#just imagine the longest scream ever echoing into infinity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hope-to-hell · 3 years

Text

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.

#henry cavill #my fic #collab #Walter marshall #Walter marshall fic #night hunter #night hunter fic #nomis #nomis fic #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall x you

199 notes · View notes