sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

✨just fandom things✨

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

a nice gift for death

(inspired from a fanfic on AO3 - "Inspire In Me, the Desire In Me" by ElloPoppet)

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Arranged marriage idea!

Dream’s parents force him to marry Hob, an eligible omega whose family has money, which the endless family needs. Dream hugely resents it.

But hob is in love with Dream. He was actually happy to be marrying him. He admired Dream and thought he was so smart and beautiful and respectful—before the wedding hob is giddy with joy. Until he walks down to the altar and sees Dream, clearly displeased, his scent sour with annoyance.

And hob realizes the moment he says his vows that he is now effectively in a loveless marriage.

Their wedding night is…awful. Dream is impersonal and barely does the minimum to ensure hob enjoys himself and doesn’t meet his eye even once.

After, he tells hob that as soon as hob has given him an heir, hob is free to take a lover.

Hob doesn’t say anything but he does his best to not let dream see that he’s heartbroken. Dream doesn’t even stay the night. He goes back to his own quarters and leaves hob alone.

But this is hob. So he mourns for a while and then he decides to move on with life. Marrying dream catapulted him high in society and just because his husband doesn’t want him doesn’t mean he is worthless.

So hob starts attending events and throwing them himself. He starts making friends. He opens up Dream’s dreary house and redecorates and brings his sense of life and determination to everything he does.

Soon he’s kind of a darling of their society. He’s earned himself plenty of friends and tons of admirers.

Dream is…surprised to say the least. People compliment him all the time on hob and tell him how lucky he must feel. Meanwhile they only really see each other during hob’s heat or Dream’s rut or when Dream accompanies him to a party. Dream never dances with him.

They make stilted conversation. Or hob does. But he gets nothing from dream.

However dream is starting to admire hob.

By the time the twins, robin and Orpheus, are born, things are coming full circle. Hob has decided to stop waiting on his husband and he find a lover.

And Dream has become rather smitten with his husband. Maybe it’s watching him care for their sons, maybe it was the way hob held onto him when he first started contractions, maybe Dream always had the potential to feel this way. But years too late, he’s finally ready to court his omega.

I loooove this concept, and I also love that we definitely all have the same braincell because I know for a fact that @seiya-starsniper has a wip which follows a similar storyline - but with the secondary genders flipped! It's something I'm very excited about (while also putting no pressure on you seiya alsksjdhd <333). Anyway, I'm gonna talk a lil bit about this because I do love a good arranged marriage trope.

I just live for the idea of Dream courting the man hes been married to for years at this point. He realises that he doesn't know enough about Hob, so he start learning. His favourite foods, his habits, little treats that he indulges in, the bath salts that he likes best. Dream learns it all, and starts using his new knowledge. He sends Hob flowers. He buys him new outfits. He spends time with the boys so Hob can rest. He actually listens and responds when Hob nervously tries to engage him in conversation.

Meanwhile Hob is just so confused and lost as to why his husband is finally interacting with him. What changed? Did he realise that Hob was starting to look elsewhere and decided that he wanted Hob for himself after all? It's kind of frustrating. But because the boys like having both mama and papa around together, Hob makes an effort to respond to Dream. They take daytrips. They hold hands on the street. Dream asks him to dance at the first big garden party of the summer, and Hob accepts (after he's picked his jaw up off the floor).

So they're both in love with each other, but neither of them knows what to say or do to take the next step. It's easier during heats and ruts when they're not thinking so much, but the rest of the time they're both scared of shattering the uneasy happiness they've built. Especially Dream, who still feels guilty. He knows that Hob isn't totally done with being angry with him...

Then Hob gets pregnant again, which was unplanned for... and with hormones rolling around his body, Hob finally can't hold back anymore! He ends up standing with his hands on his hips, the picture of the perfect pregnant omega, scolding his alpha while Dream literally grovels on his knees. As he should!

The happy accident baby finally brings them together, and Robin and Orpheus are thrilled with the new addition to the family. Dream finally takes Hob on the long awaited honeymoon that they never had the first time around - and he never takes his omega for granted, ever again.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Plot bunny idea but… what if Hob has an identity crisis after he and Dream have dated more than 30 years?

Like his relationships have always had an expiration date. Maybe a few exceptions where he stays with someone who “knows” until they get old but even then the relationship changes, inevitably.

He’s never been with someone as unchanging as him.

Would it be a little terrifying? A lot terrifying? It’s as close to “actually grow old with someone” is not growing old at all and therefore aging at the same pace, as he’s even had to think about in almost 700 years.

Suddenly it’s not about making the most of your brief time together, it’s a marathon not a sprint. It’s continuing to be interesting. It’s accepting the change in someone else when it’s a much slower to near nonexistent change and it’s not defined by aging the way the others were.

Even if Hob is resilient and bounces back quickly or even sees this as a good thing, an amazing thing, that’s gotta hit hard at some point, right?

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Hob Gadling: What if we went out to dinner, but not as friends…?

Morpheus, in confusion: So do you want to go as enemies?

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Hob didn't mean to steal someone's Valentine's Day date, but he walked into this restaurant and saw this absolutely smoking hot goth man sitting by himself obviously waiting on a date - looking like he wanted to die, surrounded by all the holiday pink. 🩷❤️🩷❤️

Looking at his watch, Hob figured that since it wasn't even the top of the hour yet, it was likely that Hot!Goth hadn't even been stood up; he was just early. Hob loved a punctual hot boy!

So Hob decided to shoot his shot and be as charming as he can,,before the date gets to the restaurant. It was Valentine's Day after all, maybe Hob could turn pretty boy's head and win himself a valentine. 😍

Aww, two sad gays on V day!! Very cute.

Dream is deep in emo mode when Hob approaches him. Everything is terrible; he is unlovable and wishes to be left alone to die. He didn't manage to get a date for Valentines day so he's having dinner with his sister. No doubt everyone will mistake them for a couple. It's going to be agony.

But then there's this cute guy with the warm brown eyes plopping down in Death's seat. The cute guy confesses that he's just been stood up - and he's too humiliated to walk out of the restaurant, so could Dream pretend to at least be a friend for a minute or two? Dream acquiesces, although the cute guy doesn't really look too bothered about being stood up.

By the time Death shows up, Dream and Hob are affectionately bickering over the wine list, legs tangled together under the table. Death is a very good sister: she slips away, shooting off a text to Dream that something came up and she can't make it.

She gets a call from Dream next morning - she can hear someone else in the background singing along very badly to the radio.

"Thank you for standing me up." Dream says. "I hope you know that you are a very good sister. Hob would like to pass on his thanks, too."

She does know, but it's nice to hear it. And she can't wait to meet this "Hob" who has clearly already stolen her brother’s emo heart.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

I'm on something of a mob run right now,,,sorry 😉😝

Hob is the live-in chef for mob boss Dream; and during a home invasion attempt on Dream and bb!Orpheus's lives, Hob protects them with extreme skill..... he might have killed at least one guy with an appetizer.

👊🏽

Hob used to be a hitter - he could (still can) take down a room of guys without breaking a sweat. But he got tired of the fists, knives and gun life, he wanted to use his hands for good, nurturing things, so he cooks now.

Granted working for a high profile mobster isn't safe, but that just means that Hob can handle himself if stuff goes down. Besides, when he needed a cooking job Death found him this one, and he owed her - so working for her grieving baby brother squares them and is easy enough.

Morpheus Endless has it rough, so Hob can understand how feeding himself is low on his priority list - he's on essentially a forced paternity leave (from the mob. He lost the mother of his infant son in child birth and he can't really trust anyone else to take care of him. (There have been some rumblings that someone might be out to get him.)

So Hob cooks for him and as they are getting to know one another, Hob helps with cutie little Orpheus.

Hob doesn’t think much of it when Jessamy and Mathew both have tasks that remove them from the house and property (he packs them their preferred breakfast sandwich and waves them off); he's busy prepping and planning dinner so initially misses when the guard shift change doesn’t happened; but he notices the sounds of gunshots too close to the front of the house to be anything but purposeful. He gets upstairs and pushes Dream and Orpheus into the panic room then goes back down to see what's going on.

He will protect his new friend, and family, and if unfortunately, dinner is a little late because that pan of hot oil was used to fry a face instead of french fries.....that's on the idiots who broke into Hob's kitchen.

Love this!!! It definitely gives me vibes for a slice of life story where ex-enforcer Hob uses his renowned skill with knives to cut veggies instead of bodies. Along the way he naturally falls in love with his new boss and the absolutely adorable lil Orpheus, who loves sitting on the counter and watching Hob making yummy food.

Just imagine Hob in his frilly apron with his hair tied up in a bun, maybe with a hairnet (he takes food standards seriously). He's got one of his massive knives that wouldn't look out of place in a butchery. He's poured grease onto the floor so the attackers have all slipped on their butts, and one of them has a massive black eye already forming because Hob threw a whole rotisserie chicken at them then followed it up with a dozen baking potatoes. Jessamy and Matthew are already speeding back to the residence, but Hob doesnt really need the help. He's warned the home invaders that he doesn't want to waste his nice sharp knives on them, but he will.

The story of how Mr Hob killed a man with a potato becomes Orpheus's favourite bedtime story from then on (Dream added a few embellishments, the guy didn't actually die). And Hob is well rewarded for his loyalty to his new family - at a candlelit dinner after all the mess has been cleaned up, Dream kisses his chef in shining armour, and politely asks him to stay. Forever.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Every single response I see @neil-gaiman give on this hellsite has the exact same energy as an extremely tired king of a tiny medieval country, pinching the bridge of his nose as he once more decides which peasant the pumpkin TRULY belongs to

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Something I find absolutely hilarious, is that, if Good Omens and The Sandman really do exist in the same universe, Shakespear is actually just garbage. Like, this man had the blessing of an Endless, specificly Dream, who is the King of Stories. He should be making, quite literally, nothing but the best. And yet, he still required help from a whole other cosmic entity, aka Crowley, to make Hamlet. Hamlet isn't even his most popular play, and he had help from two crazy powerful entities to make it and make it popular. This man had the help of Dream of the Endless and the Snake of Eden and it still is barely on the top five for most people. Do you know how bad you probably have to be to need that much help from nigh omnipotent beings. Definitely one of the funniest things I've ever thought about. I hope Hob and Crowley get together sometime to talk about how not that great Shakespear actually was and how they can convince their significant others that he's not actually that good to.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

He

#dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #this is amazing

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

I think Matthew and Hob would be the best of friends and Dream would be distraught that he’s jealous of a raven

#dream of the endless #dream x hob #hob gadling #hob x dream #dreamling #centennial husbands #matthew the raven #matthew the sandman

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Unsoulmates, part three!

[Part One] [Part Two]

It becomes a tradition, after that. Morpheus and Hob will meet, at a cafe or a pub or completely by chance (their friend groups, it turns out, are bizarrely interconnected), and Morpheus will ask Hob if he's found his soulmate yet, and Hob will say no.

Their first few meetings, Hob makes a genuine effort to try and explain. To talk about the people he never would have met, the love he'd have missed out on, (the life he'd have missed out on), had he just sat around waiting for his soulmate to find him. About how freeing it is to get to know someone outside of those horrible soulmate-matching dates where you shake twenty people's hands in a row and move on when nothing happens.

Morpheus seems entirely baffled by it. Not just Hob's approach, but the rest, too, soulmate-matching organizations and the goddamn nightmare that is dating apps and that brief moment of panic when the other person tries to grab your arm on the first date. Hob is almost as curious about Morpheus' experience of soulmates as Morpheus is about his, but Morpheus shies away from even the blandest questions about his relationship status, so Hob is left to wonder- if Morpheus met his soulmate young, like Will did, so he's never lived with the pressure to find the One. If he believes that Destiny will bring his soulmate to him when it's time, and it's not his place to go looking. If he's cautious, gets to know a person on their own terms before touching them and finding out if they're a Match.

Hob would think that last one were the answer- Morpheus holds himself apart from other people, avoiding physical contact at all costs- were it not for the deliberate brush of Morpheus' fingers against his palm the night they'd met. At first he's terribly aware of where that mark would be, but it's easy enough to let the crush he'd been nursing fade to the background. Morpheus' interest in him is so clearly just academic curiosity, it'd be silly to dwell on it.

And even though the novelty of being listened to, if not fully understood, eventually wears off, Morpheus' curiosity is still heartwarming, and Hob, as a person, is not given to running out of things to talk about. And Morpheus proves shockingly eager to listen to him ramble about playing Hades and argue with him about what qualifies a good adaptation of a book.

It's nice. Settling. To be around him, in a way Hob doesn't know he's ever felt with anyone else.

Their fifth meeting, Hob spends the entire time gushing about Audrey, Audrey whose sister had introduced her to Hob because neither of them are terribly anxious to find their soulmate, Audrey who throws herself into helping Hob find the earbuds he lost at her house with the same fervor she applies to med school exams, Audrey whose laugh might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard...

The look of- disgust? despair? anger? On Morpheus' face when Hob finishes that little tangent would almost be funny if it weren't so insulting.

Their meetings peter off after that. Not intentionally. But Hob will admit that his every waking thought becomes- slightly consumed, by Audrey, from the moment she looks at him sideways to make a terrible pun about roses. And even after Hob's found room in his head for other things, Morpheus is impossibly busy with some project he's working on with Will.

And suddenly it's been almost four months and they've barely spoken and Hob's rushing into a fancy bakery three minutes before they close, when he notices a familiar black coat at the back of the line. He takes a moment to straighten his jacket- this place is fancy fancy, polished in a way that makes him feel too poor to afford the oxygen inside the building- before he sneaks into line behind Morpheus.

Morpheus glances back at him and freezes, as though he'd planned to commit Bakery Robbery and Hob is now a witness.

"Hey," Hob says, grinning a bit too widely, in the vague hope that he can make them both forget the past months of awkwardness if he's just cheerful enough. "How's the playwriting going?"

Morpheus stares at him for a short eternity, then says, "Frustrating." It's the end of the sentence, but not the conversation. Hob knows he remembers that distinction.

He waits a moment, in case there's more that Morpheus wants to say. The line shuffles slowly forward- Hob really shouldn't have come here right after work, there are six people in line in front of Morpheus and only one incredibly stressed employee behind the counter.

"How is. Audrey?" Morpheus asks, uncertainly, just when Hob is beginning to think he should say something else.

Hob's fairly certain the smile on his face is answer enough to that question. "She's great. It's been. Great," he says, conscious of the fact that no matter how much he wants to wax poetic, Morpheus probably doesn't want to hear it. "She's actually- I'm going to meet her parents, this weekend," he adds, and once he's said the words aloud, it's hard not to bounce in place with sheer giddiness- he's going to meet her family! As her boyfriend! "That's why I'm here, actually. I wanted to bring something nice but the last time I tried to bake I set my kitchen on fire, so..." He shrugs, and nods at the counter.

"You really are in love with her," Morpheus says. That look is back on his face, that intense, almost visceral shade of pity. If anything it's stronger than the last time Hob saw it.

Hob, frankly, would prefer disgust. Or confusion, or scorn. I know what I'm getting myself into, he wants to say. I thought you understood that part, at least.

"Of course I am," he says instead, and the words only sound a little hollow. "Soulmates are stupid."

Another eternity passes. Morpheus makes a tiny move toward Hob, and for a brief, foolish moment Hob thinks he's going to kiss him on the forehead, as though he were a brother-in-arms dying on the battlefield.

"Then. Enjoy your dinner," Morpheus says, and turns back around.

And that's the end of the conversation.

The line keeps shuffling forward. Morpheus stares into the middle distance like a statue of some folkloric king. The woman in front of him shoots Hob several pointedly disgusted looks, and Hob- broods. Turns the question over and over again in his mind- Why is it so hard to understand that she doesn't need to be my soulmate? She's already perfect. I love her.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't get an answer.

And three weeks later, Audrey bumps into her soulmate at a concert, and he realizes she hadn't understood, either.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Tonight's brainrot is You've Got Mail! AU. Dream has the small, corner bookstore "The Prince of Stories", a name his older sister gave to him when he was a kid, and which he runs with Lucienne. He doesn't earn a lot, but it's a cozy place, where he spends most of his time reading to kids with his deep, tell-tale voice. He is adored by the kids and the entire neighborhood for his way with children, but also his sweet albeit shy nature. He is also an absolute disaster in his love life, currently being with a partner who barely pays attention to him.

Enter Hob Gadling, the owner of the collosal bookstore chain "Companion" that just opened in the neighborhood and is threatening to decimate the last morcels of Dream's clientele. Dream wants to hate him, but when they meet at a party he has to act all frustrated in order to hide the truth: that he finds Hob absolutely delightful. Hob is funny, down to earth, nothing like the dick billionaire everyone expects him to be.

He is also hot as all fuck and something like out of the fairytales Dream reads to kids.

Hob too finds Dream adorable. Hob never wanted to actually strangle the life out of small businesses, he was just born in this business and that's how it's done. He finds Dream sweet, exceedingly knowledgeable and caring, and devastatingly handsome.

The two of them start chatting on an online chatting page, unknowingly. The page is called "100 messages later" and the idea is that, if two people manage to keep chatting for 100 messages, they agree to meet in person.

Which they eventually do, but Dream immediately books it when he sees that it's Hob dick-who-is-about-to-bankrupt-me-and-i-still-want-him-to-rearrange-my-"bookshelf" Gadling.

AHHH yeah this movie is so weird and toxic but I like nothing better than fictional weirdness and toxicity, especially with dreamling in the mix!!

It's not like Hob is even a bad person, okay?! Hes just trying to make a living and help his company grow. He has employees who deserve that, hell, he wants books to be cheap and available for everyone. He's not the evil capitalist that Dream seems to think he is!! Hence, when he finds out that the cutie he's been writing to online is in fact Dream... Hob doesn't tell him. (Dream still didn't realise that Hob was his date... he writes to his "100 messages" partner, apologising for missing their meeting - he had to run away because he saw this awful guy that he hates, this sleazy corporate guy who's trying to ruin Dream’s business...) Hob knows now that Dream hates him, and doesn't want to ruin what they have! And yes, he knows that Dream will find out eventually. But Hob wants to savour having Dream’s attention (even if it's only online) for as long as possible.

As it happens, Dream does not hate Hob. He's actually battling a rather large crush on him - that's why he ran off. Maybe there's some way they can coexist? Oh, if only loving and talking to Hob was as simple as talking to the guy on "100 messages"...

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

ooooh I'm so happy that you made a part two!!!

poor poor baby dream!!! that sad wet cat of a man.

A continuation of the Widower Hob/Sex Worker Dream Christmas story. We shall all ignore it’s almost halfway through January. Ignorance is a bliss, after all.

Tw for this part: mentions of suicide (past, no details);

Hob tries not to fidget. It’s an useless endeavor, and he’s glanced at the clock so many times in the past hour he’s sure his neck muscles are gonna cramp and he’ll be stuck like that forever. When the clock above the bar turns to four pm, he sighs and taps the bar.

He hoped. And yet, here he is.

“I’m off, Rose,” he says, and Rose waves him off cheerfully. “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Same, Hob. Don’t worry, Daniel and I will lock up, go have a lovely night.”

Hob tries not to grimace at her words, and he picks up his messenger back and waves at his employees, putting on a cheerful smile that drops as soon as the pub door closes behind him.

He closes his eyes and mutters, “Idiot. You are such an idiot, Gadling.”

“On that, we can agree.”

Hob jumps and lets out a very undignified squeal. “Oh my god,” he says, hand pressed to his chest. “Do not sneak up on me like that.”

Dream just lifts a very unimpressed eyebrow. “I was literally just standing here.”

Hob finally gets his heart under control and actually looks at Dream. He looks beautiful in the dim lights from the street lamps, the wind brushing gently through his hair, his skin white like milk as he grips an old backpack. Hob smiles when he notices the new peacoat Dream is wearing, black and reaching down to his knees, collar pushed up. And then Dream’s words register.

“Wait, why were you standing out here in the cold? You could have come in.”

Dream’s shoulders pull up, and his gaze falls away. “I wasn’t sure if I— wanted to come.” He takes a deep breath, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “You sound like a thing too good to be true, Hob Gadling. And I don’t have the best track record with things like this.”

Hob’s heart trips and stutters.

“And yet here you are.”

Dream smiles, and Hob watches the beautiful curve of his cheek before he looks up. “I’ve always been good at making bad decisions.”

Hob laughs, and he would kick himself for how it sounds filled with soft relief, except he doesn’t feel bad about it at all.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, gesturing for Dream to follow him. “I live extraordinarily close.” He walks to the end of the building and rounds the corner, laughing when Dream gasps out, “You live in the pub?”

“Above it, actually. Perks of being the owner.”

Dream just hums and follows him up the stairs. Once the door is open and Hob steps in, turning on the lights, Dream hesitates in the doorway for one moment.

“Hey,” Hob says gently, until Dream looks up at him. “No expectations for tonight, all right. Promise.”

Dream holds his gaze as he takes a deep breath, and then he smiles. It seems to break the tension hanging off him, and he takes the last few steps inside.

“You can hang your coat there, as well as your backpack.”

“I’ll bring this with me, if it’s all right,” Dream says, gripping his backpack tighter and Hob nods quickly with a, “Yeah. Of course.” Dream’s grip on the backpack softens, and he nods as he avoids Hob’s eyes. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the wall, and then follows Hob down the hallway.

“So, this is my flat,” Hob says. “Bathroom is down the hallway if you wanna freshen up, and this is where the magic happens.” He laughs as they step into the open space living room and kitchen.

“Oh.” Dream blinks at the chaos.

“Yeah,” Hob says, scratching at his jawline with an embarrassed laugh. “So I started prepping for dinner this morning. I might have overdone it.”

Dream’s gaze slants towards him, but his lips twitch into a surprised smile, small but there. He places his backpack carefully on one of the dining table chairs, and then steps up to the kitchen island.

“You’re actually making dinner,” he says, voice so soft, surprise in a flush of his cheeks.

“Of course,” Hob says, frowning. “You thought I was lying.”

Dream shrugs, and it looks mechanical. “You paid me two hundred pounds to be here,” Dream says and finally looks back at Hob. “It is hard to believe it’s just for food.”

“Dream,” Hob says, and he lifts his hand, just the barely there caress over Dream’s left elbow. Dream doesn’t flinch, so that’s something. “I promise, this is just dinner and not a ploy to get you—alone, or anything. I promise.”

Dream tilts his head and stares for a long second, before he looks away. He takes a deep breath, and it’s beautiful to watch, the movement of his chest and the sudden relaxing of the lines of his body. Then he nods and says, “Is there anything I can help with?”

Hob lets out a breath, the rumble of anxiety dripping out of his chest.

“Can you chop?”

“Not that well.”

Hob smiles. “It’s fine, it doesn’t have to be pretty.”

Hob moves around the island, pushing the sleeves of his sweater past his elbows and turning on the kitchen tap to wash his hands.

“Fair warning,” Hob says with a small laugh. “This is not going to be a classic Christmas dinner.”

“I’m getting that feeling,” Dream says, but he sounds amused. When Hob turns around, Dream is playing with the packets of spices Hob’s left on the island.

“Yeah, well.” Hob starts pulling out pans and a muffin tin and leaving them on the counter, and then moves to the fridge. “Eleanor is— was Bulgarian.” He takes a deep breath, and pushes down the twitch of his heart at the mistake. Dream doesn’t pull attention to it, just waits for Hob to continue, and Hob clears his throat and says, “Anyways, she always insisted Eastern European food was better for big holidays and I had to agree. And my grandmother was Indian, so you can imagine it got weird around these parts.”

When he turns around, Dream is watching him closely, chin resting on his hand.

“Fusion cuisine is very trendy these days,” he says, a drawl to his voice, a smile on his eyes, and Hob laughs in delight.

“That makes it sound too fancy for what we’re doing here, but I’ll take it.” He pulls what he needs from the fridge, and pushes the door closed with his hip. “Oh, can I offer you anything to drink?”

Something shimmers over Dream’s expression. “I don’t drink,” he says, faltering for a moment. “Not anymore.”

“Fair enough,” Hob says. “I have hot chocolate and some fancy lemonade my friend Jo loves.”

Dream blinks, and then smiles, almost relieved. Hob tries to not think of why, of how many people maybe, probably, forced alcohol on Dream, lest he punch a wall. “Lemonade is good, thank you.”

The next half an hour goes by gently. Dream takes his job of prepping the food very seriously, a concentrated frown between his eyebrows as he cuts up the lamb in small cubes, while Hob flutters around the kitchen heating up the oven and making the pudding batter. He lets it cool in the fridge and gets started on the curry.

“I’ve never had curry for Christmas,” Dream says when Hob is frying the cinnamon, spices and mustard seeds in the pan.

“Oh,” Hob says. “I never even asked if you like it.”

Dream smiles. “I do,” he says. “There’s a small curry shop I go to some nights, close by. The owners are nice to me, and sometimes I get the leftovers from the kitchen.”

He says the last part quietly, like the idea of charity is embarrassing. Hob’s heart constructs, but he does not bring attention to it. He is convinced Dream would not appreciate it.

He clears his throat. “Is it the one with the ridiculous gargoyle figurines everywhere?” When Dream looks up at him in surprise, Hob laughs. “Abel, one of the owners, is a menace on pub trivia night. He’s a good chap.”

“He is,” Dream nods. “His brother is very grumpy, though.” He passes the cut up lamb to Hob who throws it in the pan, the meat immediately sizzling deliciously.

“He’s faking it most days,” Hob says with a laugh. “He volunteers at my friend's cat sanctuary every weekend and he wears cat ears when he does it. To make the cats feel at ease, he says.”

Dream laughs. Not a full on laugh, more a soft exhale that makes his nose scrunch. It is a good sound.

“Thank you for that information,” he drawls. “I will never be able to look that man in the eyes ever again.” He steps up close to Hob, nose working. “That smells amazing.”

“Tastes even better,” Hob says.

Dream hums. “Careful with your words, Hob Gadling. You keep raising my expectations.” He blinks at Hob slowly, and Hob stares at him with a small smile he can’t help. Dream’s eyes shine in the golden light of the kitchen, the most beautiful blue of summer flowers, and even if the dark smudges under his eyes are like the bruise of plums, there’s a healthy flush to his cheeks in the heat of the kitchen. Hob takes a deep breath, and there’s a spark of energy in the air.

He finds himself wanting to sway towards Dream, and he has to pull himself back with an inhale.

Dream looks away first, cheeks pink.

“Anything else I can help with?”

Hob has to blink himself away from his thoughts. “Pass the blender, please?” Dream nods and picks up the blender, passing it to Hob, who tips the premade mixture of spices, tomatoes and yogurt into the pan. He leans forward, inhaling the scent, and can’t help the smile.

“Oh, this is gonna be lovely, I just know it,” he says with a pleased laugh. “Now, let’s get those puddings.”

Dream leans his hip on the counter and takes a sip of his lemonade, watching as Hob almost burns his hand on the muffin tin as he stupidly tries to juggle both it and the batter. Another of those small laughs, and it almost makes up for the first degree burn. Hob tries not to think about it too much, focusing on getting the puddings into the oven.

“It ain’t Christmas without a kitchen burn.”

“Said every culinary genius,” Dream says, but he is smiling as he does, eyes sparkling.

“Blood, sweat and tears, love,” Hob shoots back. The endearment falls easily from his lips, too easily, and Dream’s eyes widen minutely. Hob feels his own cheeks heat, and he looks away with an awkward chuckle. “Anyway, we just have to let these cook, as well as the curry. Oh, I almost forgot.”

He goes to the fridge and pulls out the small pot he left there last night.

“Tonight’s special,” he says, bringing it to the counter and lifting the lid. Dream steps closer, peering into the pot curiously.

“Rolls?”

“Cabbage rolls, actually,” Hob says. “This was Eleanor’s specialty. There was no holiday without them, house rules. Our first Easter together, she spent an hour teaching me how to roll them perfectly. Said I needed to learn because she hates cooking but she loves food,” he laughs, and hates how it comes out just this side of tight, just this side of wet.

Silence falls over the kitchen, and Hob hates it, hates how tight his throat has gotten, when Dream speaks.

“She sounds like a remarkably smart woman.”

And Hob smiles, feels it shake on his face, but it’s warm, so very warm. “She was,” he says.

Dream sits down at the island, biting at his lip. “I’m sorry.”

Hob shakes his head, blinks the sting out of his eyes. “No worries. It’s fine. I was lucky to have her, and it’s been five years. I should be able to talk about her. She deserves to be talked about.”

Dream takes a deep breath, looking down at his lap. “Grief is a hard thing to let go of, is it not.” It is not exactly a question, and it is spoken with the kind of devastating quiet that makes Hob’s breath catch.

“Yeah,” he says. Dream looks back up at him, and his eyes are wide and sad, so Hob continues, “I’m sorry too.”

“For what.”

“For whoever you lost.”

Dream’s inhale is loud in the quiet kitchen, and his body goes as still as a mountain lake before an earthquake. For a moment, Hob thinks he’ll lash out, will get up and leave, but finally Dream blinks and breathes out, “Thank you.”

“Want to talk about it?” Hob asks gently. “It always helps me, when I— when the memories turn hard. To talk about her, about the good memories.”

Dream looks down, shaky fingers pulling at the label of the lemonade bottle. He takes a deep breath that seems to shake him to his core and says, “My youngest sister. She— took her own life. Three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dream shrugs, but it looks anything but casual. “She was always— my parents called her troubled, but that’s not true. She just saw the world in a way that was so very different from us,” he sighs, a sad smile curling his lips. “She was always a burst of color everywhere she went, and when she loved the world, she loved it fully. But sometimes…” he trails off, voice tender like the underbelly of a soft, scared animal. “What made her special made her beautiful. But it also made her so sad. And I— I wasn’t—“ His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head, blinking quickly. “Anyway. That is my story.”

Hob knows that there’s so much more left unsaid, but he doesn’t push. He’s sure that if he did Dream would either lash out, or crumble, and both those options make his stomach clench. So he takes a step forward and gently, so very gently, puts his hand over Dream’s.

Dream flinches, but he does not pull his hand away, just turns those sad, blue eyes towards Hob.

“I’m sorry.” Dream nods shakily, and lets Hob intertwine their fingers, and Hob goes on, “It’s hard to live without them, but I promise the grief gets easier to bear.”

“Has it gotten easier for you?”

“No,” Hob laughs wetly. “But I’m working on it. That’s what hope is for, isn’t it.”

Dream huffs out something that could be considered a laugh, and Hob holds his hand and smiles. The timer from the oven breaks the soft, weird tension that seems to be inching its way into every crack of his ribs. He pulls away hesitantly, and opens the oven, taking the tray out with a flourish.

“And I have not embarrassed myself as my puddings did not drop,” he says with a chuckle. “And yes, I realize that sounds too close to an euphemism, but I do not care, because my puddings look amazing.”

Dream rolls his eyes, a small smile curving his cheeks. The sadness from before lingers, in the tender sweep of his lashes, but his smile looks real.

“I will not make fun of your choice of words. This time.”

“Deeply appreciated,” Hob says. “Now, the curry needs some more time, but I think I can start warming up the cabbage rolls and gravy. Was gonna make my own but mine always sucks, so I stole it from the pub kitchen.”

“I shall find it in my heart to forgive this transgression.”

Hob shoots Dream a grin before he gets to work. Finally, when everything is on the stove, delicious fragrant scents filling the warm space, he turns back to Dream with a soft smile.

He takes a deep breath and says, “It’ll be five years this January.” When Dream’s eyes widen, he continues, “You shared your story, it’s only fair I share mine.”

“What happened to her?” Dream asks, and then cringes. “I’m sorry, I should not—“

“It’s okay. It was a car accident, a drunk driver crashed into her car,” Hob says. He swallows past the knot in his throat, feels his breath turn shaky and pushes it down. He turns back to the stove and sighs. “I used to teach, before. University. It was my dream and I worked hard at it, too hard actually. That Christmas, I was too busy with work, always too busy.”

He takes a deep breath to keep the anger at bay. It’s always like this. The sadness that turns sharply into devastating anger. Thankfully, he’s gotten better at pushing it down, at breaking himself out of that spiral.

“Her sister was pregnant and she wanted to spend the holidays at home. I didn’t go with her because— fuck, I can’t even remember what I thought was so important at work that I needed to stay here. Isn’t that just fucked up?”

He means it as a self pitying, rhetorical question, but Dream just gives him a look that breaks around the edges, so much understanding in the lines of his eyes. Hob’s heart breaks with a newfound bittersweet pain.

“Hindsight is always a painful revelation,” he says, and Hob wants to step closer, wants to hug him, wants to drown the understanding in Dream’s eyes because no one deserves it.

“It is,” Hob says instead, a sad smile. “Anyways, that’s my story.”

Dream holds his gaze and finally says, “I suddenly understand why you insisted on having Christmas dinner with a whore.” His mouth snaps shut as soon as the words are out, eyes widening as he cringes. “Oh. I apologize. I didn’t—“

He doesn’t get far because Hob bursts into laughter, loud and too amused. When Dream still stares at him, he laughs harder, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to laugh,” he says, cheeks hurting from his grin. “But you do have a point.”

Dream’s lips twitch, a slow smile, a little bit hesitant so Hob shrugs, still smiling and says, “You did say I was fucked in the head. Might as well live up to it.”

“It was not a challenge,” Dream says with an eye roll. It still looks fond though, and Hob’s chest does a funny little twitch, a feeling he can’t name curling itself right between his lungs. He huffs out a laugh, and looks away from the beautiful curve of Dream’s cheeks.

He turns to the stove, stirring the curry until he’s satisfied with the consistency and says, “Mind setting the table? Plates in the top cupboard, ustensila in the last drawer.”

He checks up on the rolls, and taste tests the gravy as Dream moves around at the table. The clinking of tableware, the quiet shuffling footsteps around him, these are all sounds that ring in the back of his skull like a long missed memory, and he shakes his head out of that particular revelry. It is a dangerous road to walk down, even if it sounds so familiar.

He busies himself with warming up some naan he spent the evening before making, along with the cabbage rolls. He lied to himself all night he was not stress cooking, even as Eleanor’s laughter rang in the back of his skull like the soft ring of a wind chime.

Ten minutes later, he’s bringing everything to the table, proud of the selections of food, happy to offer Dream a meal, especially when Dream’s face seems to light up from within at the offering.

“Oh,” Hob says, noticing the origami birds that sit on both their plates. Dream must have used the napkins for them, and it’s adorable. “These are amazing.”

Dream just shrugs, but he’s smiling. “It is silly.”

“Hey, I love silly,” Hob says as he sits down, picking up his own paper napkin turned bird. “Is this a raven?” Dream nods, looking pleased. “I am going to keep this, just so you know. He is brilliant.”

Dream looks away, but his ears turn pink. Hob has to tear his eyes away so he won’t say something stupid.

“Anyway, dig in,” he says. “Hope you enjoy it.”

Dream stares at the food in front of him with something akin to awe, and when he speaks, his voice is tender, lovely. “This is— more than I expected. Thank you.”

Again, Hob’s heart breaks. Again, he wants to lean forward and touch Dream and give him the softness he is clearly lacking but deserves nonetheless. He swallows past the knot in his throat and says, maybe too softly, “You’re welcome, Dream.”

They eat in silence, but it is a warm, comfortable silence. Hob can’t help but glance at Dream, and he barely holds in his pleased smile when Dream seems to enjoy everything like it is the best meal of his life. He makes a low, pleased sound when he tries the curry, and moans in delight when he eats the cabbage rolls. He digs into the Yorkshire pudding with brimming exuberance, and licks the gravy off his thumb.

Hob finds himself staring more than once, and when Dream catches his eyes, he blushes beautifully and says, “This is very good.”

“Thank you.”

Dream asks for seconds, piling a few more cabbage rolls on his plate, digging into another half plate of curry with enthusiasm. Hob wonders when he last ate to his heart's content, and pulls himself from that line of questioning, knowing the answer will most probably cause more distress than anything else.

When their plates are licked clean, they both lean back in their chairs with equally pleased smiles.

“I can pack some leftovers, if you want,” Hob offers, and watches the flash of hesitance on Dream’s face.

“I appreciate the offer but…” he looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. “Don’t always have a fridge, where I live. It will only go to waste.”

Hob tries not to scream. He, thankfully, succeeds.

“Well, no worries then,” he says, with the kind of cheerfulness he does not feel. He gets up and starts clearing the table, and says, “We can have dinner again, if you want.” He makes his way towards the kitchen, but he feels Dream’s heavy gaze right between his shoulder blades.

Dream doesn’t say anything though, and the silence turns this side of uncomfortable as Hob starts putting the food away, then gets started on the washing up. Still, after a few minutes, Dream joins him at the sink holding a dish towel, a small smile on his lips as he takes the plates and dries them.

“Thank you,” Hob says, and Dream just shrugs.

“The least I could do.”

When the last pot is placed clean in a cupboard, they stand in the kitchen, silence heavy over them. Dream’s pulling at the right sleeve of his sweater, an anxious energy about him, and Hob knows he should let Dream leave, should not push.

Eleanor always said he was never good at doing the smart thing.

“Hot chocolate?” he blurts out, and Dream’s eyes widen. “I mean. It’s not a Christmas dinner if we don’t have dessert.”

Dream’s smile, when it comes, is a gentle, relieved sweep on his face.

“If it is not a bother.”

“None at all, love,” Hob says. Dammit, that word again, and he watches Dream’s eyes narrow, a thoughtful tilt to his head as the word leaves Hob’s mouth. Hob clears his throat and moves, pulling out ingredients and taking a saucepan from one of the cupboards.

He hears Dream’s quiet footsteps behind him as he starts whisking together cocoa powder and sugar, before adding milk and some chunks of the fancy milk chocolate he always keeps around. The click of the stove is loud in the silence, and he keeps his eyes on the mixture, whisking constantly and watching the chocolate come together.

“Can I— ask you something?” he says, and sees Dream in the corner of his vision as he leans his hip on the counter a few feet from him. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Dream says, and Hob lets out a small breath.

“Where will you go tonight?”

“There’s a hostel,” Dream answers. “I’m hoping they have a bed available for a few days.”

Hob nods, and keeps whisking and asks, “And, after?” He does not say, after the money I gave you runs out, but he knows the words shine bright. He feels Dream shrug.

“There are shelters,” Dream says. He speaks easily, but Hob can feel the tension under his words. Hob’s not dumb, he watches the news, knows the state the country is in and knows the few shelters that are still open are brimming with people, especially during winter. Dream’s next words make it all true. “Sometimes, if there’s no room, I find someplace warm. St. Pancras is always open, and there’s always a 24h McDonald’s somewhere. And if I’m— lucky, I have someone who is willing to pay for a room.”

Hob tries to unclench his fingers from the whisk. The chocolate is starting to bubble, and he gives it a few more minutes.

He takes a deep breath. “Oh.”

“I don’t want—“

“Pity,” Hob says, finally looking at Dream. “I know.”

Dream’s shoulders curl in on himself, and he looks away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, please.”

Dream sighs, eyelids falling closed for a second. When he looks back at Hob, he looks tired. “I don’t know what you want from me, Hob Gadling.”

“Friendship,” Hob says, and pulls the saucepan away from the heat, turning off the stove. “That’s all, Dream.”

Dream stares at him for a long, long moment, the air thick like taffy. Finally, he moves and takes a pink box from the counter Hob did not notice and thrusts it at Hob.

“Here,” he says awkwardly, not exactly avoiding Hob’s gaze. “I brought some dessert.”

“Oh,” Hob says, and takes the box. He recognises the name, a fancy sweets shop around Camden market. “You shouldn’t have.”

“You made me dinner,” Dream says. “It is only fair.”

Hob lets out a huff, almost a laugh. “Okay. Thank you.” He opens the box and stares at the four perfect suger cookies and tries not to think about how much they probably cost. “They’ll go well with the hot chocolate. Oh, let me check to see if I have some mini marshmallows.”

He does, and he pours them both two mugs, adds as many marshmallows as he can to Dream’s much bigger mug then gestures towards the living room.

“I usually end the night watching Taskmaster reruns on YouTube,” he says with a laugh.

“It is fine, thank you,” Dream answers and curls up on the opposite end of the couch, feet tucked under himself. Hob has to force himself to not stare, and he almost succeeds. The tv runs in the background, and Hob drinks his chocolate and does not see anything on the screen. He watches Dream from the corner of his eyes, pleased when Dream hums with gentle pleasure every few sips until the chocolate is gone. Hob’s mug sits partly untouched.

Finally, he says, “You can sleep here tonight, if you want.”

He turns towards Dream and sees him go still like a statue, face blank of any emotion. Dream holds his gaze, cold, cold like the air outside, jaw clenched so tight Hob thinks he’ll hear the sound of bone cracking. Hob realizes he made a mistake.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—“

He does not get to finish his sentence because Dream moves. Dream places his empty mug on the coffee table, every moment slow and quiet, and takes Hob’s own mug and places it next to his.

He stares at the mug for a moment, taking a deep breath that seems to shake him to his marrow, then stalks forward.

“What—“ Hob gasps, the sudden weight of Dream in his lap a shock, but Dream’s mouth is on his before he can even breathe out the full word. The kiss is anything but a kiss. Vicious, tongue sliding over Hob’s parted lips, teeth digging into the meat of his bottom lip, pushing, pushing like he aims to break Hob’s breath in his chest.

Hob moans, can’t help the sound as it rips out of chest, and Dream makes a sound like a growl, his hands sliding over Hob’s throat and up until his elegant fingers dig into the edge of Hob’s skull. Hob’s eyes flutter closed and he lets Dream kiss him, falling into the sweetness of chocolate on his tongue, in the heat of Dream’s body. It is a momentary weakness, the shock still crisp on his skin, in the edges of his teeth.

When Dream’s hips move, a sharp roll that sparks down Hob’s spine and settles into his groin, Hob’s eyes snap open with a gasp.

He pulls away sharply, Dream’s mouth sliding cuttingly over his jawline, and says, “Dream—“

“Shut up,” Dream says, and there’s a sharp, wet quality to it, and Hob’s chest sparks with a painful inhale. He grips Dream’s wrists to the point of pain and pushes.

“Dream, stop this!”

Dream stares at him, blue eyes wide like the edges of an endless ocean.

“Isn’t this what you want?” he asks nastily, voice shaking, and Hob shakes his head with an edge of desperation.

“No.”

Dream quirks an eyebrow, and he rolls his hips again. Hob’s cock twitches, caught in the heat between their bodies, and Dream’s eyes narrow in a glare.

“I would like to point out that my cock has never been the brains of the operation, contrary to popular belief,” Hob says with a tired sigh. “Please. Just. Can we just fucking talk?”

“What is there to talk about?” Dream hisses through gritted teeth, leaning forward. “You paid for me, and then you invited me to sleep over.”

“Yes, sleep. As in, the activity of laying down - stop glaring - and sleeping. Slumbering. Dozing even!”

Dream’s still glaring at him, and Hob is still gripping his wrists, both of them caught like this for a moment that stretches too long.

“Dream,” Hob says again. “Please. I meant what I said. I don’t want— this. I swear.”

“Liar.”

“Dream, come off it. You’re— I mean— how old even are you?”

Dream’s smile is harsh, breath hot against Hob’s lips. “How old would you like me to be?”

Hob snorts and gives Dream an unimpressed look. “Holy shit, does that ever work?”

Dream lifts his chin. “More times than you can think,” he says. “Most men enjoy it when I am young, younger than them. What would you like?”

“Firstly, fuck most of those creeps,” Hob says, and Dream blinks down at him. A small frown blooms between his eyebrows. “And secondly, I would like a true answer, please.”

Dream hesitates, a sharp blink, a narrowing of his eyes. He seems to think about it, but in the end he says, “Fine. I am twenty five.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.” He tilts his head, the same mocking smile back on his face. “But I can be younger for you. Gods knows you’ve paid me enough for it.”

Hob lets out an irritated groan and uses his grip on Dream’s wrists to shake him. Dream looks absolutely offended, a few strands of his hair falling to his wide eyes.

“Remember when I called you a butthead?”

Dream’s mouth curls into a pout so Hob shakes him again. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Yes, I remember.”

“You’re definitely being one again.”

Dream’s glare is pinprick sharp. Hob glares right back. Time stretches, and Hob can hear Dream’s breathing, an edge of anger to it until he finally sighs, body slumping in Hob’s grip.

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

Hob shakes his head, then hesitates. In the back of his mind, the dark, quiet edge of his brain, something sparks to life that sounds a lot like Dream’s previously hissed, “Liar.” He sighs and holds Dream’s gaze and decides on a, “Not like this, love.”

Dream’s lips part on a soft breath. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Dream pulls away and Hob’s grip falls away from his wrists. He tries not to think about the way he immediately misses the flutter of Dream’s pulse right under his finger tips. Dream crawls off Hob’s lap, and Hob does not miss his heat, and then curls on himself in the opposite corner of the couch. He hugs his legs to his chest, and he looks so small. Hob digs his fingers into his thigh to keep from reaching out.

Dream looks away, gaze unfocused. “Is the offer still on the table?”

“What?”

Dream’s cheeks flush pink, and he bites at his lower lip which is still red from their kiss.

“To sleep here tonight.” His gaze slants towards Hob, the corners of his lips twitching, hesitant. “Doze, if you will.”

Hob’s laugh is relief and amusement rushing out of him. He leans his head back on the couch. “Of course. You can even take a shower, if you want. Some comfy sleep clothes, too.”

Dream nods. “Thank you,” he says, and Hob tries to memorize the tender sweep of his lashes as he blinks his gaze away.

Later, Hob sits in bed and listens to the water turn off in the bathroom, and a few moments later the squeak of the bathroom door, the soft steps, the creak of the wooden floorboard right outside his door. He’s made sure to set up the living room couch with the comfiest pillows he owns, the softest blankets.

When the light under his door goes dark, he waits another ten minutes then pulls a pillow over his face and muffles a half groan, half scream.

“Now what?” he asks the darkness, and receives silence back. Even so, he is sure Eleanor is laughing at him, somehow, somewhere.

In the morning, the pillow and blankets are perfectly folded on the edge of the couch, mugs washed on the drying rack, the apartment silent. Dream is nowhere to be seen, and Hob’s wallet with the owed money lies on the table by the door, untouched. Hob eats the sugar cookies and hopes, hopes down to his bones, that Dream will come back.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Where There is Hope, Chapter 5 - Toddlers Love Dreams and Babies

👀AO3 - Where There is Hope, Chapter 5 - Toddlers Love Dreams and Babies

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

What if Roderick Burgess wasn’t able to imprison Dream and instead kidnapped that mysterious man people in certain circles started talking about in hope of figuring out how to summon the lord of dreams?

Hob Gadling, the soldier who always seemed to know a bit too much about medieval history and who inexplicably survived fatal battle wounds. Who never even bat an eye when listening to stories of the occult or magic but started to rant when someone praised Shakespeares work. Who looked suspiciously like one of the men from an age old sketch talking in a tavern…every hundred years.

Hob Gadling, the king’s consort of the Dreaming.

Imagine the blinding fury of Dream when Roderick Burgess takes his husband away from him.

[sweetdreamsaremadeofsugar]

Calliope in Sandman is the Muse of Epic Poetry, right? Not the Muse of Haikus. We mostly see her in captivity but the few times we don't even in the comic I think we've got some evidence that this goddess likes to talk.

So now I'm imagining that Dream of the Endless has an even more specific type than we realized: not just gorgeous brunets with dark eyes (Nada, TV version Calliope & Hob, and Comic Alianora)

No, Dream's type is in fact gorgeous brunets with dark eyes who will also talk at him for hours about their special interest so he doesn't have to. All Dream has to do is sit back, relax, and listen to his love tell him stories all day.