TheResearcher
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Summary
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this –” Dream mutters into his hair, thick and laced with experienced hurt “ – since I’ve properly courted someone. Most of my… Entanglements… ended in misery and pain. I do not wish to experience any of it again.”
“Let’s just take the chance anyway,” Hob whispers, caressing Dream’s sharp cheekbone with the tips of war-built fingers. Dream inhales sharply. “Pain is inevitable, but so is this.” He dips down, lips brushing Dream’s in a quite-not kiss. “Please, don’t deny me your love. Not after all these years.”
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.Or; morning afters, dates, churches, and Dream's terrible communication skills
Series
- Part 2 of A dreamer, he is
Bookmarked by TheResearcher
23 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“Fish and chips?” Dream suggests, because however kingly that man is, his food tastes are that of a three year old human child.
Hob sighs deeply, kissing the thought of the amazing beef wellington he was going to order at the restaurant goodbye, and settles for the already distant taste of fish and chips. “You really want me to make you fish and chips?”
“And chicken,” Dream confirms.
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Экзорцистам сон неведом. Зато Сон ведает их.
Bookmarked by TheResearcher
23 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
" Don't move ," Morpheus commands (there's no other way to describe this manner of speaking) when John raises his head and looks at him. He always speaks in this tone, only rarely revealing how gentle he truly is. Over the years of their communication, Konstantin has learned to brazenly crawl under the thick shell—it's not guarded in any way and doesn't even resist when lifted. It's just there for show.
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“What the fuck?” Steve blurts. Again. He's starting to lose count of how often it's been. “Who do you even think you are, you fucking weirdo?”
The guy cocks his head in confusion, but only for a second. Then, that infuriating grin slips back on. He's handsome, in a dangerous and rugged way, with his wild hair and bruised lip.
“Apologies, he rumbles. “Where are my manners?”
And then, without getting up off the ground, he reaches out and takes Steve’s hand in his. Steve watches, heart in his throat and eyes wide with confusion, how the guy bends into a dramatic bow and reverently kisses his own blood off his raw knuckles.
“The name is Edward. King Edward of the Woodland Mountains. Also oh-so-aptly known as Edward the Banished, though my friends just call me Eddie. And you, my dear …”
He looks up, all glinting eyes under dark lashes and Steve needs to swallow against the lump clogging his throat.
“You're going to be the one who saves me.”
—--
Or: A story about a reluctant hero, a cursed king, and a love that transcends space, time, and maybe even death itself.
Bookmarked by TheResearcher
20 Jun 2026
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Summary
Hob finds himself in quite the predicament.
Fortunately, he has an attentive boyfriend.
Series
- Part 2 of Finding You
Bookmarked by TheResearcher
13 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
"I thought you wished to have me? Do you not wish to have me for long?" Dream moves Hob's hips once then holds him in place again.
Hob gasps at the glorious brush along his walls but can do no more than clench repeatedly around Dream, seeking any friction he might get.
Dream's lips part and his eyes grow heavy-lidded, his grip on Hob tightening even more. "Oh, you hold me so deliciously, beloved. Perhaps I shall keep you here, speared open and wanting, fluttering around me as we both slowly go mad with need."
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Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones? by sweet_tangerine_dreams
Fandoms: The Sandman (TV 2022)
12 Sep 2022
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Summary
Another flash of lightning spills past the curtains, and his lights flicker into oblivion, his tv shuts itself off and his entire living room goes pitch-black. Hob sits straighter, looking around his darkened surroundings in stilted confusion when suddenly everything flares back to life again. His TV remains shut off, but his lights blink back on like they were never out at all.
And between pitch-black and bright lights and the roar of thunder and the deafening stillness between it all – Dream materializes out of the shadows.
The man sits on his sofa, suddenly, unbidden, unannounced, and uninvited.
“Hello, Hob,” he says softly.
Hob does what any other person would’ve done when an anthropomorphic personification materializes on your couch; he screams and chucks his glass of whiskey at his face.
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.EDIT: this will be a stand-alone because I don't feel like the other chapters compliment it very well. Sorry for the confusion
Series
- Part 1 of A dreamer, he is
Bookmarked by TheResearcher
12 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
(Summer is late August evenings, the dead bruised faces of sons, and bloody messes of wives. It’s picking out coffins, it’s holding a still-born baby in his arms. It’s grief and pain and the smell of graveyards and the stink of flowers that clings to the priest’s robe)
Thunder rattles the building, causing the lights to flicker maniacally for a second. Hob just sighs, slinking further back into his couch.
It doesn’t scare Hob much anymore. The most it causes him is anxiety, a pounding heart, and sweaty palms. It used to be much worse, once upon a horrible time, where a simple popping of a bottle had him throwing himself on the floor in a panic.
He’s a lot better at dealing with it now. He supposes it's one of time’s many virtues, her gentle hand guiding the pain to some far away corner in the back of his mind, to fade the scars on his long-lived body so he won’t be reminded of it.
The phantom pains will probably stay forever, the horror of it more alive than dead in his memories and dreams. He lost a leg due to a mortar shell once. Those were a hellish few months.
After the second world war he tapped out. No more wars for him. When the Vietnam war began he turned a blind eye. He was still roaming London like a ghost. Lost, and so incredibly sad. Someone called him shell-shocked once – and maybe he had been. His memory of the mid forties to the late sixties are lost to time, a blank space that remains in his mind, a chasm in him that cuts deeply.
Now, though, the pain is buried underneath a layer of skin, and Hob only took jobs that were soft and needed more than soldiers.
He became a doctor for a while, and delivered a handful of babies before he had to guide a still-born out of a wailing mother’s womb, the whole situation too much like the one he went through himself. He cried himself to sleep that night and turned in his resignation the very next morning. After that, he worked as a store-clerk. Spent some years on the street with a guitar, translated some books from Old English to modern language, and became a chef in a three star restaurant.
...
& bubble baths
& confessions
& love