#warmup gone wild

[notgradea]

[greenapel]

skeleton gloves ... :3

[itsdefinitely]

@moomoorare's MCYTblr fest day 2 - painting

BUTTERCUPS!! i'm a little behind on the war at the moment but gas masks are fun to draw

[zincbot]

first workout after top surgery had me flying high all day

[roetrolls]

What if Ben Archie swap… how would that go…

HI THESE ARE STILL HAPPENING, I JUST HAVE 3 STUDIO CLASSES THIS QUARTER SO I DONT HAVE A LOT OF TIME FOR PERSONAL ART RN <//3

But I decided to whip one out rq as a warmup and I FUCKING LOVED THIS SWAP, I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT IT

OKAY SO. ARCHIE.

This little shit is a wild card. Arkiro Mahkir keeps his cards close to his vest, and it is nigh impossible to tell whether he's on board with Harlan's plans or simply playing a long con.

He certainly seems willing to follow in his ancestor's footsteps, but there's... an air about him. As if, rather than giving in, he's simply chosen the path of least resistance. He's playing the game for now, but who knows how the rules might change once he's making them?

And he WILL be making them–– Unlike canon Benjin, there's no risk of the Otrame twins running things from behind the curtain once Harlan's gone. Archie beat Erilee to the brink of death one night, and they haven't been the same around him since.

Harlan was rather proud.

NOW. BENJIN? THAT'S A SWEET BOY RIGHT THERE. A SWEET BOY WHO LOVES HIMS PAPA.

He'd have a bit more trouble reading Ailzea than Archie does in canon, though, which wouldn't be great for his confidence. It's hard to benefit from the full force of a dad who loves you when you can't always tell how much light you bring into his life!

This Ben would have low self-esteem in a normal way, though. He's just a little unsure of himself, that's all! No self-loathing here, sir!

[3416]

hi again my favourite mitch scholar! i have a quick question. what line did mitch used to play on in his drbut year? and the few years after and how did the progression to him getting to play on auston’s wing looked like? thanks :)

hi there! disclaimer: i wasn't a fan way back when and it's actually pretty hard to find the lineups before about 2019, but from the couple things i've looked up here... this is the lineup from january 1st, 2017, which is about halfway through his first season.

he spent a lot of time playing with jvr and bozak if what i've read/remember is right. his average toi during 16-17 was a little under 17 minutes, and he was fairly productive, esp as a rookie.

for the 17-18, here's a few lineups i could find.

still playing quite a bit with jvr and bozak, and sometimes getting elevated (or demoted) but babcock really hated playing him with auston like...... ever, lol. even when things went stale, like they never played on the same line. you can go through @1634archive for things back from 2016/2017/2018 and see where they got to be on ice for goals at the same time whether they were out there for a shift or a powerplay, but there's not a TON that aren't warmups bc they rlly didn't play together much despite wanting to. you can also look through this thread i made on twitter about all of the goals they've combined on.. though there are zero their first year in the league bc they legitimately were never out there together.

it seems like the first time they were actually put on a line together on purpose was late january 2019 bc the lineup had gone THAT stale that babcock caved, lol. here's snippets of auston and babcock media availability about them getting to play together.. and also here's a radio interview (@3:30ish) auston did around that time too where he says he liked that he was put on a line with mitch and reiterates that he played w him virtually never at 5v5 the first 2.5 years.

the fact that auston even makes a comment about how much babcock doesn't like it is just so...... telling to me, lol. either babcock hated the fact that auston had a preference or opinions about the lineup and was sticking it to him by never giving him what he wanted or... he hated mitch or both or SOMETHING. they clearly had problems... p sure there are even reports babcock literally flew to arizona to smooth things over with him at some point... babcock was a really stubborn and hardass coach who thought a lot of demented shit so lol ANYWYA.

even after that first time they were allowed to play together.. mitch finished out the 18-19 year on jt's wing and started the 19-20 year on it too.

babcock was fired 23 games into the 19-20 season after they went 9-10-4 and were on a 5 game losing streak. here's an article about it. it only came out later about the making a rookie mitch rank his teammates list but just validated the firing even more.

and here we are into january of 2020 after sheldon keefe takes over and mitch gets back from an injury, lol. he immediately was willing to give them a shot and ever since, it's been something that's always on the table when lines need a shakeup.

there are a lot of conclusions you can come to with all this information i feel like, but i hope it was helpful!! this is why it drives me nuts when people act like mike babcock was valid to "keep them apart" aka literally never play them together for years no matter how stale and bad the lineup got like... it got his ass fired, lol. no it was not a valid way to be with two exceptional players. i'm not saying a coach should just listen to their players wishes 24/7, but the inability to accept feedback or take into account preferences is wild and will get you nowhere. i wasn't around for all that, but knowing what we all know about mike babcock now.... idk, i appreciate sheldon keefe's ability to adapt more. people can think what they want about him relying on parts of his lineup as "crutches" but realistically, we don't know about his relationships with the players and 1634 are consistently the best and most dangerous part of the lineup year after year these days.

mitch and auston put up career numbers playing next to each other, and both of them know it and have wanted it since they developed their little warmup routine as literal rookies, and they're hopefully gonna get to play together for a long long time like elliotte said. :)

[rangikuxmatsumoto]

@wild-pineapple-butt continued from here

***

Something had to be said about the gentlemen – men – of the Gotei, it was rather unfair that the majority of them had been blessed with such physiques. Strong, broad shoulders, chiseled chests and abdomens, powerful arms. Beautiful to look at, but while all that time had been spent crafting their illustrious forms, their personalities had been forgotten. Well, she couldn’t quite say that about all of them, especially not Renji. Yes, he could be a bit of a dimwit – she swore it was a curse that befell anyone who spend even so much as a week within the Eleventh company, and the longer one remained the more the curse affected them. Just look at Ikkaku.  But that dimwittedness was somehow charming in its own special way.

She wouldn’t lie that she had been staring, watching as he went through rep after rep of different workouts. First had been general exercise, some warmup stretches – she had contemplated joining him but seeing as how their taichous and most of their two squads had gone off to run the joint drill in the Rukongai, she didn’t see the need to feign the pretense. Then he had started the zanjutsu drills, that was what had really captured her attention. The way his body moved with each step, thrust, slash of the practice sword. It was only then that he had discarded the upper half of his shihakusho.

She had drawn in a sharp breath, the fateful – and supposed to be whispered – words having reached his ears at that moment. She had been caught. It was usually the other way around, her catching someone eyeing her from across a room, or courtyard; how odd it was being on the receiving side of being caught. She sauntered a few steps closer, rolling her eyes as Renji upped the ante. She hadn’t exactly anticipated that…even as she allowed her gaze to drift down to the revealed hipbones.

A sly little smirk tugged at the corner of her hips as she drew herself in closer, fingers coiled around the hem of his hakama, fingertips disappearing below the waistband as she gave a firm outward tug to the hearty fabric. Barely an inch of give gave her any really view of what was behind the fabric, but she purposefully still pretended to peer down.

“I wanted to see if the rumors were true…” She murmured, gaze shifting up to peer up at him from under her lashes. “You know…if your tattoos did go all the way down…” Her tone had a sultriness to it that she doubted present company had ever heard before. Her sly smirk grew as her fingertips retracted from his waistband before brushing over one exposed hipbone before retreating to her side. She turned on her heel flicking a small finger wave back at him. “Put your shirt back on Renji and come relax, I think you’ve done enough today.”

[horrorscoupes]

finished two of my classes out yesterday so please accept this yammering regulus arrest warmup from yesterday

There was this horrible screaming, like a wounded animal stuck in a hunter’s trap- metal teeth sunken into wild limbs. Voices mixed together like dissonant keys on an out of tune piano, so loud, so overwhelming, so much. The world was quiet before, narrow and clean and bathed in love, and now the cacophony was deafening.

A haunting yowl so close and so far from the word “no” echoed through the room on repeat, a begging mantra over and over. When it went away, so did the voices that shouted back, and the house was silent again. Not the same silent as before, though; there was no one talking to them in their ears, no body shifting in the sheets next to them, no one to breathe the air with them. For the first time in a lifetime, there was no one else.

“Come back.” They tried to say, atrophied muscles protesting as they reached over the edge of their mattress. Everything was an awful effort, but they were so afraid it didn’t even matter. Their body hit the floor with a thud, and the pain was an afterthought in comparison to the debilitating sensation of being completely alone. “Please… Don’t go… Please, come back!”

Every part of them ached as they dragged their body across the floor, listening so closely for a voice they could recognize. “I can’t do this by myself… Come back! Don’t leave me!” But no matter how much they screamed and coughing and choked on their grief, he wouldn’t hear them. Their Regulus couldn’t come home to them, couldn’t soothe their panic, couldn’t cradle them away from harm. He was wholly and completely gone.

As their fingernails scratched at the polished wood, they were made aware that there was someone hiding in their peripheral vision. An almost-person, nondescript and tall enough to brush the ceiling with every step, crept their way, slow like it was approaching something feral. It was speaking softly, placatingly, but they couldn’t hear anything over the blood pounding in their ears. No matter how frightening it was, however, their body wouldn’t cooperate, and they were trapped in its gaze. This paralysis was so much gentler, so cruelly unfamiliar.

The almost-person looked at them with a numbing amount of pity, looming over them one second and at face level the next. It had kind eyes, deeper than the bluest ocean with stars floating in their depths. The room felt a touch warmer with it nearby, and they were almost fooled into relaxing, just before they remembered what they were told. Regulus had warned them that things that felt like him would come looking, and he told them to never trust anyone else. They wanted to hear him say it again, just so their head wouldn’t be hollow anymore.

“You’re safe now.” The almost-person said, with a mouth full of razors. Human hands cradled their head, the world cleared around them, and they felt like a bird with clipped wings, wailing as they plummeted.

[ao3feed-bnha-girls]

The Rainbow Emperor: Izuku Midoriya

The Rainbow Emperor: Izuku Midoriya by Rowdy Eggplaad Entertainment

Izuku Midoriya was thought to have died in front of two of the top pro heroes in Japan: All Might, and Tornado (his sister, Tatsumaki.) However, as the Battle between All Might and All For One seemed hopeless for the Number One Hero, Izuku comes down from the heavens with style and called himself thus: The King of All Kings, The One Above All Else, The Rainbow Emperor.

With seemingly more quirks in his disposal than All For One can dream of, Izuku, or rather, The Rainbow Emperor is going to turn this world on his head, and there is no Hero, Villain, Vigilante, nor God that can stop him.

I did this as a writing exercise, and almost 10k words and 22 pages later, I realize this has gotten a bit out of hand. I may or may not come back to update this, but I hope you enjoy this warmup gone wild.

Words: 9030, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga), ワンパンマン | One-Punch Man

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: F/M, Gen

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku's Family, Sensei | All For One, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Fubuki (One-Punch Man), Tatsumaki (One-Punch Man), Kamihara Shinya | Edgeshot, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Midoriya Hisashi, Midoriya Inko, Bakugou Mitsuki, Bakugou Masaru, Bakugou Katsuki, League of Villains, Meta Liberation Army, Uraraka Ochako, Utsushimi Camie

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku/Utsushimi Camie, Midoriya Izuku & Tatsumaki (One-Punch Man), Fubuki (One-Punch Man) & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All For One, Midoriya Izuku & Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Additional Tags: Overpowered Midoriya Izuku, Multiverse, Midoriya Izuku Has a Quirk, BAMF Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Does Not Have One for All Quirk, Uraraka Ochako Has One for All Quirk, Midoriya Izuku Has Multiple Quirks, Emperor Midoriya Izuku, Pop Culture, Dead Midoriya Izuku, Allegedly..., Out of Character, For Reasons..., Tatsumaki is Midoriya Izuku's Sister, Fubuki is Midoriya Izuku's Sister, Tornado of

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46020808

[coffeeandpaintwater]

psh ahhh idk probably a warmup gone wild

[shirozora-draws]

Simultaneously warming up for homework due a day from now and test driving "Din's haunted" for a possible companion piece to Lightning Luke. Thinking about having the helmet flicker in and out as both white lines and a solid piece so that I can have both Din with his helmet on and Din with void black eyes.

Anyway, this was 10000% not what I was supposed to work on. Welp.

[mxwhore]

how can i forgive you, never leave you

[fruitcoops]

Can you write a thing about the first time remus looks into the stands during a game, and he realizes that people are holding up a sign for him, or wearing his jersey? i just need him to be so loved by the lions fans

Yes, yes, YES. He deserves all the fans, every single one. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Annie is mine!

Remus still couldn’t believe it. He had already played three games with the team—as a player, a real-life, on-the-ice, paid-to-skate player—but it still felt like a dream every time he stepped into the rink. His parents had flown back home the previous day after a million and a half promises not to get hurt and to wear his mouthguard, and while Remus was used to them being gone, it felt different playing without them in the stands.

He fist-bumped Sirius on the way out of the locker room and knocked the fronts of their helmets together; his ‘captain mode’ had already taken over, but Remus still saw a smile as he passed. “Let’s go!” James whooped as the roar of the fans ahead deafened them.

Remus grinned, wild and broad, as his pulse picked up and adrenaline burned hot in his throat. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. The ice was smooth beneath his skates, made perfect just for them—he did one loop around the goal, two, and a third before snagging a puck and lining up across from James for a quick passing game. The rhythm soothed him; his wrists relaxed. Let’s go.

Talker whacked the backs of his legs as he passed and Remus checked him lightly, earning himself a bark of laughter. “Watch it, Loops!”

“Square up, Talkie!”

“Careful, you’ve gotta set a good example for your admirers,” he teased.

Remus paused, bewildered. “What?”

Talker tilted his chin toward the row of seats to the right and Remus turned, only to stop cold as red and gold filled his vision. There were jerseys for James, Sirius, Kasey, Finn, Kuny—

And him.

Dead center in a group of kids was a young girl with two missing front teeth, jumping up and down in excitement. The bright 6 on her jersey shone like new and she waved to him with both hands. To him, as if he was some sort of hero.

Her eyes widened when she saw him watching, and though her shriek was lost in the noise of the crowd, her joy reverberated through the plexiglass. He was moving before his brain caught up to his skates; in his gloves, his hands had begun to shake. “Hi!” he called, crouching down to her level with a tentative wave.

She whipped around and grabbed a woman—her mother, perhaps—by the hand, pulling with all the strength in her body.

“Hi,” Remus said again. He was too stunned to think of anything witty.

She beamed at him and pressed both palms to the glass, speaking too fast for him to hear. He glanced up to the woman next to her. You’re her favorite, she mouthed.

“Me?” He looked back to the little girl and pointed to himself, and she nodded frantically. “I like your jersey!”

She bounced on her toes and held the front of it out for him to see; he grabbed a stray puck off the ice, nearly fumbling it in his hurry.

“One second!” He held up one finger to make sure she understood before skating as fast as he could to the bench and snagging a silver pen from the collection, yanking his glove off with his teeth and signing his name. He didn’t have an official signature or anything—sloppy cursive would have to do. He tossed the pen toward his seat, not sparing any of his racing thoughts to wonder whether it landed.

The girl lit up when he returned, and her dark eyes grew huge when she saw the puck.

“For you!” he said as loud as he could, pointing to her. He gave her a clear count of three before tossing it over the boards; she caught it, almost dropped it, then hugged it close to her chest. Her whole face folded and tears began pouring down her cheeks. Remus’ heart plummeted.

His horror must have shown on his face, because the kid’s mother waved to get his attention and shook her head with a smile. She’s happy, she said. At least, Remus hoped he was reading her lips right. The little girl stepped back to the glass and shouted ‘thank you’ loud enough that he heard her through the glass.

“You’re welcome!” Remus yelled back, giving her a thumbs-up. He gestured toward the tunnel. “Come over after the game, okay?”

The kid looked to her mother, who smiled, then turned back to Remus and nodded enthusiastically. He high-fived her through the glass and headed back to the team, still grinning like an idiot.

“Head in the game, Loops!” Logan laughed.

“She’s got my jersey,” he said, running through his drills on muscle memory, lighter than air. “Tremzy, she had my jersey.”

“Who?”

He pointed to the gang of children; his fan was still near the front, clutching her puck. “Aw, Loops,” Logan cooed. “You’ve got a secret admirer.”

“She’s got my jersey,” he repeated.

Logan’s smile turned soft and he nudged him. “You’re part of the team, remember? Always have been, always will be.”

“Part of the team,” Remus muttered absentmindedly.

“Now come on, Lightning McQueen, we need you!” Logan smacked him on the helmet and took off, cackling. Remus rolled his eyes, though he didn’t lose the floaty feeling for the rest of warmups.

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

They won the game. Remus broke the land-speed record showering and all but sprinted to the mouth of the tunnel, sending a silent prayer up that the kid’s mom knew where to go. Come on, come on—

There.

She was still bouncing on her toes, though it looked more like she was searching for someone. The mother saw him first, and gently turned her around; Remus tried to stay calm and collected when she gasped loud enough that he heard it ten feet away.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, crouching down to her level.

“Hi,” she squeaked.

“What’s your name?”

“This is Annie,” her mother informed him after a moment of silence.

“Nice to meet you, Annie. Nice jersey.” Her round cheeks flushed bright pink. “Did you know you’re the very first person I’ve seen wearing my number?”

She finally blinked. “Really?”

“Yep. It made my day.”

“You’re my favorite,” she blurted.

“Thanks,” he laughed. “Not a lot of people cheer for the rookies, so that means a lot.”

“You’re the fastest one on the team, and—and my mama says you’re really smart ‘cause you were on the bench an’ I know people were mean about you on the team but I don’t think that’s fair because you and Pots and Cap are the best line ever and yeah.” The flood of words left her a little breathless. “Yeah. Oh, and six is my lucky number.”

“Mine, too. Do you play hockey?”

“I want to. I think I’m too short.”

Remus felt his heart twist a little. “Annie, I was the shortest, scrawniest kid on my team until I was seventeen. You can do whatever you want to do. Don’t let anyone tell you different, okay?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then launched herself forward and threw her arms around his neck. “Annalise!” her mother gasped.

“It’s okay,” Remus assured her, holding down a laugh as he balanced himself to gently return her hug. “My little brother does this all the time.”

“You’ve gotta win the Cup this year,” Annie said—demanded, really—as she stepped back.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised. A mob of reporters hurried down the hallway toward the locker room, and he caught several staring at them as they passed. “Alright, I think that’s my cue to go.”

“What do you say?” Annie’s mother prompted quietly.

Annie smiled at him, brighter than sunshine. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming to the game, and drive safe.”

“We will.”

People liked him. They liked him, he was someone’s favorite. It was an astounding thought, and he only paid half-attention to the few interview questions that went his way. Some of the hashtags he had seen were awful—many people were calling favoritism, and the number of rude DMs seemed to increase every day—but the look of pure happiness on Annie’s face when he passed her a simple puck made them insignificant.

Who cared what assholes thought when he could make someone smile like that?

“What’s on your mind?” Sirius asked as they headed home, exhausted.

Remus shook his head, unable to keep his grin off his face. “She had my jersey.”

[callabang]

Flash Rec: Weird Biology

fish, frogs, tentacles and more! 

young and new-made green | chevalric

Joel is fucked, basically. As fucked as it’s possible for a frog to be, and that’s pretty frogging fucked.

Dive or Women Want Me, Fish Also Want Me | notthequiettype

"When someone says, 'Oh, hey, you want to finally come up and spearfish with me, by the way I'm a fish creature, is that going to be a problem' I guess you just expect, I don't know? Fins? Tentacles? Those teeth whales have so they can eat the little shrimp things?"

"Krill? You expected me to have baleen?"

"I don't know, I learned about whales when I was like, seven."

soaked | goodnightpuckbunny

Zhenya is curious. Now that he’s seen Sid at a vulnerable moment, he can’t get the image out of his mind.

anything by iaintafraidofnoghostbear, especially: 

Bloom | iaintafraidofnoghostbear

Travis needs help to ... blossom.

Love?Struck | iaintafraidofnoghostbear

It’s obvious that Ivan’s interested in mating him, making slow circles around Shayne on the ice during practice and warmups.

Swamp Thang | al-the-remix (only_blue)

Sid took it as an excuse to let everything grow wild. His sprouts grew out along with the rest of his hair, and his little green spots had gone from barely noticeable to springing up all over his skin. It would take hours and more than a pair of tweezers if Zhenya had to groom him now. He was sort of excited by the idea; getting to investigate all these new, private places on Sid’s body.

Saltwater | sevenfists

The naiad moved in shortly after Sid finished his house, that first summer, a week after he filled the pool. He noticed some splashing one morning while he was eating breakfast, and when he went outside to investigate, she popped her head up out of the water, clung to the side of the pool, and hissed at him.

“Uh,” Sid said, still holding a slice of toast in one hand. Dew from the grass chilled his bare feet. “Are you—hi?”

Full | soixante

"I'm ready," Sid breathed out.

Behind him, Geno gave a soft chuckle, and then leaned down to nuzzle at his neck. "You think you ready."

i want a bad, bad romance | lotts (LottieAnna)

“You don’t get it, it’s…” Gabe bites his lip. “You probably wouldn’t believe me.”

Really, what does Gabe expect Tyson to say to that? Oh, I see, you’re dealing with something very strange and possibly monstrous, sounds exciting, I’ll leave you to it?

“Try me,” he says, crossing his arms.

love the innovation (that I accept) | goldenmagikarp

No one told Esa he had to give the rookies the Talk (feat. tentacle petting).

[onbeinganangel]

warmup ficlet for @the-starryknight! she picked 'i know we’re not together but i might die today so i’m going to kiss you just in case there is no later' from this wee list of kisses and asked me to drarry it up and I rubbed my hands together in glee knowing fully well i was about to put together a hell of an angst sandwich

not beta'd, not edited, just angst with a happy ending directly from my heart to yours! (cw: some canon-style mentions of blood, violence, injury and also kind of patient/healer relationship)

damned if you do it and damned if you don’t

(draco/harry, 1.8k)

Draco had pictured it so often throughout his life he sometimes couldn’t honestly believe he had made it all the way to twenty-seven.

He remembers saying it after being thrown on his arse by the family Abraxan. He’d been very little, then. Five or six, maybe. He’d cried, big fat tears running down his face, and when his Mother finally managed to pull his tiny fists down and stop him from hiding his crying behind them, he’d announced, “Maman, I am dying.” She had assured him he very much wasn’t. They’d had scones with big heaped spoonfuls of clotted cream and raspberry jam in the garden and he’d soon forgotten about his fall.

A few years later, he fell off his broom and straight into the lake. Dobby had spelled him dry to avoid him getting in trouble and he was still heaving, coughing up water and panicking when he told the Elf, “Dobby, I am dying.”

Then there was the incident at Hogwarts. He still felt the sharp talons on his skin way after the hippogriff was far, far away, as he bled, holding onto the gashes on his arm and announced to the whole class, “I am dying, it’s killed me!”

Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, it was more constant. It was the heavy burn of the Mark settling on his arm, it was the feeling of all his organs lighting up in pain and his bones breaking under Crucio after Crucio, it was the sounds of Nagini slithering outside his bedroom door at night, the sickening thud of death, the unsettling screaming, his aunt’s shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice, Greyback’s growls. A neverending chant of “I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, I am dying” inside his head.

It was confiding in a ghost, it was crying because the fear of failure was so intense he reckons he would have preferred to be dead then, it was the only person he believed was actually kind and pure and incapable of willingly inflicting pain on anyone slashing him open and leaving him for dead on a bathroom floor. Draco had looked at Snape, murmuring spell after spell over him, and he’d whispered, “I am dying.”

It was learning how to be numb, how to not feel, how to keep everyone out of his mind and away from his thoughts, it was the paralysing terror of crawling around in the shadows, the bone-deep dread of dropping leftover bread rolls on the floor by the bars on the dungeon and kicking them swiftly into the other side, where they kept his classmates. It was sneaking a blanket or two down and saying to himself, “If they find out…”

It was the persistent horror of knowing you don’t believe in what you’re doing and knowing you’re damned if you do it and damned if you don’t. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Draco would lie in his bed at night — his own at home, his own in the dorms, Pansy’s in the girls’ dorms when it got bad, and he would say it to himself, hoping it would become true, “I am dying.”

But he hadn’t. Despite all odds, Draco is happy. Twenty-seven. He’s got friends, a flat, a job he loves and he’s good at. He’s no longer spat at on the streets. He survived, he made amends, he managed it all. Most of all, he had managed not to die.

Until now, that is. This time he’s pretty certain he won’t be afforded such luck. He feels the curse hit him square on the chest. It’s his own fault, really, for not realising there was someone already in the room he entered. He’d been too busy throwing a rather flourished Incarcerous across the room at the two potions dealers he’d been running after for the past five minutes to notice the third man.

Draco is falling backwards before he has time to even think about anything, his wand clanking noisily seconds before he joins it on the floor.

Then: “Incarcerous.” He hears it — muffled but there. And after, “Fuck, Draco.”

He’s way too familiar with the way his Auror partner works not to know it’s him when the strong arms wrap around him and pull him up. “Oh, Merlin,” he hears. His eyes flutter back open for a couple of seconds and he can tell he was right, even if it’s all blurry: red robes, orange hair, worried blue eyes.

Fear. “I am dying,” he thinks. “Harry,” he says.

“You’re gonna see Harry alright,” Ron says. “He’s gonna have words about having to heal you again,” it’s almost like a joke. Like a Ronald-typical joke. But there’s an edge of worry there. There’s panic. Ronald doesn’t panic.

And it dawns on him. Draco tries to look down but it’s all red. The burgundy of his robes, the sticky dark red of drying blood on his hands and the fresh and vivid blood still pouring out of his chest. He’s not gonna make it to St. Mungo’s, he’s never going to make it to Harry.

“I am dying,” he says, and Ron makes a noise that can only be described as half agony, half agreement.

It smells like St. Mungo’s when he wakes up thinking “I am dying.” Very faintly, he hears the same voice he always hears in his dreams. Maybe he is dead. The voice never sounds like this in his dreams, though: disembodied, frantic, quick. Draco catches half words, half sentences, half conversations that don’t make sense. A different voice is saying “just do it” and “you’re powerful enough” and “sod protocol” and “I am his partner, I brought him here.” The voice from his dreams responds with things like “unstable” and “I don’t know” and “can you please try” and a “I can’t get in touch with her” and “not without consent forms” and a louder, angry “he’s not going to d—“

Draco tries to move towards the voice.

“Draco!” Says the first voice and three pairs of feet come towards him.

“Don’t try to open your eyes, don’t try to talk, don’t try to move, okay? We have stopped the bleeding for now, but we’re still trying to reverse the curse.”

“Harry.” His Harry.

“Yes, hello. We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I am dying,” Draco croaks out.

“I won’t let you.”

Draco wants to speak. He wants to say “I am dying, I don’t want to die without telling you,” but he has no strength. His thoughts are going faster than the newest Firebolt as he hears Harry tell whoever else is in the room (Ron?) to leave. He wonders if this is it. This what they show you in the films: your life flashing before your eyes right before you die. He thinks of Harry shaking his hand after his Auror graduation ceremony. “Well done, Malfoy,” he’d said. He thinks of that first time he’d been invited over to Ron and Hermione’s, a few weeks after he became Ron’s partner, and Harry had laughed at his stories, lips wine-red and plump, eyes kind like he’d never expected. He thinks of every moment of almost in between them, every moment where Draco considered blurting it out, saying what was on his mind. The Christmas Gala as he towered over Harry and fixed the little chain on his robes for him, and that night at that dingy club for Hermione’s birthday where they’d stared at each other for forty minutes and when Draco had decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he found out that Harry had left. Or just last month when they’d gone out to buy a housewarming present for Luna and ended up eating leftovers on Harry’s sofa, exhausted from people and walking. There are too many. Too many instances of hesitation, too many “nearly-but-not-quites.”

And he’ll die and won’t ever get the chance to tell him, to kiss his handsome, stupid, precious face, and it aches — it hurts almost as much as that spot just to the left of his breastbone where the Curse had hit, where he was profusely bleeding not long ago.

“Closer,” he manages, very quietly.

Harry approaches, but not close enough, not even close enough for Draco to grab at him.

“Cl— clos—uh—closer,” he tries again.

And Harry’s right there, by his bed and he looks beautiful in his Healer robes (unheard of, really) and Draco is blinking his view into a sharper focus and listing all the things he knows he loves, the things he doesn’t want to forget: the white-ish storm of a scar that slashes through Harry’s eyebrow, the shiny (shinier than usual?) green eyes, the touch of stubble, the slightly crooked nose, the lips — oh, the lips, plump and sweet looking and Draco will never get to find out just how sweet. And then, he has to do it. Because if he’s going to die anyway, he may as well use his last breath on this.

He pushes himself off the pillow slightly and his hand pulls Harry’s green robes closer until their lips meet, clumsily and hard — Harry not expecting it, Draco waning from the efforts of pulling Harry closer, but Draco will die knowing he’s kissed Harry. And if there’s no later, at least he’s done it. At least Harry knows.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Harry says, and pushes him back down. Gently, like everything he does.

“But—“

“I know, darling. Me too.”

Darling? Harry… too?

“I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m going to heal you and we’ll do that again. I’ll take you to dinner, or brunch, I know you like brunch. Or just coffee. We’ll go to the pictures. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go flying. We’ll go clubbing and I’ll dance with you, I promise I will, and I’ll let you tell me how bad I am. I’ll find you a copy of that book you were talking about with Hermione, no matter how much it costs. I’ll throw my name around if I have to, okay? And we’re going to do that again, properly. When I’m not your healer and you’re not hurting. I’m going to heal you now, you just—“ he stops, then, breathing wild and panicked.

Then, a small sob. A kiss to his forehead. Draco doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“You just hold on, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

And Draco would cry if he had the strength, he would say yes to all those plans and more, but he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s magic sinking into his body like and he holds on, just like he was told to. He holds on, even if he doesn’t know exactly to what. And he thinks maybe he’ll get lucky again, and he’ll stop picturing himself dead like he’s been doing his whole life. Harry’s magic feels like love, like poetry, like cascading words of affection whispered into the space between his ribs, it feels like hope. And Draco holds on and thinks to himself, as loud as a thought can go, “I am not dying.”

[hope-to-hell]

This is a little bit of a retelling of the collaboration I did with @brandycranby earlier, available here, in which sad!Walter calls a phone sex hotline. Sad and Lonely Boys. Unbelievably, no smut in this one. A little angst, a little mild peril, but mostly a sort of meet-cute.

Tagging @iwillmakeyoucraveme @its--fandom--darling @emyearns @indigosaurus @raspberrydreamclouds @summersong69 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @imneonpanda @october505 @seriouslygoodlookinggents @feralrunaway @hell1129-blog @takemeback-toparadise @ashleyskywalker @cavillryarchive @critfailroll @luclittlepond @devterra @eldarwen333 @davidbuddbg @sparklesmolwarriorprincess @brandycranby @littlewrenofrivia @infinite-shite @gissica

This isn’t a romance, not really. And it isn’t an adventure story, or a mystery. This is a story about lonely people. This is a story about you, and about Walter, and his voice in your ear.

This is a story about the job you took last spring, the one you can work from home, the one where you slip on your headset and take your mind someplace far away while your mouth lets out the most indecent moans, while you ask lonely men hey there, hot stuff. Can you guess what I’m wearing?

And it’s easy, it pays well and no one seems to care if you mean it, until this one guy. This fuckin guy. This Walter— although he doesn’t tell you his name at first, not til way down the line at the station, but that’s for later. At first he’s just a voice, the kind of accent that makes you sit up and take notice, rich and smooth and maybe just a little south of sober. He sounds like whiskey and low light, like smoke, like the dirty thoughts you shouldn't be having about him. He's a client, it'd be weird. It'd kinda be like your waiter sitting down to table with you. So you're definitely absolutely not touching yourself while you listen to him talk.

You get guys like him sometimes, lonely men who just want to hear a friendly voice. Guys who, for whatever reason, can't or won't go out to meet in person. And they're harmless, mostly. They just want to talk, to lay their troubles at your feet and hear you murmur soft encouragements at just the right moments. You could be anyone and they wouldn't care, as long as you were listening. But Walter-- Walter's a little different. He wants to hear you talk, for one. He speaks, hesitant at first, cutting off your steamy warmup spiel. No, nothing like that. I just. Can you just talk for a while? About anything. Tell me about what movies you like, what you had for breakfast. His voice is thick when you first pick up, like maybe he's close to tears. But he listens, and when he speaks next it's a little steadier.

Thanks. Take care of yourself.

It happens again, and again. Same day, same time, for weeks. You'll pick up the call and there he'll be, sometimes a little slurred and sometimes not, always sounding dark and smoky like sex on legs. And you've imagined what he might look like, but it's always changing. And he doesn't talk about himself much, but there are little bits and pieces here and there. He works a lot of nights, drinks too much coffee. You think about him holding you, think about more til you have to clamp down on those thoughts. He's a client. You'll never even meet the guy. Besides, it's unprofessional.

This is a story about Walter, who you haven't met yet. This is a story about you in the blue glow of your laptop, waiting for him to call. This is about that creep in the van across the street. You know, the guy who's been staring through your open curtains for an hour. No? You don't know? Well. Better hurry up and see him, because he's got a roll of duct tape on the passenger seat and a whole lot of tarps in back.

This is Walter's voice in your ear, Hey, it's good to hear-- wait. Something's wrong. Talk to me.

Someone outside, some guy. I'm scared.

Where are you? And it's probably stupid to keep talking; you should be calling the cops. But instead you're talking to phone guy, giving him your fucking address, and all the while he's low and soothing in your ear. It's okay. It's okay. Stay with me. Someone is coming to help. And someone does come. Lights and sirens roll down the block, and the creep in the van drives away in a hurry.

He's gone, thank god. He drove off and-- shit, hang on. Someone's at the door. I think it's the cops. And for a while it's statements and someone making tea in your kitchen, and at the end of it all someone leaves a card and says

Come by the precinct tomorrow. We'll talk a little more then, get a sketch of the guy if we can. Someone will be outside til morning. And when they're gone, so is phone guy, the absence of his voice a surprising ache.

This is a story about the next day, about you sitting in a hard plastic chair, half-hearing the murmur of voices through closed doors. Then the door opens and your heart is in your fucking throat because that's it, that's him. Phone guy. You'd know that voice anywhere, tight and strained. He's arguing with someone, arms crossed, and he is gorgeous, tall and thick and hairy, like an angry bear or-- or a guard dog. Something fierce and protective. Whatever you'd imagined, it wasn't this. This is better.

This is terrifying. And god, he sees it, doesn't he, that panicked expression, and his shoulders go up as his head goes down, trying to be small because-- oh god, no, no, it isn't you, it's just-- and now he knows. Now he's heard you, and he's backing away, turning, leaving. This is you and him, and the incipient bad idea that has you chasing after him, that has you crying please, stop, talk to me. For christ's sake talk to me. I don't even know your name.

This is some guy in a rumpled suit going don't mind Walter. He's been so tetchy today. God knows why.

This is you, at work, again. This is night after night of sad and lonely men, horny bastards, sweet things with love to spare. This is that little twinge of dissatisfaction every time it's not him, even though you know it never will be. Not now. Not that you know each other's faces. This is the sound of a call coming in, of a familiar voice down the line. This is him, awkward and strange, trying to apologize. And this is a choice you make, a leap you make off a ledge you didn't realize you were running toward.

Hey. You know I'd talk to you for free. Why don't you come on over and see me?

This is the longest pause in the history of long pauses, a moment stretching out into infinity while you wait for him to stammer out an excuse, or for the line to simply go dead.

And then.

Okay. Okay. Yeah. Does now work for you? Does it ever.

Five minutes ago would work even better and that draws a little laugh, a breathy can't-believe-it chuckle, and then there's rustling, clinking, the sound of an engine; he's on the line and talking for once, low and breathless with a smile hidden somewhere in his voice.

This could be the part where he cuts off mid-sentence with a curse and a crunching sound and screams somewhere close by. It could be the part where you call his name over and over down the line, waiting to hear something, anything, from him. This could be a newspaper article about a homicide detective hurt or worse in a crash. It could be, but it isn't, because this is not that kind of story.

This is the kind of story with an ending that's really a beginning. It's the kind of story where Walter shows up on your doorstep with the phone still to his ear, hair wild like he's been raking a hand through it. And his soft, deep hey echoes and doubles through phone and headset and your naked ear; the sound is rich and rolling and you tell him please. Come in. This is the kind of story where you sit at the kitchen table and talk for hours, til the sky's growing light. This is about you and Walter, and the way your fingers brush when he lays his hand down next to yours.