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valeriianz · 11 months ago

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Summary: Part 2 of my Hard of Hearing!Dream. Part 1 here! Dream struggles with his new disability and Hob tries to help... along with Dream's new friend, Jessamy.

Square/Prompt: A1 - Why Did You Do It?

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: human AU, deaf!Dream, angst, happy ending, established relationship

Fill for @dreamlingbingo! (thank you @mallory-x for the read through!)

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When Dream turned 30, he celebrated it in a crowded bar that doubled as an art gallery, close to his apartment. It was his favorite bar, because it was an eclectic gallery first, with a bar open for events. Luckily, there was a local exhibit on the night of Dream’s birthday and he knew it would be the perfect place to celebrate. This way, he could appease his friends who wanted to go out and drink and celebrate, and Dream could stare at art and make a quick escape if need be. It gave a chance for everyone to focus on anything else but him after the initial round of shots.

Hob never took his focus off Dream, though. Even when they would float away to opposite sides of the room, Dream would turn his head and find Hob staring at him, smiling at being caught before turning his attention back to the person he was in conversation with.

At that point, it had been two and a half years since Dream had told Hob about his diagnosis… that he would go permanently deaf. In that time, he did indeed completely lose his hearing in his left ear, but his right was still working pretty well. He had just gotten used to tilting his head slightly to the left so people would understand to talk directly into his good ear.

And Hob was still here. Patient, sweet, loving Hob. Who Dream secretly had a crush on probably since they were first introduced. They’d moved in together last year, and while there were some bumps in the road, complications that arose with moving in with a lover, Dream was surprised to find that he was… happy.

He couldn’t stand it, sometimes, how happy Hob made him. Even his friends had noticed how he smiled more, seemed to have a more positive outlook on life and even on his disability. And it felt natural, like Hob just brought out all the good traits about Dream, like they had been lying dormant and just needed the confidence, the reassurance that he was allowed to feel this way. This happy.

And then, 45 days after Dream’s birthday party, he woke up to Hob shaking him awake, because he was sleeping through his alarm that was apparently blasting through his phone.

But Dream couldn’t hear him. Or the alarm.

He watched with horrifying realization, as Hob’s lips moved, hovering over him, but no words came out.

So much for five years.

Hob had clocked Dream’s blank stare relatively quick, his lips shaping the letters of Dream’s name with a hand on his face, Hob’s brows pinched up and–

Dream cried.

He felt foolish for it. He knew this would happen eventually. He just thought he’d have more time.

Dream speaks with his audiologist the next day, with Hob by his side. Dream had wondered about hearing aids while he still had a modicum of hearing, but had been hesitant. His insurance barely covered them and, while hearing aids may have helped in the past, after several tests, his audiologist confirmed with Dream that now, they wouldn’t even be able to pick up background noise. They wouldn’t help at all.

Dream and Hob had left the office with defeat hanging heavy in the air. Mostly from Dream.

He’s not proud of the person he had been in the week following his permanent hearing loss.

But in time (and therapy), Dream was able to move on. And it really wasn’t so bad, once Dream accepted that this was his life now.

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still hear Hob’s voice, especially with his lips pressed against his throat, behind his ear, murmuring sweetness into his skin and sending vibrations into his skull. It’s one of the most calming things Dream has ever experienced; laying in bed with Hob, in the absolute darkness and absolute silence, his remaining senses heightened, it’s both relaxing and unexpectedly erotic. To feel Hob completely surrounding him, grounding Dream, warm and solid and safe, it lights Dream up from the inside and reassures him that everything would be okay.

And in time, Dream comes to appreciate the silence. It’s nice, it’s peaceful. Living in a large city, with constant chatter, cars honking and sirens blazing, used to be a sensory nightmare; that creeping, prickling feeling of overstimulation has vanished and now it’s just… nothingness.

It was scary at first, Dream would be a fool to not admit it; watching the world continue around him, people living their lives, living his own life, all in absolute silence. Not being able to hear the beep of the microwave, indicating when his food was done, or water coming out of the faucet while he washed dishes, or the sizzle of oil in a pan while cooking… little things that Dream had never really perceived whilst hearing them every day. All of that sound just– gone. Like hitting the mute button on a movie.

Dream tries to convince himself that he doesn’t miss the mundane noises, he could barely hear them anyway… but he often feels lost without them. So learning to welcome the quiet was the only way Dream could stay sane.

Though going deaf after decades of being able to hear (albeit poorly) and speak gave Dream the advantage of continuing to communicate in spoken English. He still has an inner voice, can still read lips very well, and so the communication gap with his friends and even strangers isn’t as wide as Dream had feared.

It makes learning sign language difficult. Dream at first did not take the lessons very seriously, especially with Hob being the only person to practice with, in those early days. Hob did help, though; he fumbles and signs broken ASL and Dream fumbles back. But it had been so easy to fall back on the habit of using his voice. But as months turn into a full year, Dream learns by trial and error that he realistically can’t continue traversing through a hearing world without sign language.

The hardest challenge he’d run into, for example… Dream never thought he’d need to prove his deafness.

Of course people get confused when he can speak perfect English, out in public spaces like a cafe or a bookshop, only to then turn around and seemingly ignore everyone around him. It is a strange experience, for Dream, to go around communicating as usual, speaking when he can’t even hear his own voice and reading lips. But he can’t be constantly on the lookout for anybody trying to get his attention. Watching belatedly as someone he had been exchanging dialogue with, roll their eyes and walk away in a huff. Dream truthfully has no idea how he might come off to a complete stranger who can’t realize that he’s deaf. Rude, perhaps. Or uncaring.

It’s enough to convince Dream to get fake hearing aids… he feels ridiculous wearing them, like he’s giving in to a social construct that only exists in his own head. But, annoyingly, while wearing them, the way people communicate and treat him improves exponentially.

Funny, that.

Hob, of course, notices.

“When did you get these?” He touches the little device in Dream’s ear, his fingers turning into a caress. “I thought aids didn’t work for you?”

Hob speaks while he signs, they both do, to help make the hand motions stick. Though Hob often slips up and signs exact English, not proper American Sign Language, which he’s doing now. It doesn’t help in the learning process, but it’s a start, and Dream has no leg to stand on when it comes to corrections.

Dream swipes his index finger across his nose.

“Fake.”

Dream offers no more explanation, turning a page in the book he’s reading. They’re sitting on the couch, Hob properly facing the TV, and Dream lounging sideways, his legs draped over Hob’s lap.

Hob taps the edge of Dream’s book, getting his attention once more.

“You’d rather put a sign on you that announces to the world you're deaf?”

Dream sighs, knocking his head back.

“I know I shouldn’t have to…” Dream starts, his fingers fumbling, a new sign of nervousness he never thought he’d had before. “But it might make things easier.”

“Things?” Hob finger spells, his hands coming down, palms up, in a sign of confusion.

Dream moves a hand to his mouth.

“Communication,” and then to his ear, “understanding.”

Hob’s brows furrow and Dream slowly looks back to his book.

Dream wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. Remembering how difficult it became, living together, after Dream lost his hearing permanently. Hob would forget that Dream couldn’t hear, which was frustrating enough, but the slip-ups were near constant in the beginning.

They’d get into arguments over it, a flame that Dream wasn’t proud to admit he’d always fanned. He hated that his hackles were constantly rising, always on the offensive, like Dream was expecting Hob to take the bait and fight back. That would, of course, spiral into meaningless fights over something stupid like leaving the laundry in the dryer for too long, or forgetting to pick up a particular ingredient they needed for dinner at the grocery store.

Dream was ashamed to admit he didn’t help in the situations, often coping out by just– not looking at Hob so he couldn’t see his lips moving or his awkward signing. He’d turn around and stomp away and Hob would be left to chase after him, hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around so they could communicate.

It got easier… Hob was so patient with Dream. He never got so angry he would give up. He always apologized, even when Dream was just being dramatic.

Hob knows by now that Dream would never take the easy route. And sure enough, Dream ditches the fake hearing aids. With them on, people started treating him with gloves on, or stare at him nervously, wondering how to approach. It’s frustrating and annoying– how Dream can’t seem to find a middle ground.

It takes unloading to his new deaf friends about Hob; seeking advice for how to temper these unexpected feelings of disappointment and changes in Dream himself… they never used to fight, before Dream lost his hearing. This is unknown territory for the both of them.

Dream had discovered the community in his city, for deaf people. He’d found a meetup online, after his therapist suggested looking into attending the weekly meetups.

As always, Dream was at first skeptical. His sign language was still spotty at best, and he wasn’t a social guy even when he could hear so. He wasn’t hopeful.

Luckily the deaf community in his city is more than accepting of him, patient when he slips and signs exact English. And when Dream is done airing out his grievances, they encourage patience with Hob. That having a hearing partner is always going to be a struggle, but Hob is clearly coming from a place of compassion and wants to learn. That’s more than can be said for most people.

Dream feels foolish, all the sudden, for his actions against Hob, looking sideways at Jessamy. She was one of the founders of these d/Deaf meetings, and they clicked immediately. Unlike most of their peers in the group, she too had been born hearing and then lost it due to illness. Her and Dream were a lot alike, though she was older and had been wading through this new world for over two decades. She was fluent in ASL, and didn’t even speak while communicating.

“It’s considered rude to speak here, during these meetups,” she had explained during Dream’s first time with the group.

Jessamy becomes something like a confidant for Dream. She too has a hearing partner, Matthew. The amount she and Dream have in common is almost frightening. But in time Dream discovers it’s nice… to be seen. To be understood. She helps Dream comprehend the beauty of the silence even more. And that they can still attend hearing events just as before.

So with her encouragement, a few months down the line, Dream and Hob join her and Matthew at a music festival. Jessamy excitedly points out interpreters several of the bands have on stage, and Dream feels a bit of relief. He can also feel the vibrations all around him from the loud speakers, though it’s not as pronounced as they would be in a venue with wooden floors; the earth beneath their feet grounds the pulsating bass lines to something dull and unrecognizable.

Dream’s not quite fluent enough in ASL to understand every word the interpreters use, especially at the speed they’re going in to keep up with the song, but he gets the gist. And he has to admit it’s… fun, doing this. He hadn’t been to a concert or music festival in almost five years, and spending it with both Hob and his new friends is nice. It’s easy to stay within their safe space and not feel pressured to speak with strangers or awkwardly ignore them; everyone here minds their own business and in time, Dream loosens up.

After finding available, good seats for the next band they’d all agreed on, Hob and Dream set out to the nearest vendor to grab drinks and snacks for the four of them, while Jessamy and Matthew hold down the fort, so to speak.

While standing in line, Hob asks if Dream is enjoying himself. And, surprisingly, Dream is. He says as much with a smile and taking a playful nudge from Hob.

As the line shrinks and they come closer to the counter, Dream’s gaze moves from the short menu taped to the window to the man taking orders. His lips move sluggishly and hesitantly, speaking with an accent that makes it difficult for Dream to parse. But it doesn’t phase him, what everyone wants is on the menu and the transaction should be simple.

Now, Hob could just place the order for him– for all of them, but Dream had been determined, lately, to converse in transactions like this himself. It was good practice not only for Dream, but also whoever was taking his order as well. To learn patience and practice his communication skills. It was a little nerve wracking, but for the most part it was easy. If a cashier or barista or medical professional had trouble exchanging words with Dream, well, that’s what he carried a pen and pocketbook around for.

The person in front of them moves to the pickup counter and Dream sees the man behind the counter call out what must be a, “Next!” but the way his lips move, it looks more like, “Nect!”

Dream swallows and signs as he speaks, to– hopefully– indicate how this would potentially be a one-sided conversation.

“Two orders of fries, one mac and cheese, three shots of Bacardi, one shot of vodka, and a lemonade, please.”

The man barely looks at Dream while he types the order into an iPad. Dream nods, mostly to himself, and looks down as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet.

When he looks back up, the man is in the middle of saying something to him.

Dream’s brows wrinkle.

“Can you repeat that? I can’t hear you.”

After he speaks and signs, Dream offers up his card, assuming the man just told him the total.

But the man visibly sighs and leans forward a bit, his mouth opening widely.

Dream focuses but only manages to make out the words “fries,” “double,” and “which do you want?”

“Um…” Dream licks his bottom lip. “One more time? Slowly, please.”

With a truly agitated face now, the man moves his lips again, but as Dream studies them, hoping to fill in the words he missed, instead new words are added and Dream finds himself stumped.

“Fries, yes. And singles, for the shots,” he guesses.

The man types something into his iPad but looks again at Dream with a growing look of irritation in his gaze. Dream looks behind him and sees a line of customers, before facing the man again, once again catching him in mid speech.

“Hold on,” Dream grumbles, settling the card down and digging through his pocket for the pen and paper. “Clearly I am deaf and raising your voice is not helping–”

Dream nearly jumps as Hob steps up suddenly to the counter, almost getting in front of Dream.

They exchange a few words before finally Hob nods and hands the guy his own card.

Dream stands silent, his pocket notebook in his hand and blinking slowly at Hob, who gives him a sheepish smile over his shoulder before nodding again to the man and taking both their cards back as well as the receipt.

They walk to the pickup counter without exchanging a word, meanwhile something begins to burn the back of Dream’s neck, prickling down his arms and coiling in his stomach.

Dream tugs on Hob’s arm as they settle next to the mobile vendor.

“What just happened?” He doesn’t speak. Dream can’t find his voice right now.

Hob rubs the back of his neck, his gaze focused on something behind Dream.

“No french fries,” he signs without confidence. “Curly fries only.”

Dream blinks. The uncomfortable feeling in his gut tightening.

“Did you just order for me?”

Hob’s shoulders deflate, nodding.

Dream gapes like a fish for a few seconds, his eyes darting from Hob to the man that just took their order, and back.

“I don’t want curly fries. I hate curly fries. We could have gone to another vendor. You didn’t have to–”

Dream cuts himself off, balling his hands into fists and taking a long breath, closing his eyes, shaking his head.

Hob always did this.

It took a while for Dream to notice, how if they were together, Hob would finish a conversation for Dream. Would speed an uncomfortable situation along with an interjection or provide unnecessary context with a stranger “He’s deaf, sorry…” without consenting with Dream first.

When Dream realized Hob was doing this, he would go quiet, unsure whether or not to stop him or correct him in some way. Dream never knew exactly what to say. Did Hob think Dream was incapable of handling tricky conversations himself? Did he think Dream was a hassle?

When Dream opens his eyes Hob’s hands are out, placating, his eyes apologetic.

“Why do you do that?”

Hob blinks. “What?”

Dream’s heart rate is steadily rising, his fingers shaking slightly.

“Make my decisions for me.”

“I didn’t realize I was,” Hob starts, his own signing gone fumbly. “I thought I was helping.”

“Yes. That’s the problem…” Dream starts, finally speaking again and letting his hands fall to his sides, his brain struggling to interpret correctly.

“What do you mean?” Hob asks.

“You don’t need to rush me out of an uncomfortable situation,” Dream starts again, his hands gesticulating uselessly. “If I’m communicating with someone whom I can’t understand, we can figure it out. They will learn. They need to learn.”

Judging by the way Hob is nervously looking around, Dream’s volume is surely rising. But he finds he doesn’t care.

“I’m not this thing you need to handle with gloves. Let me see a problem through until the end. No matter how long it takes.”

Dream is breathing heavily, he realizes, sucking in a gulp of air.

“Of course not.” Hob finally speaks, forgetting to sign. “I'm sorry.”

Hob’s eyes are welling up with tears and it somehow makes Dream more agitated, more words stumbling from his mouth without his permission.

“Then stop treating me like a burden!”

Dream turns and walks away.

It’s foolish, and childish. And as Dream stomps away, his own vision becoming blurred with tears, he knows it’s not just this moment that’s made him snap. It’s the culmination of events from the past year of being fully disabled. He hates that he can’t hear. He hates this adjustment period. He wishes he’d been born deaf so at least this hurdle, this life change wouldn’t feel so mountainous.

Dream wipes his eyes shamefully as his pace picks up to a run, pushing past people blindly. Regret screams in his bones with every step he makes, with every inch he puts between Hob and him. His chest aches with the urge to turn around and apologize, but he shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t!

Dream’s shoes clumsily connect with the dirt underneath him, his face becoming hot and, as he rounds the corner of an unoccupied stall, Dream collapses to the ground and allows the tears he’d been fighting back to fall freely, a sob choking in his throat.

He grips his hair as he cries, his face stuck between his knees. The past year flashes before Dream’s eyes, all of the hardships, the doctors’ visits, the fights with Hob. He didn’t deserve Dream. All of his kindness and patience and for what? For Dream to snap on a dime and expect too much out of him all at once?

Dream groans loudly, agitated at himself for seeing the problem; him, and unsure how to change. He knows he has a right to his feelings, but communicating them was so difficult. He’s becoming impatient with himself, with his slow learning curve, with Hob’s complacency to stay in their safe little bubble and treat Dream like this breakable thing.

Dream couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but his sobs had stifled down to sniffles, and by the time he felt a hand gently land on his shoulder, Dream was doodling shapes in the dirt.

His head snaps up and finds Jessamy staring back at him, her brows creased in worry.

“Hey…” She’s bent over, her hair falling in her face. “What’s wrong?”

Dream ducks his head, shaking it, officially feeling foolish for running away. The regret he’d felt for leaving Hob starts up again and he suddenly feels so scared. At this rate, Hob would break up with him. Surely he was getting sick of Dream’s dramatics, him lashing out.

“Hob and I never fought…” Dream starts, his hands moving sluggishly. “... when I was hearing.”

Jessamy plops on the ground in front of Dream.

“It’s me,” Dream continues. “I’ve become so… sensitive, since going deaf. I feel like, sometimes, Hob treats me like a child. Like he wants to wrap me in bubble wrap. It’s so infuriating– I’m not some helpless thing that can’t figure things out!”

“No, you’re not…” Jessamy starts, reaching a hand out and giving Dream’s knee a shake.

“It is OK to feel like this. You’ve only been deaf for a year…” her brows come up encouragingly. “The transition is tough, but it will get easier, in time.”

Dream nods solemnly, tracing lines in the dirt again. Jessamy waves her hand to get his attention once more.

“And you’re not alone, you know.” She smiles gently. “You got me and Matty–” she huffs a laugh at the look Dream gives her. “... and the entire gang to support you.”

Dream knew she meant everyone at their d/Deaf meetups and offered her a small smile. She’s right, of course. Despite how withdrawn and antisocial Dream had been in the beginning, even now still creeping out of his shell, the people he’d surrounded himself with had been nothing but kind and accepting and willing to listen and connect in ways Dream hadn’t thought possible.

“Hob is still around, too,” Jessamy interrupts his thoughts, her brows lifting knowingly. “That man loves you so much; you should see the way he looks at you– it’s disgusting.”

Dream manages to crack a real, genuine smile at that, especially with the way Jessamy is fluttering her eyelashes and putting on a spot-on impression of Hob’s puppy dog eyes.

He pulls a hand through his hair and looks down again. Images of Hob’s easy smile flashing behind his eyes, his hands caressing Dream’s skin, his strong arms lifting him in a hug, his sweet lips tracing the lines of his jaw and ear, murmuring sweetness that Dream could no longer hear but feel instead. Could plainly see Hob’s devotion and affection in their everyday lives together, how he would always start the coffee in the mornings so Dream would wake up to the smell of it. How Hob would leave the hallway light on during the day so Dream would come home– late from work– and have something to see by. How he always offered to help with dinner prep, chopping veggies or stirring something, often using the excuse to crowd Dream against the counter and kiss Dream silly.

“That man would pull the moon down for you, I hope you know.”

He would, Dream realizes, swallowing thickly. And he would do the same for Hob.

Dream nods, wringing his fingers out as Jessamy continues on.

“Remember, this is a learning experience for him, too.”

Her painted nails move with perfect fluency, always slowly for Dream to understand. And as one thumb comes down from her forehead to meet the thumb on her other hand, Dream nods again, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her lips curl sweetly, gaze flicking sideways suddenly.

She nudges her head. “Speak of the devil…”

Dream looks too, and finds Hob approaching them.

He curses to himself, wiping his eyes with more urgency and catching the almost giggle that Jessamy makes.

“I’ll leave you two alone?”

Dream takes a steadying inhale, pushes his shoulders back, and makes a weak fist and nods it back and forth.

Jessamy stands just as Hob steps up to them, his eyes guarded yet hopeful. She makes a sign of texting before stepping around Hob with a clap to his shoulder.

Hob watches Jessamy leave before meeting Dream’s gaze again, but says nothing. His eyes never leave Dream as he crouches down and takes a seat next to him, leaning back against the wall.

Dream stares back, studying the lines of Hob’s face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, which are shiny and puffy, like he’d been sobbing, too.

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers, pushing a fist into his chest.

Hob sighs, his shoulders going with it. He speaks as he signs.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Dream shakes his head. “You’re always the one apologizing for my outbursts–”

“But you were right,” Hob interjects, his eyes pleading. “Dream, can I say something?”

Dream’s heart leaps into his throat, swallowing harshly. He nods.

“You need to tell me…” Hob’s gaze shoots up to the sky, as if searching for the words for his hands to convert. “... the first time, when I do something that makes you uncomfortable. So I can remedy it immediately.”

Dream takes a deep breath as Hob continues, his hands moving slowly but surely.

“Don’t let bad things fester and build. Talk to me.” His hand comes to his mouth in a motion similar to how Dream explained on the couch months ago. “Communicate. If you don’t correct me in the moment, I’m bound to repeat it.”

He takes Dream’s hands, his thumbs tracing circles over the knuckles.

“I want…” Hob awkwardly makes the simple motions with his hand still clasped with Dream’s, making him bite back a smile. “... to do this right.”

Dream takes another breath that rattles, his eyes prickling at the corners.

Hob’s eyes have gone watery, too, his smile lopsided.

“OK?”

Dream nods. “OK.”

Hob rises up on his knees just as Dream does, falling into each other. Dream squeezes his arms around Hob’s shoulders, tucking his nose into Hob’s hair and breathing in the scent of him, letting it envelop him and calm him.

Hob’s lips brush the skin behind Dream’s ear, pressing a kiss there, before he feels them move.

I love you.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dreamling bingo 2024 #sidenote: yes this is an american AU #because i know ASL and not BSL #yes im that simple lol #hoo! i made it!#my first fill letsagooo #this one kicked my ass sheesh #my writing

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keywestwildlifecenter · 4 months ago

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This Black Skimmer was rescued down in the water at Mallory Square. The patient is recovering from impact related head trauma in our clinic this afternoon. www.keywestwildlifecenter.org

#wildlife rescue #black skimmer

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jumpywhumpywriter · 7 months ago

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Spinoff Story Vampire & Vampire Hunter part 27

Warnings: ALEX HIMSELF GONE FERAL, turning on Mallory and attacking him

"ALEX, what--?!" Mallory yelped and kicked at his face as Alex clawed at him, dragging himself up over Mallory -- and suddenly sinking his fangs deep into his leg.

Mallory screamed in pain, thrashing and trying desperately to dislodge the vampire. Panic spiked up his spine, the cold realization that Alex was no longer Alex. He'd gone feral, just like the newbloods that had attacked them.

Alex was badly injured, which must have used up his energy reserves -- leaving him as starving as all the others had been.

Thinking fast, Mallory bent over and punched the vampire square in the face as hard as he could with enough force to bruise his own knuckles, and Alex let go of his leg with a sharp cry of pain, recoiling. But then he hissed, his movements even more erratic as he lurched forward and grabbed Mallory by the shoulders, pinning him down and lunging for his neck instead. He was no longer in control of himself, vampiric impulses the only thing driving him.

Mallory shrieked again and clawed at Alex's face, frantically trying to keep him from ripping his throat out. But Mallory was human, and Alex was a vampire. Mallory's strength could never – would never – match his. Alex was practically drooling as he shoved Mallory's hands out of the way and leaned down to bite. Mallory had been afraid of him many times before, but right now, he was outright terrified.

Mallory could feel the hot breath on his neck, the savage intensity of Alex's hunger radiating from him like a tangible object. And then he felt the sharp tip of fangs piercing his flesh, and he knew it was over.

He was about to die.

Mallory squeezed his eyes shut tight, hoping it would be quick. But the fangs didn't puncture completely before they were roughly ripped out of his neck, leaving only shallow wounds. His eyes flew open with a gasp, and he saw Alex jerking and twisting wildly, snarling and snapping like a rabid animal as he was held away from him by--

"Anisa!" Mallory cried, relief washing over him. She had Alex by the back of his neck, keeping him from killing him. She was covered in gnarly wounds that bled freely, her chest heaving with panting breaths... and she had a flicker of that same frightening darkness Mallory had seen in Alex's eyes.

"Oh... that... that's..." Anisa's nose twitched, and Mallory noticed she was staring intensely at the blood dripping from his bitten leg, throat bobbing. Two injured vampires, both savagely desperate for blood to heal themselves -- and Mallory was caught in the middle of it as the closest human.

"S-Sorry--the blood--" Mallory scooted away from the two vampires, Anisa going dangerously still and rigid, staring at him with her hand still holding a writhing, snarling Alex by the back of the neck.

"Mallory... run," she rasped hoarsely, and he could hear the primal hunger in her voice, how strained it was with the effort of retaining her self-control.

Mallory scrambled to his feet, favoring his injured leg -- and took off at a dead sprint through the smoke. He could hear Alex howling in frustration behind him, but he didn't look back, running for his life with the time Anisa would buy him before she herself would lose the battle to hunger and succumb to it, becoming feral just like Alex was.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy @floral-comet-whump

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @nevermore-ramblings @mj-or-say10

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rabbitcruiser · 3 months ago

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The Conch Republic was a micronation declared as a tongue-in-cheek secession of the city of Key West from the United States on April 23, 1982.

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la-fumettista · 2 years ago

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#art #artists on tumblr #comic artist #key west #art of the day #drawn to key west #mallory square #sunset celebration #key west mallory square #indie comic art #indie comic artist #writers on tumblr #comic artists on tumblr #graphic novel artist #kickstarter comics

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sabrinajenre96 · 1 month ago

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Shadows and Steel

Fandoms: Blue Bloods x FBI (CBS)

Pairing: Jamie Reagan x FBI!Reader (Y/N LaCroix)

Word Count: ~7,000

Summary: When a murder investigation leads the FBI and NYPD into the path of an alt-right terrorist group, Y/N LaCroix finds herself in the middle of a dangerous operation that brings her face-to-face with NYPD’s finest—including one very charming Sergeant Jamie Reagan. But as bullets fly and buried trauma resurfaces, Y/N must rely on her skills, her team, and a little unexpected romance to survive.

The rain pelted against the asphalt as Agent Y/N LaCroix stepped out of the black SUV, badge clipped to her belt and coat fluttering behind her in the spring wind. She adjusted the earpiece and glanced toward her partners, OA Zidan and Maggie Bell, as NYPD officers flanked the crime scene tape.

"Another dead woman. Third in two weeks. Same MO," OA muttered. "Whoever’s doing this is escalating."

Maggie shot a grim look toward the coroner’s van. "And the FBI just got invited to the party."

"Not just us," Y/N said, nodding as two familiar figures strode toward them. Danny Reagan and Maria Baez, NYPD detectives with sharp instincts and even sharper tongues.

"Great," Maggie whispered. "More testosterone."

Y/N smiled, but her focus broke when another figure joined the group—a tall, uniformed sergeant with piercing blue eyes. Jamie Reagan.

Maggie leaned in with a smirk. "I see someone’s already staring."

Y/N blushed and cleared her throat. "We’re here to work, not flirt."

OA chuckled. "Come on, Y/N. It’s been two years since that mess with Matt. You’re allowed to live a little."

Hours Later - FBI JOC

Jubal Valentine’s voice echoed across the command center. "We just got word from Homeland. The North Side Nation is planning something big. And our victim? She was one of them. An informant who flipped."

Isobel Castille stepped in. "Tomorrow’s trial for their leader—Brent Mallory—is the perfect target. The transport van is vulnerable. We’re mobilizing everyone."

Y/N nodded, the buzz of adrenaline humming in her chest. "Let’s move."

Day of the Trial - Manhattan Streets

The convoy moved fast, NYPD and FBI in tandem. Scola and Tiffany handled perimeter coverage while Maggie, OA, and Y/N rode in the lead vehicle with Danny and Jamie.

When the ambush hit, it was chaos.

Gunfire erupted from rooftops. Smoke grenades exploded. The van swerved, then crashed.

"Get the prisoner out!" Y/N shouted, pulling Brent Mallory from the wreckage. Blood covered the inside. One guard was dead. The other barely breathing.

"We need cover! Underground!" Danny yelled.

They fled down into the tunnels beneath the city, lights flickering as the group regrouped: Y/N, Jamie, Danny, Baez, another officer—and the prisoner.

"You think you're better than me, girl?" Mallory sneered as they walked. "You’re not even white. Half-breed trash."

Y/N stopped cold. Jamie stepped forward, but Y/N held up a hand.

She turned slowly. Her voice was ice. "I'm not here to enjoy this. But I do have a job to do. You hate my kind? Well, I hate everything you stand for. I respect all people—faith, color, love. That's strength. You? You're just noise. So shut your damn mouth."

Silence.

Jamie stared at her, eyes wide. Even Danny seemed impressed.

Movement.

Y/N raised a fist. Everyone froze.

She crept toward the sound, gun drawn. "FBI! Identify yourself!"

"Whoa! Don’t shoot! It’s us!"

Maggie and OA appeared from the shadows. Y/N’s relief broke as she hugged them tightly.

OA pulled back. "You’re bleeding."

"It’s nothing. Just a graze."

Jamie appeared at her side. "I’ll take her to the ER."

OA squared his shoulders, towering. "If you hurt her, just know—I’m ex-Army Ranger."

Jamie blinked. Y/N groaned. "Oh my god. Dad. Stop."

After the Trial

Mallory was locked up. The threat was neutralized. Y/N sat on the steps outside the FBI HQ, arm bandaged, sipping water.

Jamie walked over. "Hey. You did good today."

She smiled. "So did you."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you to dinner?"

She handed him her phone. "Depends. Are you asking as Jamie Reagan or Sergeant Blue Eyes?"

He laughed. Typed in his number.

Maggie watched from the glass doors inside, grinning. "Girl’s dating the Commissioner’s son. We’re never letting her live that down."

End.

#blue bloods fanfiction #blue bloods #jamie Reagan #Blue bloods x FBI (cbs) crossover #Jamie Reagan x reader #Jamie Reader x FBI reader #Jamie Reagan x y/n #Jamie Reagan x you

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sophiuhhsthots · 3 months ago

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LOVE NOTE : fighting foreplay

WORD COUNT : 1209

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

they fight like it’s foreplay, like every argument is just an excuse to get up in each other’s space, to push and pull until the tension is so thick they can barely breathe through it. they’ve always been like this — loud, stubborn, both of them so goddamn bad at backing down.

mallory loves when dean gets all riled up, when his voice gets rough and sharp around the edges, when he gets all in her face about something stupid because he cares too much and doesn’t know what to do with it. she can’t help but smirk when he’s all worked up, his jaw tight, his hands on his hips or pointing at her in some frustrated, exasperated way, because god, he looks good like that. all tense and pissed off and hers.

but dean? oh, dean goes a little crazy when mallory’s pissed. when her eyes flash with that sharp, deadly kind of anger, when she squares her shoulders and gets all indignant, when she spits his name like a curse — like she would rather be spitting out blood — he feels it like a jolt straight to his spine. it’s the way she moves when she’s mad, the way her hands cut through the air as she talks, the way her nose crinkles just slightly when she’s really about to let him have it.

they fight, and it’s infuriating and addicting in equal measure, because under all the yelling and the sharp words and the barely-contained rage, there’s something else. something hungry, something needy, something that makes it impossible for either of them to walk away without doing something about it.

and maybe that’s why so many of their fights end the same way — shoving, grabbing, biting, kissing, the whole thing dissolving into hands and mouths and breathless, half-muttered curses against each other’s skin. because the truth is? they don’t just love each other. they love this. the tension, the fire, the way no one else in the world could ever get them the way they get each other.

because it’s not just a fight — it’s a ritual. a goddamn collision. they clash like weather systems, like thunder meeting lightning, like every word is gasoline and they’re just daring each other to strike the match. they thrive in that friction, in the chaos only they can survive, in the storm they build together with every raised voice and rolled eye and heated, furious breath.

mallory doesn’t fight clean. she’s surgical. cuts deep with her words, aims right for the places that hurt — because she knows him so well, because she can. she calls him out, gets under his skin, sinks in deep like a splinter and twists — and then she stands there all proud and wild-eyed, chest heaving, daring him to come closer. and dean? god, he wants to shake her and kiss her in the same breath. wants to grab her face, shout right back, get in her space until she’s gasping and shoving and their noses are almost touching, mouths too close to be innocent.

it’s always like this. always something stupid — a hunt, a plan, the way she took a risk he didn’t want her to take. and he’ll throw his hands in the air, pacing, voice sharp. “you think you’re invincible, mal? you think you can just do whatever the hell you want and not tell me?” and she’ll scoff, arms crossed, lip curled in a smirk that’s equal parts challenge and invitation. “don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same, winchester.”

and then it spirals. the shouting, the glaring, the taunting. she’ll step in close, too close, chin tilted, voice all low and cutting. “what, you gonna punish me for it?” and his eyes darken. jaw ticks. breath stutters.

that’s the moment. that crackle in the air. that sharp inhale. the one beat of silence before it all goes to hell.

and then? it’s teeth and tongue and groping hands. she’ll push him, and he’ll pull, dragging her in like she’s gravity, kissing her like he’s angry about how much he needs her. they bite. they bruise. she scratches down his back while he rasps her name like it’s sacred and profane all at once. they fuck like they’re still fighting — because maybe they are. maybe they’re always a little bit at war, but god, isn’t it the most beautiful battlefield?

and when it’s over, when they’re tangled in sheets or slumped against a wall or sprawled out across the hood of the impala, catching their breath in the aftermath, there’s something soft there, too. a hand brushing against a cheekbone. a kiss to a shoulder. a sigh into a collarbone.

because they’re not just chaos — they’re constellations drawn in blood and sweat and stubborn love. they’ll never be gentle people, not really. but with each other? they know exactly how to burn and still keep warm.

it’s in the flash of a neon motel sign bleeding through the blinds. that particular kind of tension, the kind that’s less “i hate you” and more “i want you so bad it’s making me mean,” the way every word is a dare and every touch is a challenge. the kind of fight that leaves nail marks in shoulders and bruises blooming like flowers down spines.

and dean’s reaction to mallory’s anger? that perfect, visceral flip inside him when she spits his name, when she gets all sharp angles and flashing eyes and fury she doesn’t bother hiding — because he likes it. because he wants the fight, craves the collision, needs the proof that she cares enough to burn for him. he’s always been a little self-destructive like that.

mallory fights like she knows she’s going to win, not because she’s trying to hurt him, but because she needs him to understand her the only way she knows how — through heat, through impact, through the electricity of her hands on his collar and a kiss that feels more like a threat than a promise. and she loves it when he meets her there, loves that he doesn’t cower or flinch, that he bites back, hard, because it means he’s hers, and he’s not going anywhere.

they don’t just fight to resolve anything — they fight because it feels like foreplay, because the anger is just another layer of intimacy they’ve mastered. because they both grew up in worlds where love didn’t look soft, didn’t sound like lullabies — it sounded like shouting matches and someone standing between you and danger, fists clenched and eyes wild.

and maybe the most tender thing about them is that they understand this about each other. accept it. they won’t stop fighting — won’t ever be calm — but there’s a kind of devotion in the way they never leave the room. no matter how bad it gets. no matter how loud. they stay. and when the smoke clears, there’s always that hush, that breathless, broken softness, like a storm rolling out to sea. she’ll smooth his hair back. he’ll press a kiss to her forehead, murmured apology melting into skin. and neither of them will say sorry — not really. they don’t have to.

because in the end, it’s not about the argument. it’s about them.

burning.

crashing.

loving.

#sophiuhhwrites #dean winchester #dean winchester smut #mallory hawthorne #mallory hawthorne smut #he’s so babygirl #supernatural #supernatural smut #i want him so bad

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countrymusiclover · 1 year ago

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11 - Must Answer the Call

Part 12

Dr. Redheaded Neighbor

Comment your thoughts down below or in a reblog post

Tag list - send an ask to be added @annieradcliff @watermeezer @zaidatorcuatomorgado @kmc1989

One Year Later

Running as fast as my feet could carry me I abandoned the building that was on fire falling down onto the ground tripping on some wood that had fallen off the house because of the fire. I groaned blinking my eyes seeing Casey rushing to my aid where he yanked me up before our bodies got thrown forward by an explosion of flames. “Easton! Ugh – are you alright?”

“Yeah. I – I think so. How are you?” I forced myself to my feet as best as I could offering him my hand helping him off the ground. Brett and Dawson had already left in their ambulance with the patients that needed o go to East Mercy hospital.

Casey removed his firefighter helmet from his head running a gloved hand through his hair. “I’m okay. I’ve been in tougher situations than what we had today.”

“Hey chatty Kathy’s let’s get back to the house. Mill’s has food going in the oven and I’m hungry!” We turned our heads in the direction of the fire truck that Kelly was climbing in the backseat.

Casey and I made our way back over to the fire truck where we made our way back to the house. Climbing out of the passenger seat my boots hit the stone concrete floor. I hung up my firefighter gear just walking around in a fire house 51 shirt, some blue jeans and my brown boots about to go get some food until my phone rang off inside my locker when I walked past it. “Hey, Halstead. I wasn’t expecting to hear a call from you this early in the day.”

“Are you Ms. Mallory Easton?” A computer operator voice responded through the phone.

“Yes. This is she. Who is this?”

“You’re call is now being transferred.” The operator answered back.

“Ms. Easton, this is Lieutenant Griffin. I have been trying to reach you for a while now.”

I ran a hand through my hair nervous to hear his voice after all this time. “I apologize for that, sir. I have gotten a new job with Firehouse 51. So, I haven’t been seeing your phone calls recently. Um, what exactly do you need to tell me about?”

“I must inform you that we need you and Maxon back for deployment.”

Slowly lowering myself down onto the wooden bench in front of my open locker I couldn’t believe what he had just said to me. “Sir, I - I have no clue what to say. I thought I was done – that I had finished my tour.”

“When Dr. Owen sent you home we believed that we had cleared everything from here. Unfortunately we had some new information come in from one of our guys. Somebody is planning on attacking the US soil.”

Sucking in a breath I felt like I was frozen in some sort of nightmare. I was finally with my best friend. I had found some more friends and gotten a new job that I was beginning to enjoy here. Now it might all get taken away from me. “Sir, how soon would I have to be deployed out?”

“I’d give it would be three to four months at the most.” He responded through the phone with a very heavy sigh meaning he didn’t care for the answer he had given me either.

“Lieutenant Griffin, when do I need to let you know that I have everything squared away on my end?”

He corrected my statement. “You have to remember Ms. Easton. This is the military you don’t have to give us notice. If we need you you’ll just have to follow the orders you’ve been assigned.”

“Yes, I understand sir. I’ll figure this out.”

He hung up the phone without another word. “I’ll be in touch. Good day.”

Sitting my phone down beside me I hit the lock button on my phone then turned it back on to show the lock screen that Will and I had taken with Maxon on our one month anniversary where we had went and done the tilt at the John Hancock Building.

“Two tickets for the 360 tilt.” Will handed asked the cashier woman at the front desk the money.

I was standing behind Will and Maxon was sitting beside me while I held his leash attached to the collar loosely in my hands. “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. But he can’t be up there unless he is a service dog.”

“He’s actually a former Army veteran K-9. I think he meets that criteria.” I corrected her statement with a smile.

She nodded seeing Maxon wagging his tail happily at her. “Ah I see. Have a good time.”

The three of us entered the elevator with a few other people who were going up with us. Once the doors opened I led Maxon forward until we reached one of the windows and he put his paws on the glass wagging his tail happily. “Pretty neat isn’t it, Max?” He barked in response to me.

Will joined us looking out the window seeing all the city buildings from this high up. “And here I thought the hospital balcony had a view.” He chuckled in awe never being up this high.

“This is the second time I have been able to enjoy being this high off the ground. When you look out the side of a helicopter it’s not the same since you’re going off to war.” I held my mouth opened just living in the moment with the building lights shining all over the nightly windy city.

An idea popped inside the ED doc’s head where he took out his phone nudging my arm. “Let’s do a picture up here.”

“Yeah but you’re getting in it too.” I told him bending down on a knee to be level with Maxon.

Will held the phone up wrapping one arm over my shoulder. “One, two, three. Got it.” He hit the camera button a few times showing me the picture of the three of us.

“We’re pretty good together. Happy anniversary, Mal.” Will leaned down kissing me softly on the lips with a smile.

I smiled into the kiss leaning up on my toes, wrapping my fingers around the tea shirt he was wearing. “Happy anniversary, Will.”

Hearing footsteps entering the locker room I bent my head down into my knees trying to still process that phone call. I wasn’t prepared to get deployed out after getting the leg brace. And now Will and I were in a really good place, so what was he going to think now. “Hey Mallory, Mills wants to know what type of pizza you want. Woah, hey what’s wrong?”

“Huh – oh it’s nothing Brett.” I attempted to lie hoping she wouldn’t pick up on it.

She slowly came and sat down to me. “If you’re crying then it’s clearly not fine. I’m you’re friend you can tell me anything.”

“I got deployed, Sylvie.”

She covered a hand over her mouth in shock. “I’m sorry. Are you going to tell Will?”

“I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. I just know I need to tell the truth of something we’re gonna have to deal with together.” I responded to my friend.

She noticed me slowly getting up and grabbing my normal gear to go home for the evening. “Where are you going, Mallory?”

“In case the Chief or Casey ask where I went. Just say I had an emergency come up but I’ll be back tomorrow.” Shrugging on my jacket I bolted out of the room and to my car needing to see my boyfriend sooner rather than later.

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