you're my son.

I had a hard time writing this chapter. I had to discard about three ideas until finally, last night at midnight, this idea came to me, and I started writing until I finished! Thanks for reading!