#pellaaearien

the lovely @pellaaearien will be in town 🥰 🌸 come chill and write fanfic with us

<3

Hob's prickly neighbour finally slipped into sleep. Dream — and his heart flipped a little, he loved that name — had always had such a presence, beyond the faint whiffs of sharp mint and earth Hob picked up and the figure he cut in black. He looked far more peaceful asleep, for starters, even if monitor wires and IV tubes snaked into his hospital gown and attached to his arms. He also looked far smaller, and Hob's heart ached at it, all his instincts demanding he find the nearest blankets and wrap him up in them. (Fuck, Hob hoped one day he could, at least sometimes.)

A goddess of epic poetry still has supernatural strength. No one seems to remember that. And everyone tends to forget that Calliope, youngest of the nine Muses, is capable of wreaking havoc. She might never win a swordfight against Olethros or meaningfully lay a single hand on Teleute. But words and stories have power. 

"I know this is probably a weird time to ask, but since we know each other's names, may I take you on a date?" Hob asked.  Dream jerked upright so fast his head spun and the tachycardia alarm sounded on the monitor, eyes fixed wide and confused on Hob. "Me?" he managed, breathless. "After all this?"

It was restorative to be close to him. Dream’s realm ought to have been what most restored him, but instead it was Hob—his touch, his assurance, his faith. Hob saw wonder in the Dreaming where Dream could see only destruction and ruin. He wanted Dream, when Dream had so often shied away from his touch. Every time he glimpsed something new of Dream, he only seemed to want him more. Dream loved him. He’d loved him, he thought, since that first night after their wedding, when Hob had welcomed him into the house he’d built in the Dreaming. He hadn’t let himself see it until so much later, but he’d loved this man who’d kissed him in a shadowed church, and brought him food to eat that he didn’t need, and held him when darkness threatened to swallow him. He could not fathom how he’d ever thought he could simply walk away. It would be like tearing out his own heart. He’d experienced something like it in his prison, and he did not want to feel that pain ever again. “I am sorry,” he murmured. He barely knew, at this point, what he was apologizing for. He felt Hob had forgiven him for his mistakes already. So perhaps it was only for himself. Perhaps he had hurt himself more than anything else. “No need,” Hob said. He twined his fingers in Dream’s hair, brought him back far enough that they could look each other in the eyes again. Dream raised shaking hands to wipe at his eyes, which were beading with tears. He felt it all so keenly now, not only the isolation of his prison, but the pain of the Dreaming, gouged and aching, and the pain of Hob, too, long left behind. His fingertips came away black with ink, and he knew it was streaking down his cheeks like trails of blood. Hob swiped his thumbs over Dream’s cheeks and the tears started to run clear.

Make me write Ask Game