Reader: I'm Seeing Someone.

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating. possessive behavior. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

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Alphabet Soup - I

I is for the intense, irresistible stare Wally immobilizes you with as soon as you arrive at the tailgate. It's a bunch of rich kid jocks trying to be country around a bonfire. Mediocre beer and shitty music, but it's a good time. Most of the senior class show up after 10PM, swarm to the Peddie's field like vermin to let loose and celebrate the end of midterms.

Couches have been pulled from the old barn, rugs laid down, truck beds converted into napping stations if anyone's brave enough to let their guard down around their idiot friends. Wally keeps his arm around Janet; laughs with his buddies, claps Damian on the back when he makes a lewd joke about Kristen's itty bitty titties. But his eyes? Are exclusively on you.

Instinct or infection, Wally doesn't know and doesn't care. His gaze is instantly drawn to you when you hop out of Xavier's truck, tight jeans and cowboy boots, a smile on your face that Wally wants to eat. Except it's directed at Xavier fucking Baxter. Wally doesn't give a fuck that the guy's dating Claire, he's staring at you like dinner and Wally wants to cut out Xavier's eyes with an icepick.

You can feel Wally's gaze on you like fingers on your skin. Crawling up your legs, lingering on your ass, your neck, your lips. Fuck, you're the only thing Wally wants to indulge in, but he's stuck under the weight of social obligation and can't sneak away just yet.

Wally spends the next forty minutes stalking you with his gaze, follows you to the cooler where you grab a beer before taking a seat on one of the couches, cozy between Xavier and Nicole. His fist clenches, but he manages to keep his ire under control, arm still around Janet, still joking with his friends about shit he has to inspire himself to care about.

His eyes track up your legs when you stand to dance with Charley and the only thing that prevents Wally from turning feral is that he knows you're not Charley's type. You discard your jacket and, fuck baby girl, the corset top you're wearing gives Wally ideas. He feels his cock twitch, his mouth water; spreads his legs a little wider, and cups himself through his jeans while you give him a show. Pretty as a peach in the firelight glow.

Suddenly Wally's ravenous.

His friends are drunk, Janet at that just-right stage of tipsy, that no one gives Wally a second glance when he stops inserting himself in the conversation, his eyes fixed on you, hand massaging his fattening cock in the shadow of Braden's truck. Yeah, baby, let me see you move. He licks his lips, lids heavy, cheeks hot from something that isn't the fire a few feet away. You send his imagination into overdrive, your body sin incarnate as you dance and sing along to the music.

At this point, he's blatantly fucking you with his eyes, having a tough time regulating his breathing, in out, in out, in out, God, he wants to touch you. Get his hands all over you, his cock inside you, make that body melt for him. In the final few seconds of the song, his eyes lock with yours and you send him a sweet, cherry-gloss smile. He excuses himself immediately, saunters around the formation of couches, gaze indicating to you exactly where his mind's at. Follow me, baby.

He disappears into the woods, waits, is pleased as punch when you slip away from your friends with some excuse Wally doesn't give a fuck to know so you can join him in the trees. Wordless, hand still teasing himself through his jeans, he invites you against him with a wolfish grin and a deep, heated kiss. Bodies flush, breaths heavy, his hands sliding into your back pockets to pin you to him.

"Jesus Christ," He pants, spins, presses you against the tree with intention. "You look so good, baby," He whispers into your neck, teeth grazing the skin, "Driving me crazy..."

The little sounds you make as he grinds himself against you send his brain into a tailspin, cock throbbing, and Wally's impatience wins. He fucks you on your hands and knees, hips hitting your ass with filthy smacks of skin against skin, loud in the quiet of the woods. Oh fuck, fuck, baby, you feel so good. Needed this all night. My good, sweet girl. You love how my cock feels inside you, don't you baby? And so on until he drives you over the edge, fucks you through your orgasm into his, in awe by the end from how fucking perfect you make him feel.

Nobody questions him when he takes Braden's truck and parks it further away. Not even Janet who he's pretty sure is on her knees at Travis' feet between two cars. Wally finds you again when everyone remaining is either too drunk or too high to be a concern in the morning. He curls around you in the truck bed, sleeps better than he has since the last time you and he slept together, and shows his appreciation when the sun's coming up with his lips on your clit and his fingers in your pussy.

His sweet, illicit Kryptonite, inching him closer and closer to insanity with every instant he spends with you.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Girls be like:

"I'm in love"

Then it's literally just words on paper

(same girly)

Simon Elroy x Afab! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (receiving) Overstimulation, Dacrophilia.

(Fuck I did it again. It was just supposed to be headcanons I swear 🥲 whelp to late now. Enjoy the mini one-shot)

I'm the wise words of @whoopsyeahokay he's a ✨giver✨ (thx for the input by the way. I was struggling to find out how to write this)

I feel like he's the type to be nervous at first. Not wanting to make the wrong move in fear of scaring you off. He's also like this in non-sexual aspects of your relationship but that's for another time.

You have to take things slow with him, let him know that you're not going anywhere. Poor boy has slight abandonment issues.

Sweet little makeout sessions behind the bleachers or in the locker rooms while skipping gym that leave him going to his next class with an obvious tint in his pants that he knows his friends are gonna tease him about.

Cherry hot kisses in your car when you were just supposed to be giving him a ride home from school that somehow moved from your lips to your neck, red marks forming that will soon turn purple.

Innocent young romance that keeps teetering on the edge of what you both so desperately want but don't know how to start. Until you do.

It was late, you were dropping Simon off after a football game Clair had dragged you to when he asked if you wanted to come in and re-watch terrifier with him. Nothing out of the ordinary just you, your boyfriend, and a small late night movie date.

So how the hell did you get here? Simon between your thighs, tears rolling down your cheeks after cumming for the upteenth time. Blame Simon for having wandering hands.

It wasn't entirely his fault, you walked out in that incredibly low cut shirt that he couldn't take his eyes off the entire game. Sometimes he wondered if you did shit like that on purpose.

It drove him insane watching you flant around like nothing was wrong. Jumping up and down, cheering when The Split River Bandits scored, tits bouncing with every move. He needed you, he needed you more than anything. More so he needed to make you feel the same kind of mind melting grip you had on him.

And oh boy did he do that. With something as simple as his tongue. Delicate slow movements around your sensitive overstimulated clit, lapping over and over and over again. Not giving you a single second to think about anything other than him and the way he's making your eyes roll back.

Nothing but pure bliss. The sound of your broken half whimper half sobs drowning out the tv playing in the background. In that moment it was just the two of you in the world, your brain turning to mush, forgetting everything you've ever known outside of Simons living room.

You danced in the line of insanity, not knowing if you could handle another orgasm but the thought of pushing him away made you want to scream. It was all too much. You felt your mind blanking, that perfect place of ecstasy so close, taunting you.

You were broken. This sweet precious boy that was always so gentle, broke you and it was the most amazing thing you've ever felt.

Hips grinding up into his face, hands gripping the soft cushion around you, mind absolutely destroyed and in one foul movement you felt absolute heaven crash over you. A deadly mix of pleasure and pain that left you breathless.

You laid there, shaking, tears streaming down your face as you tried to regain your composer. After a few beats of silence you felt Simon pull away, body creeping up to lay next to yours as he propped himself up on his elbow.

You took a few deep breaths before looking at him, seeing the lower half of his face drenched and the biggest ear to ear smile. "How'd I do?"

(I fear I ate and so did Simon apparently... Im so not funny 😭)

This is a girls Roman Empire

October Sun

summary: truths had been spilled before anyone had been ready to hear them and the consequences of actions had finally been justly served.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.26

Wally had just handed Maddie the receipt when he'd heard the commotion from the theater above. Your voice chased Xavier's as his heavy footsteps clomped around. Stopped. Then your voice again, splintered and tight. Your misery rallied Wally's rage and he was off like a shot.

"Hell no," He announced, barely giving Maddie a look of warning before he barreled up the stairs—two at a time—and pushed the trapdoor open. Its back hit the stage with a bang that ricocheted through the empty space. He propelled out, jumped from the stage to ground level, and took an offensive position between you and Xavier.

He was fucking done with this dipshit.

"What happened, baby?" Wally asked, canted his head slightly to catch you in his periphery while he maintained sight of Xavier. "What did he do?"

Maddie scrambled onto the stage, quickly followed by the others, "Is everything okay?"

Behind him, Wally heard you steadily beginning to panic, repeating expletives like a prayer while Xavier stared through Wally at you with a belligerent expression. Fuck every last thing, Wally had had enough. He'd wanted to grab that asshole by the collar and shake him until he passed out since Maddie had revealed what Xavier had done behind her back. And as much as Wally had wanted to protect you from the hurt of learning your BFF wasn't all that, he couldn't do it anymore.

He took a step toward Xavier, fists balled, teeth bared, but just as he raised his arm to take a swing (who the hell cared if nothing happened, Wally would feel better for it), Maddie threw herself off the stage and used her whole body to halt the motion, her slender arms clamping around his to pin it down.

Simultaneously, he felt you band around his waist, soft yet solid, forehead pressed to his spine. "Wally, it's okay," You tried to assure him, but your voice was so little, so broken, that it only served to fan the flames of his rage higher. Of course, that rage hiccupped momentarily when Xavier swiftly jerked backward, stumbled over his own feet, and fell on his ass. His eyes round and petrified, a choked "holy shit" coughed out of him when he landed.

You and Maddie released Wally the second Xavier hit the floor, Maddie pressing herself against the stage while you cautiously padded around Wally to look at Xavier, head cocked in confusion.

Alarmed, "Where'd he go!?" Xavier heaved.

It seemed to dawn on you in increments what had transpired and you glanced up at Wally, mouth agape. "Fuck me," You breathed, tone stressed, and all he could do was stare back at you in question. Slowly, you took Wally's hand, laced your fingers through his, and watched Xavier carefully. Again, Xavier made a punched-out sound of fear, pressed his palms into his eyes, and then dragged his gaze up the length of Wally's body from feet to face. Although Wally's anger still blazed red-hot in him, he was fairly taken aback by the fact that:

"You can see me?" He asked Xavier, who nodded weakly in response.

You untangled your fingers from Wally's, letting go entirely. "How 'bout now?"

Xavier returned with a stuttered shake of his head. "The fuck is going on, May?"

You bristled, brows furrowing, jaw locking. Wally hadn't seen you angry. Frustrated, perhaps; perturbed, maybe; but not angry, and it both shocked and aroused him. Straight back, dark eyes, a menacing expression on your face as you glared at Xavier as if he'd done you as dirty as he'd done Maddie.

"I asked you to stop calling me that, B." You said, words pressed through your teeth, and, yeah, yep, Wally flushed crimson, the slightest bit turned on at how commanding your tone was. Something he would explore later when he didn't have a dozen eyes on him.

Xavier finally managed to get back to his feet, rounding on you, annoyed and over it, "Are you serious right now? A fucking dead guy keeps teleporting in and out of existence and you're getting pissed at me over that?"

Without hesitation, Wally strung his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. "Don't talk to her like that, asshole," He warned, a satisfied smirk on his mouth when Xavier clapped a hand to his chest in fright. Wally softened like butter when he felt your hand smooth over his heart, sweet marbled eyes gazing up at him in apprehension. He took your hand and lifted it to his lips, kissed your knuckles to comfort you before he whipped a hard, threatening stare at Xavier. "You don't get to make her the bad guy here."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Xavier said in mock apology, "I'll just forget the fact that she's been lying to me forever about being a necrophiliac!"

You choked on a breath, wheezed, "I am not a necrophiliac," to which Wally had to grin down at you playfully, tilting his head with a casual shrug.

"I mean..."

"No 'I mean'!" You shot back, flustered.

Sat on the edge of the stage to observe the proceedings, Rhonda wearily explained, "No, superstar, in order for that to be true, you would've had to..." She swirled her lollipop in the air, "You know." Beside her, Charley made a circle with his fingers and stuck his opposite index finger through it repeatedly, a visual representation of the point Rhonda insinuated. She rolled her gaze to Xavier, "He's thinking necromancer."

"Which I'm also not!" You sustained through a grimace and then repeated for Xavier's benefit, "I'm not a necromancer."

Xavier did a double-take, spinning in an uncoordinated circle to survey the theater, "Are there others!?"

But you ignored him, your mind clearly elsewhere because, when you next spoke, you whispered to Wally in distress, "Oh my God, the maintenance guy."

Wally took a moment to recall that unwelcome interruption, how the maintenance man had appeared to be looking between you and something else. The man's awkward demeanor had caught Wally off-guard, though, at the time, he'd chalked it up to the odd position you'd been in. But...if he really thought about it...the man wouldn't have been able to see you from where he'd been standing.

He bit his lip bashfully, trying and failing not to reveal how positively gleeful he was that someone in the living world had witnessed you two together and knew who you belonged to. In the least possessive way possible, of course.

"Face," Rhonda, Charley, and, damn him, Ajay chorused about Wally's shift in expression. He cleared his throat and once more adjusted his features into something appropriate for the circumstances; menacing, off-put, downright hateful. Complete with heart-eyes, who was he kidding?

Meanwhile, Xavier crept toward you, a man against an untamed horse, hand out and shoulders drawn, "May, I need you to be honest with me, are there other dead people in here?"

Again, you scowled, "Stop. Calling me that."

Though he didn't understand why the nickname seemed to bother you, Wally bristled on your behalf, telling Xavier, "You should listen to her, man, or, believe me, I'll make you."

Out of frame, the others, including Mina, gawked at Wally's uncharacteristic behavior, Charley putting a hand to his collar in the manner of pearl-clutching. Rhonda regained her composure quickly, smirked around the stem of her lollipop like a proud mama lion that's cub was about to strike its first kill. Ajay tiptoed over to Mina and put his hands over her eyes so she wouldn't have to witness possible manslaughter being committed.

"And what are you gonna do, huh?" Xavier challenged, trudging into Wally's space with aggressive intent. "You're a ghost. You can't hurt me." He paused, glancing at you to ask, "Can he?"

Wally poked a vicious finger into Xavier's shoulder, shoving him back, "You bet I can."

"Jesus, that's enough!" Maddie swooped in, totally aggrieved, "We have bigger things to worry about than whose dick is bigger." She pushed Wally out of the way, inadvertently forcing him to release his hold on you which made Xavier pitch backwards. Whether because Wally had turned into the Invisible Man again or for another reason, Wally wasn't entirely sure, but he made a point of watching Xavier closely.

Maddie handed you the receipt Wally had found in the cellarage, "I think that money we found in Mr. Anderson's classroom is from this." As you inspected it ("Where'd that come from!?" Xavier squeaked) Maddie explained, "He has a whole operation under the stage. If we're right, he's been stealing money from the Booster Club."

"Which means we have something that'll help Simon." ("What will help Simon!?") A broad smile swept across your pretty pink lips, your whole face brightening for the first time since the debacle between you and Xavier had started. Wally felt himself melt, that time ignoring the refrain of face from everyone onstage. "It's Friday, right? So, there's a staff meeting after school."

Maddie built on your idea, "We'll get Simon to take the evidence to everyone. They'll have to believe him."

"I'll text Simon and let him know."

However, on the cusp of ballistic, Xavier demanded, "What. Is. Happening!?"

You cleared your throat and handed the receipt to Xavier, relayed what Maddie had just told you. "It could get Simon off the hook," You said quietly, somewhat wilted, unable to look him in the eye.

Xavier examined the receipt and nodded, but he seemed distracted, his breathing labored, eyes again sweeping the theater for evidence of—"That's awesome," He struggled to say, turning desperate and afraid, "But could you tell me why the fuck I just saw Maddie?"

Your head shot up, "You did?" while Maddie sagged under the weight of what appeared to be every emotion she'd ever felt toward Xavier all at once. You panned to her, unsure, gaze flicking between her and Xavier in silent question to which she nodded sadly and held out her hand for you to take.

Wally knew the moment Xavier could see her, bewildered, guilty, his pallor paling to a sickly grey. It looked like he didn't know what to do with himself, caught between moving toward her and giving her more space. You watched them both with puzzlement; waited for someone to explain why Xavier was acting cagey instead of how most people would respond when they had the chance to behold a dead loved one (Maddie's not-death notwithstanding).

Ragged, Xavier stammered, "Do...Did you know...?"

And Maddie answered with a hum and a curt nod, "Yeah. I heard what you said to your dad on Monday before the vigil."

"Oh fuck, Maddie, I'm so sorry." Xavier sunk into one of the seats, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, body trembling. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Out of the loop, you asked Maddie, "What's he talking about?" and Wally's heart almost broke for you despite his earlier vehemence that you be told what Xavier had done. This was the moment. This was how you discovered the truth.

"It's fine." Maddie lied, avoiding your gaze, "I'm over it." She wasn't, and Wally wondered who she was hoping to convince.

"Over what?" You pressed as you looked at Xavier, "What are you talking about, Zav? What are you sorry for?" Wally heard the thread of fear in your voice as your mind flooded with too many grim possibilities.

Wally decided to take the onus off Xavier to reveal himself for who he really was, returning to your side and winding his arm around you to hold your hip. He wanted Xavier to see him when he said, "He was cheating on Maddie with the head cheerleader. Claire or whatever."

"Wait...what? No. No, Xavier wouldn't..." But Xavier would and you understood that the second you laid eyes on him, "You wouldn't," And then, devastated, "Oh my God...all those texts about band practice you made me send you..."

Xavier rose and attempted to approach you, hands up, "I didn't mean for—"

You snarled at him, "You made me help you!" and dropped Wally's hand. That time, no one leaped from the stage. No one called out or pulled you back or intervened in any way. You stomped up to Xavier, reeled your arm back, and decked him squarely in the mouth.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FIVE

note: fun fact: i'd toyed with the "ppl can see Wally when Reader touches him" reveal for some time, initially thinking i'd do it at the Homecoming Dance. but. plot happened so...yeah no, it didn't work anymore 🤷‍♀️ also, i would've had to account for Nicole, Claire, Mathilda, Hana, Eli...everyone. possibly teachers. all the ghosts. i love writing ensemble scenes, but that is too many moving pieces.

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: i'm afraid i am no longer updating or using the taglist. moving forward, if you'd like to keep up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. that thing took me to Hell and back, and we're no longer on speaking terms...😒

Neutrality is complicity. Your silence is so loud. CEASEFIRE NOW‼️ 🍉🗣️🍉🗣️

Maddie: I think we‘re missing something.

Wally: Teamwork?

Rhonda: Cohesion?

Charley: A never give up attitude?

Ajay: A general sense of what we‘re doing?

(Ajay from October Sun / October Moon mentioned 👀)

Cat: You're in Spencer's DM's, I'm in his police report

Cat: We are not the same

It's currently 4am I have class in the morning and I can't shut my fucking brain off

Fifty Seven

summary: prompt fill. between 1982 and 1983, Wally meets and falls completely head over heels for a girl who changes everything. his biggest fan, his greatest love. you. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. AU - pre-canon. dorks falling in love. author doesn't know American football. total disregard for canon lore. HEA.

bon reading, frens

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Fifty Seven

It was gradual, how things developed between you and Wally. Slow and peripheral at first. Then, like a confetti cannon—pop💥—instant, exciting; a pocket of fresh air in a dense smog. And it was all thanks to Wally's best friend, Rodney.

See, Wally was a baseball guy. Had planned to continue being a baseball guy through high school. He was an excellent pitcher with an impressive BA, and his mama had been over-the-top supportive for Wally to join the team—believed in him so much that she'd even strongarmed Coach Burns to let Wally try out for varsity.

But Rodney? Had wanted to join the football team. And Wally had wanted to do everything with his inseparable since birth best buddy, so he'd found himself donning a helmet and nailing technical drills like it was paint-by-numbers. Obviously, he'd made the team. Had started winning games, gained popularity and praise and attention from girls. Had fast become Coach's MVP only to, in sophomore year, be transferred to the varsity team. Go Devils!

That'd meant training longer, playing harder, and receiving interested elevator-looks from the hottest chicks in school. Seniors who'd graduated out of the awkwardness of puberty and had learned how to flaunt their curves. Don't worry, Rodney had been along for the ride, built like a brick shithouse and equally as formidable on the field, and he'd kept Wally humble.

Not that he'd needed to, because the thing about attention was the more Wally got, the less he was seen.

Yeah, he was the star receiver, the guy whose name everyone knew. But...that was about all they knew about him. People summed him up to the number on his jersey. Shallow. Detached. The girls he took on dates wanted the infamy of having made out with him—"he's such a fantabulous kisser,"—and the guys admired the hell out of him, clapped his back and handed him beers, but no one expressed an interest in peeling back flesh and bone to see what made Wally tick.

Wally wasn't lonely; he had Rodney and Don and Keith. BFFs since kindergarten who gave a real shit about him. It was just that, if people approached him to ask questions, he wanted it to feel less like an interview and more like a connection. Small talk was exhausting.

He'd been contemplating this when you'd first popped onto his radar. Shooting hoops in the gym at lunch to brood over his latest failed effort with a girl—Sarah Miller from History—when, oh shit, look out!, you'd walked through the door the second Wally had decided to unleash his frustration by whipping the ball at the wall. He'd overcompensated. The ball had curved to the left. Smack, you'd taken it square in the head.

Somehow, you hadn't been hurt, though the sound had convinced Wally you should've had a bruise blossoming on the area of impact. He'd run over, eyes wide in panic, visually checking you over to ensure he hadn't concussed you.

He'd rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah," You'd grinned, friendly, not even a little bit upset, "Happens more than you think." Which would've raised flags if Wally hadn't been preoccupied by how your proximity smelled like summer.

After a moment of uncertainty, Wally had stuck out his hand and introduced himself, "I'm Wally Clark. I, uh... I'm better at football." He'd felt like in idiot five seconds later when you'd merrily declared:

"I know," still smiling like he hadn't just thoroughly embarrassed himself. "You always feint left." Then, in general consideration, "I'm surprised no one's figured that out yet."

Wally had stared at you in surprise, "I mean... I do what feels right in the moment."

You'd raised your hands, "I'm just saying, your recovery's weak on your left backfoot, so you might wanna switch it up soon."

Wally had crashed through a gamut of emotions in under a second, beginning with insecurity and ending in shockawe. Because you'd noticed something. And, okay, yes, it'd been jersey-number related, but it hadn't been how well he filled out his uniform.

"You come to the games?" He'd wondered as he'd valiantly ignored how his stomach had started to feel squirmy.

You'd nodded, "You're fun to watch." And you'd said it so...casually. Like it'd been part of the Split River High zeitgeist: The stadium became a sardine can because Number 57, Wally Clark, was fun to watch.

"So, I guess you're gonna be there tomorrow?" He'd asked, the seed of an unfamiliar sense of intrigue planted. He'd watched you tilt your head, watched your eyes light up when you'd smiled. Wally had felt his cheeks heat and his eyes go soppy in response.

"That's the plan, Stan," You'd gleefully confirmed.

That'd been where it'd all started.

You and he hadn't become friends or anything like that, but Wally had felt a connection. Like you and he had clicked. From then on, he'd sought you out in the crowd at every game. Where's Waldo between plays. You'd never been in the same place twice, and as soon as he'd find you, you'd hold up a poster-board boasting a glittery '57' in school blue, and cheer him on with gusto.

It'd swiftly become Wally's favorite part of playing football.

Tonight, Wally was mid-search, batting away Rodney's reminder that the team planned to hit Max's Diner after the game, win or lose, when Number 36, Matt Wilson, advised, "Dude, don't interrupt. It's like a good-luck ritual at this point."

Rodney frowned, "What're talking about?"

Even Wally broke his concentration and swiveled his head to look at Matt in confusion.

With a snort, Matt pointed out, "Clark always looks for the girl, finds her, then plays harder than ever and we win the game. He's been doing it for weeks." He shrugged, "I mean, whatever works, right?"

He did? Huh. He guessed he did...

"You got a girlfriend and didn't say anything?" Rodney accused, a little hurt. "Ouch."

"It's not like that," Wally assured him, though he felt his cheeks flush and his lips curve into a dopey smile.

Rodney studied Wally for a moment and then, "Alright, my man, what's her name?" A big, teasing grin on his face.

Wally opened his mouth to answer before he realized, shit, he actually had no idea. You hadn't given him your name the afternoon he'd accidentally pelted you with a basketball.

"You're not serious." Rodney said flatly, "you don't even know her name?" while Matt slapped his knee and crowed.

Wally was about to defend himself when, just over Rodney's shoulder, there you were, gaze already on him. His insides instantly went gooey, broad smile stretched across his face, and Rodney leveled him with an unimpressed look that Wally refused to acknowledge.

"For the love of God, ask for her name." Rodney commanded before he stuck his mouthguard between his teeth.

The whistle blew and the game continued.

The Devils won.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Taking Rodney's suggestion was somewhat harder than Wally had anticipated. He just couldn't bring himself to do it, nerves piqued whenever he caught sight of you in the hall. He wasn't a nervous guy—Wally was a big, brave boy, thank you very much—but something about you made him stutter and overthink and, aaah, what would he even say!? Hey, thanks for coming to watch me play after I hit you in the face. Also, what's your name, girl who I share a new, ongoing at-game tradition?

Lame.

He needed more information. ✨A r e a s o n✨. Some unavoidable situation wherein Wally had to go up to you that didn't insist upon itself. Or he could actually be a big, brave boy and just say hi as casually as you'd told Wally he was fun to watch.

Between the last game and the next, Wally began gathering facts from a distance (while Rodney's gaze burned a hole into the side of Wally's head).

He learned that you sat with a group of sophomores in the cafeteria, laughing along yet not interjecting, comfortable giving the stage to your friends. Being a year below him explained why Wally hadn't noticed you before, but since that fateful day in the gym, he hadn't been able to stop noticing you.

You were quiet, though not in a shy way. You often spent time in the library—or, rather, you were always in the library when Wally happened to be, nose in a book on the windowsill. You stepped aside to let people go through a door first, and smiled at everyone; and on Mondays and Thursdays your fingers and jeans were smeared with charcoal from your Art class.

Your clothes changed, but your shoes didn't. Beat up Converse you clearly loved to death. You carried around a Sony walkman like the one Keith had, headphones on in the mornings and around your neck in the afternoons. Wally wanted to know what music you listened to.

Truth be told, he wanted to know a lot of things. Like your favorite movie and what you did in your spare time. If you went to parties or preferred to stay home and play boardgames (he wouldn't mind trading a sticky ping-pong ball for a Monopoly shoe). Were you strictly a cassette girl or did you listen to vinyl, too? Bike or license? Star Trek or Star Wars? Tom or Jerry?

God, Wally had it bad. He wanted to know everything. Every detail.

And, finally, after several failed attempts to muster the courage to cold approach you, ✨a r e a s o n✨ fell into Wally's lap and he decided it was now or never.

Practice had just ended. He was loose and warm and in a good mood, and after saying goodbye to the guys on the field, he turned and saw you sitting alone on the bleachers. Headphones on like a headband, the earpieces behind your ears. You scribbled in a notebook, tongue peeking out of the corner of your mouth, clearly 100% focused on whatever you were working on.

Wally's eyes softened and his heartbeat sped up. You were adorable.

Clearing his throat to announce himself, he climbed the bleachers and shuffled across the middle bench to take a seat beside you.

"Hey," He smiled, broad and hopefully not too eager.

Your head lifted and you smiled back.

Wally melted inside.

"Hi, Wally Clark," You said as you closed your notebook and shifted to give him your full attention. "Not practicing your free throws today?" You teased with a glint in your eye.

Wally ducked his head as he chuckled, "Nah, not today. I decided to leave that to the professionals."

"Mm, yeah, that might be for the best," And then, fixing him with a cheeky grin, "You know, if dodgeball ever becomes a recognized sport, you should totally join a team."

Wally pressed his lips together, doing his best to hide how big his smile would be otherwise, before he glanced at you with a raised brow, "Oh. So, you're funny?"

You giggled like sweet melody, "Let's call it observant."

He released his smile, heart fluttering in his chest, eyes flickering across your face to take in every detail. There was something in him—a magnet behind his ribs—that drew Wally toward you. He couldn't explain it. Barely knew you enough to label it as more than attraction, but it was more. His gaze dipped to your lips, traced the shape of your smile, then skirted back up to meet your eyes.

"Alright, let's call it observant." He agreed, his smile somehow widening.

After a moment of comfortable silence, "Your feints are getting better," you commented, "I can't predict which way you're gonna go anymore."

And he positively preened; spine straight, chest puffed out, proud to have earned your admiration. Maybe that's what'd always been missing. He'd never had to work for it, everyone throwing themselves at his feet just for a split second of his attention. Wally had always been approached, never had to do the approaching.

Was that the thrill of the chase?

No. Of course not. You weren't the deer to his crosshairs. But he had to admit, it was nice that he could trust you weren't talking to him to get something out of it. Which is probably why, before he could stop himself, Wally blurted:

"Do you wanna hang out tomorrow?"

You seemed surprised, brows shooting up. Still, your smile remained and, with a chuckle, you nodded, "That would be nice." And then, eyes narrowing, "Nowhere that involves you having to throw things, though, right?"

Hand to his heart, "I'll save it for the field," Wally promised, suddenly feeling giddy and overwhelmed. He had to resist the urge to bite his lip in excitement. Raked his fingers through his hair and glanced bashfully away to compose himself.

"Very appreciated." You bumped your shoulder against his arm.

The brief contact ignited a thousand butterflies to take flight in his belly. He stood, gathered his sports bag and beamed down at you. You looked back, all cute and sweet and appearing nowhere near as affected as Wally felt which made him feel a little silly for the intensity of his body's reactions to you.

"How about the arcade...around 3?" He suggested, putting as much confidence behind his words as he could.

After a moment's thought, "Can we make it in the evening? Say around 6?" You asked.

"Yeah," Wally replied, "Yeah, we can make it 6." He took a couple of backward steps, "I can pick you up at your place."

You shook your head, "I'll meet you there."

"Great, it's a date," He nearly choked when he registered what he'd said, face absolutely flaming, though he didn't take it back. He almost tripped over his own feet as you didn't correct him.

Instead, all you said was, "Can't wait."

You didn't see it—God, he hoped you didn't see it—but as soon as he was off the bleachers and a good enough distance away, Wally fist pumped, practically vibrating out of his skin. Holy crap, he was going on a date with you! He was going to spend time with you, get to know you, connect with you the way he'd always wanted to connect with someone outside of Rodney, Don, and Keith.

It was only when he was in his car and on his way home to shower that he realized he still didn't know your name.

He could hear Rodney's eyeroll from there.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You'd noticed Wally from the start. It was difficult not to, the guy a high-rise human, towering over most of the student body. But, it wasn't just his physical presence. Nor was it how good he was at attracting attention on and off the field with his exuberance and abundance of energy.

It was the moments between the jokes he made with his friends. Between performing for the crowd when he led the Devils to victory. The somber, introspective moments he thought he had to himself. And he did, for the most part. You'd never meant to intrude. It just so happened that he often used the same spaces you did to find peace.

You weren't surprised that he hadn't noticed you before he'd lodged a basketball at your head. Few people did. Not bitterly; that was just simply how things had befallen you and you'd learned to adjust. In fact, you had approximately two people you considered close and had realized that was more than enough. Still, you enjoyed meeting people where you could. They were fascinating. And, these days, none were so fascinating as Wally Clark.

He had hands that swallowed whatever they held; a smile that brightened a room; and eyes that made your skin tingle, their gaze soulful and heavy whenever they landed on you at his games like a prize. You craved those eyes on you, a flower to sunlight, and were excited beyond measure that you'd have them all to yourself for a night.

When he'd asked you out, it'd taken everything in your power not to kick your feet and giggle in delight. Be cool, you'd told yourself, acting as though you hadn't been daydreaming about Wally Clark since you'd first heard his name in the halls. What you wouldn't have given to spend more of Saturday with him, but things were somewhat strange for you, and you'd had to shave the hours down.

As restrictive as it was, you were only able to go out when the town was sleepier. The streets less crowded, the energy laggard; the shadows darker and the moon visible. Unfortunately, you had hard rules to follow, though, after sundown, no one really paid attention to your whereabouts. You could sneak out unnoticed and do as you please so long as you were back before anyone knew you'd been gone.

It sucked, but it was what it was and there was nothing you could do about it, so you'd set the time for your date with Wally later and hoped you'd be satisfied with the hours you and he did get to be together.

When you arrived at the arcade, Wally was already there, leaning against the exterior wall, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression transforming from teen mag sultry to puppy bright when he caught sight of you. Don't squeal, don't squeal, don't squeal—you did great, kid—you waved sweetly and took measured steps toward him, matching his expression with a happy one of your own.

"Hey, you made it," Wally said as if he'd been worried you'd flake.

"Like I'd miss the chance to kick your ass at Space Invaders." You scoffed, hands on your hips as you pinned him with a challenging look.

Wally laughed and the sound when straight to your chest, settled between your ribs, and you knew your eyes were likely doing something dreamy and dazed. If he noticed, he didn't comment; held out his arm like a gentleman and escorted you inside.

You did, in fact, kick his ass at Space Invaders.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Whatever, you may have beaten him at Space Invaders, but Wally wiped the floor with you at Time Pilot. To further impress you with his skills, he won you a prize from the claw crane. Overlooking the fact that it'd taken several coins and a lot of cursing, Wally felt like the king of the world having handed over a plastic ball stuffed with enough raffle tickets that you could take home a plastic necklace.

He looked for any and every opportunity to touch you, graze the back of his hand across yours, then, bolder, squeezing you into his side as you and he moved between machines. Just as you were about to beat his score at Pac Man, he grabbed you around the waist and spun you away from the control panel, watching triumph when the monitor announced Game Over and Wally's score beat yours by more points than you could come back from.

You shrieked and giggled when he slung you over his shoulder to carry you to the new air hockey table. You sprung into his arms when he defended your honor at the foosball table against another pair of arcade goers. By the end of the night, he had your hand in his, fingers laced, as he walked you home.

It'd been the most fun he'd had in—God—forever. Yeah, he hung out with the guys, went camping and played videogames and did things. Always busy, always entertained. Or, rather, he did the entertaining. A constant performance to keep people interested. Tonight, with you, it'd been different. He was relaxed, completely at ease, feeling like himself for the first time in too many years. His chest felt lighter.

When you and he reached your house, not too far from the arcade, you stopped and positioned yourself to face him, beautiful smile on your face that softened the longer he looked at you. He didn't want tonight to end. Wished it could go on through tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

"That was a lot of fun, Wally," You murmured as you stepped closer, bottom lip caught between your teeth in a way that made his heartrate spike and his head foggy.

He nodded, "Yeah," and lifted a hand to trail his fingertips along the slope of your jaw, "I wanna do it again, like, now."

You chuckled, and when did your lips get so close to his? "You just wanna try and beat my Donkey Kong score." You accused, breath hitching when the tip of his nose grazed your cheek.

Wally couldn't refute that, but didn't want to, his mind already on other things. Better things. Things like—his lips brushed yours, soft and gentle at first, testing the waters, and when you gasped so prettily, he pressed in. Kissed you slow, his hand climbing to rest on the back of your head to angle you just right. The kiss let in and took out, over and over, until Wally was breathless and dizzy.

He kept you there, one hand trailing down your side to your hip, the other tangling in your hair, for what felt like hours though it must've only been several minutes. He couldn't let go. Couldn't stop. The taste of your tongue against his the most incredible thing he'd ever experienced.

But, eventually, you had to pull away, "It's late."

He kissed you one more time for the road, watched you stealthily maneuver around the side of the house and disappear around the corner, probably to sneak back into your room before anyone realized you'd been gone. Something about the fact that you'd risked getting in trouble for thrilled Wally.

Once you were out of sight, Wally turned in the direction of home, an obvious bounce in his step as he replayed the night—the kiss, how your lips had yielded under his—on a loop.

Again, it wasn't until much later that he remembered he still hadn't asked for your name.

Fuck.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

In typical 1980s fashion, this movie had a montage that Wally revisited almost obsessively. Sure, things had progressed rather quickly between you and him; one minute you were the stranger he viciously—but not on purpose!—attacked with a ball, and the next you were every thought, desire, emotion, response Wally was capable of.

After sundown, like hoodlums, he took you to the roller rink and skated on legs made of Jell-O because you insisted you needed his limbs to support your stilted efforts. Except, as soon as a single-digit child cried his frustration, there you were, a professional ballerina on wheels, teaching the child how to balance and move. You weren't even sheepish when you fessed up to the ruse.

"I like how it feels," You said simply, shrugged, and tucked yourself into Wally's side to prove the point, "You feel safe."

Yeah, Wally couldn't argue to save his life, addicted to how you felt in his arms as much as you seemed drawn to be there. You and he danced under the colored lights, spun and chased and discoed like divas, deliberately falling into each other at every chance. Wally didn't complain when you brought him to the ground with you after a miscalculated dip.

Days later, you and he jumped and screamed along to live music (the lyrics all totally wrong, but the melody right), crashing bodies pressing you together. Halfway through the concert, the surrounding mania receded as he rocked you gently, kissed you with meaning in the eye of a mosh pit; squawked when you poked his side to tickle him and then booked it through the crowd for an impromptu, wild game of hide-n-seek.

An empty movie theater for a screening of last year's horror films. Popcorn missiles thrown when he dared suggest the Halloween was better than My Bloody Valentine. Finger to his lips, his hand firm around yours, crouched as he led you into another theater after the first movie. Four altogether, most of them ignored in favor of making out in the back row until an usher kicked you and Wally out for inappropriate behavior.

Heads close, toes pointed toward opposite walls, listening to Nebraska in a patch of sun on Wally's bedroom floor after a grueling week of exams and Wally's mama nagging him to get fitted for new skates before hockey season. He turned his head, admired your profile, lashes fanned on the arches of peach-blushed cheeks. His heart fluttered and his eyes softened as he watched you doze to the music. Between Used Cars and Open All Night, Wally propped himself on an elbow and kissed you upside-down. Chuckled when you nipped his chin and retaliated by adjusting his position, pinning you beneath his body, and kissing you senseless.

Throughout it all, you never missed a game, football or hockey or lacrosse. You'd put an end to the scavenger hunt, now a pillar of motivation—front row, center—and waved that glittery poster with an enthusiasm that outshone his mama's. The new arrangement made it easier for Wally, sweaty and hot, to leap over the barrier and lift and twirl you after each victory. Or, alternatively, for you to hurdle into his arms to comfort and reassure him after each loss.

Over the summer, Wally reminisced fondly on his junior year and everything you and he had done together. He missed you, a deep ache in his heart while your family apparently traveled for the months between school years. You wrote letters and used payphones to speak to him every Wednesday and Saturday, and it helped sustain him until you returned, but, God, he couldn't wait to see you again. To have you cuddled against him on the couch or in his lap on the bleachers at lunch or under him in his bed.

He craved you like a bad habit. Your scent, your touch, your taste. The soft affection you and he traded; lips stamped to the shoulder, fingers carding through each other's hair. How Wally held you, arm banded around your chest, hand under your chin to angle your face up so he could kiss you from behind.

Soon, he reminded himself. Three more days and he'd have his girl at his side again.

His girl whose name continued to elude him.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The night of the '83 Homecoming game, Wally felt a dread unlike he'd ever felt before. A lump of lead in his stomach. He had you in his lap, light, gentle brushes of his lips memorized the shape of your neck and jaw, his arms tight around you, as you helped distract him from his uncharacteristic pre-game nerves.

"I'll be right there, Wally Clark," You promised with a sweet smile.

And you were. In the seat beside his mama when the crack of bone echoed across the stadium like thunder.

He spent the following weeks oscillating between grief and rage, too consumed by the confusion and fear and loss of his own death find the strength to seek you out. He didn't want to know how you handled it. Him. His no-longer-thereness. If you were as deeply sad as he was or if you could move on and make it through. Wally didn't think he could handle it if he saw you smile again despite him not being the one to coax that happiness out of you.

Eventually, though, he couldn't deny it anymore. Had to see you. That magnetic pull led him to find you outside, basking in the December sun, no jacket, laying across the middle bench on the bleachers that overlooked the field behind the school.

He climbed up and took a quiet seat beside you. You didn't look any different. Serene, in fact, as you lay there, your notebook rested on the bench above. Wally sighed heavily, traced the air around your cheek as breath choked and his heart shattered. He had so much he wanted to say to you, but didn't know where to begin—I miss you, I wish I didn't die, I need to hold you again. Sentiments that didn't make a difference anymore. He gazed at your notebook and wondered if you'd written anything about him.

And then, to his surprise:

"I was wondering how long it would take before you'd come find me."

His eyes whipped to you and he saw you staring up at him, neck craned back slightly and a warm grin on your face.

"Y-you can see me!?" Wally gaped as you sat up and scooched closer to him.

"Of course I can." You said so easily that Wally had to think for a second if he was supposed to understand how it was possible. No one else had been able to see him, hear him, feel him.

"...how?"

You giggled, the sound a boon to his despairing soul, "Being dead isn't so bad, you know. I mean, it sucks, but you get used to it pretty quick." Taking his hand in yours, fingers laced, "And, when the memory of you starts to fade, you can even leave the school, which is something to look forward to."

Wally stared at you, bewildered, lost, hopeful, elated, "You're dead?" One, two beats, "You were dead the whole time?"

You smiled and nodded, leaned away from him to hold out your other hand for him to shake. That's when he heard it for the first time, your name, the syllables like angelic melody to his ears. You added, "Class of '57. Nice to meet you."

Without hesitation, Wally scooped you into his arms and kissed you like he'd wanted to since he'd risen from his body. He soaked up all the comfort and reassurance and love you offered with your lips. The idea of eternity no longer seemed so permanent and awful with you in it.

You pulled away just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his, that smile he adored melting every worry and fear that'd followed him off the field.

"So, how do you wanna spend your afterlife, Wally Clark? We could play dodgeball now that you know you can't actually hurt me."

He felt a grin form, wide and joyful, and answered, "Whatever you want." After a soft lull that Wally used to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before cupping your cheek, "I just wanna spend it with you." His girl, whose name he would treasure forever in his heart.

fin.

🏈___________________________

also on AO3!

Control Freak

summary: prompt fill. Wally needs to be in control at all times, or else the world is going to end. unless he's with you, the only person who can step in and take over without his brain screaming at him. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut lite. flashfic. Wally Clark is brat. consensual mindfuckery. sub-adjacent!Wally Clark. possessive mentality. Wally Clark has control issues.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🍑

Control Freak

Wally is always in control.

Running the show. Calling the shots. Cool and confident in the driver's seat.

Friend group can't make a decision? Wally spearheads a whole itinerary. Mama can't tell the neighbor that their new hedges encroach on the Clarks' side of the property line? Wally plasters on his best smile and convinces Mr. Griffiths to take action.

MVP of the football team; Coach's favorite player to come along in a decade. Enmeshed with student council to the point that they listen to his ideas without question. Teachers adore him, peers want to be him. Hell, Bud Binns trusts Wally enough to let him close the auto repair shop on his own, acting manager when Bud can't be on the floor.

Wally's image is the perfect combination of natural and intentional—a little bit of charm, a lot of matching auras—to ensure he gets what he wants from the world, and it works.

He's not oblivious. He knows it's an anxiety thing. The reins need to be tight for him to feel safe, solid, secure as he moves through each day. In the past, he tried loosening up a little and learned he's just not built to relax how his nervous system needs him to. Because if he does, everything breaks.

So, Wally stays completely. utterly. in control.

...

......

.........

Except with you.

Standing on the other side of the gym, talking to Some Guy as you help Claire hand out cupcakes for her campaign to be Homecoming Queen. And Some Guy is smiling at you like you're the center of his universe, all straight teeth and crinkled eyes, and Wally hates him instantly. Faster than instantly. Wally's waited to hate him since Some Guy was born, and that hate activates on sight.

Wally festers at Rodney's table, unable to drum up the magnetism that Rodney recruited Wally for to get those sweet votes to be elected Homecoming King. A girl tries to chat to him, lovely and shy and almost in awe of him—just what he likes—but he can't focus. Hardly hears himself as he answers her questions.

Did he just agree to something?

Hopefully not.

His gaze keeps drifting back to you every second. You and Some Guy. Laughing with each other. His hand on your shoulder, your demeanor totally open and friendly, and why are you entertaining that kind of interaction with someone who isn't Wally, huh?

You hand Some Guy a cupcake, tell him something Wally interprets as flirty, and then Some Guy waltzes away with a blush that Wally wants to wipe off Some Guy's face with his fist.

You're not supposed to do that.

You must feel Wally's eyes on you, because you turn your head, placid, and catch his eye. Stare for a moment before a slow, easy smile spreads on your pretty pink lips, giving Wally an obvious elevator look before cutting your appraisal short to address the next potential voter.

Unbothered. Unaware that Wally is this close to losing his shit where he stands because he can't do a damn thing about it.

No one knows about this arrangement between you and him (your prerogative). Not yet, anyway, so as much as he wants to, he can't charge over there and make you understand that that smile and those eyes are for Wally only.

It takes insurmountable effort to stay put at Rodney's table and pretend everything is normal for the next forty-five minutes, but Wally does it. Somehow. Fraying at the edges, steadily losing his mind as he watches the litany of conventionally attractive dudes rope you and Claire and Chloe into conversation.

About what? Pompoms and rom coms? What are you talking about to Some Guy 2.0 that has you giggling like that?!

As soon as Rodney dismisses him, Wally's off, slicing across the gym on a mission.

You don't acknowledge him when he steps over the threshold of your personal space, still discussing tomorrow's cheer practice with Claire, easy-breezy and aloof, as if Wally can wait; his time—his sanity—doesn't matter. Winding him up until he's so tightly coiled he could spring into orbit.

Finally, you greet him with a smile, eyes knowing as they travel up the length of him again from shoes to sockets. You don't speak, just tilt your head in the direction of the door as you gather your bag. A quick hug for Chloe, a wave to Claire, and you swan to the exit, Wally hot at your heels.

You stay a step ahead of him, hips swaying, smiling at acquaintances in the hall. Meanwhile, Wally's losing it by the second, the top of his head about to blow off, he's so frustrated. And you just. Don't. Notice.

Pleated skirt bouncing, legs on display, waist beckoning Wally's hands to grab hold bruise, mark your skin to make sure everyone fucking knows you're off the market. Totally disregarding that you told Wally you don't want to advertise anything too soon; want to enjoy the bubble while it lasts; want to be selfish with him.

Can't hurt to leave a mark or two anyway. Who'll know it's the impression of Wally's teeth on your throat?

You lead Wally to his car, wait patiently for him to open the door for you, staring at your phone as you slide into the seat and get comfortable.

The longer you don't speak, the more Wally's blood begins to feel electrified, shooting signals to his brain that everything is wrong and he needs to fix it.

This isn't how he planned his day.

When he tries to instigate conversation, you answer with a hum or a slanted smile. Wally white-knuckles the steering wheel the whole way to your house, his gaze intense as he watches the road and thinks obsessively about how to get you to say something, anything.

As soon as he pulls up to the curb, you're out, flouncing toward the walkway that leads to your front door. Wally watches you stop halfway and turn to look over your shoulder, gaze sharp when it lands on him.

"Let's go," And it's a command that Wally's entire being is persuaded to obey, a trained mongrel jumping at the snap of your fingers.

He practically falls out of his car, tripping over his feet as he hurries behind you. Up the front steps, through the door, and into your quiet house. He doesn't know where your parents are, if someone's home, or if you and he are actually alone.

Still barely acknowledging him, you head to your room, once again stopping when Wally lingers at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting and uncertain. You jerk your head to the side to indicate he should follow, and so he does, taking the stairs two at a time.

You gesture toward your bed where he takes a seat; spine straight, eyes tracking you while you close the door and deposit your backpack on your desk chair. Pull your hair out of its tie, toe off your shoes, humming to yourself as you go, as if you don't have an audience that's desperate for your attention.

After less than a minute of trying to sit still and accept your pace, Wally's face crumples. Eyes pleading, lips slightly twisted, hands wringing in his lap. He releases the smallest whimper, a tiny noise that fills the room, and finally gets the acknowledgement he's tweaking for.

You pivot on the spot by your desk and stare at him, considering. After a brief moment, your features soften. Eyes just for him. Smile just for him. You just for him. No one around to interrupt or distract or dissuade.

He almost sobs in relief when you get close enough for him to touch, fitting yourself between his legs. One hand on his shoulder, the other combing through his hair.

"What's wrong, baby?" You ask like you don't know. Like you aren't single-handedly responsible for why he's suddenly shaking apart in your presence.

His hands clench in his lap as he regards you, begging to reach out but too afraid you'll deny him.

"You need some attention, don't you?" You run your hand from his hair to his jaw as you lean in closer, brushing the tip of your nose against his. "Tell me."

Wally exhales sharply and nods, his voice caught in his chest.

You take pity on him. Lift one of his hands to place it on your waist. The other you guide under your skirt and encourage him to squeeze your ass cheek.

"You can touch me," You tell him, soft and kind, lips grazing his as you speak. "You don't need my permission, baby."

But he does, that's the thing.

As much as Wally wants, he can't just take. Not with you. His brain recoils at the idea, hate hate hating it more than anything. More than Some Guy and Some Guy 2.0, and how they looked at you like you were dinner.

Thinking of doing something to you without you telling him it's okay, that he's good, that he's pleasing you by obeying your every command, sets Wally's teeth on edge.

Wally whines when he feels your warm, supple flesh under his hands, thoughts instantly coming to a standstill. His lids get heavy, breathing deep, willing his fingerprints to fuse to your skin as he kneads your ass. Really absorbs how you feel and lets it soothe him.

The tension bleeds from his muscles.

The world falls away.

And Wally feels secure and solid for the first time since he joined Rodney in the gym to network Homecoming Court votes.

He exhales, long and rough, lifting his chin to gaze up at you through his lashes. A thick swallow, and then, "I need you. Please."

"Is that it, beautiful boy?" You trace his lower lip with your thumb, dipping in for a quick, biting kiss before pulling away to hear his answer.

"Please," Wally chokes out, sounding pathetic and not giving a single shit about it.

He feels his cock stir in his jeans. The intensity in your eyes coupled with finally, fucking finally, being able to feel your soft skin under his hands making his body react like he's still thirteen and an opportune breeze gets him hard.

You lean back, eyes never leaving his, smile morphing into something wicked, deliberate, as you lift your skirt and hook your thumbs into your panties. He's completely rapt, high-pitched white noise muffling every sound outside the narrow space between you and him.

He chokes, weak, and begins to tremble when you start to peel your panties off in a show that makes Wally's mouth go dry. You take another step back so he can see more of you, and unzip your skirt to let it puddle at your feet, stepping gracefully out of it with a smirk.

Fuck, you don't even have to touch Wally, and he gets goosebumps. Body so sensitive already that one accidental twitch will set him off.

"How do you want me?"

The question makes him whine. No, absolutely not, don't make him choose, please don't, he can't—

"Shh, hey, I've got you." You assure him, tone kind, and then you're ordering him to, "Show me that fat cock, baby. Let me see how much you want me."

Wally does as he's told, undoes his fly and shoves his jeans down and off one ankle, forgoing the other just to get you in his lap faster.

"Please," He begs, voice pitched high and needy, "Please, I need it so bad, baby, I'm so messed up, please."

You bite the corner of your lip, expression hot and dark, and then climb into his lap in feline motions. Shirt pushed up to show off your tits because you know Wally can't get enough of them when you ride him.

You let him stew for another moment, hips a fraction too far from where he aches, nipping and licking a trail of fire from his pulse point to his ear. Building the anticipation and driving Wally insane. He groans, hands clenching your thighs, reedy little sounds of need spilling from his throat.

"Tell me, baby," You murmur, rising to your knees and taking him in hand to line him up, "Tell me what you want."

"You," He says without hesitation, the word a breath, and he's so fucking desperate now, knows he won't last long, will blow his load too soon because he's fucking worthless like that, but you won't judge him, he's safe with you, "Please, God, I need it, please."

No more teasing. You drop and take him deep in one slick move, pussy so hot, so tight, Wally's eyes roll back and he sobs in relief. He doesn't move because if he does, he really will come before he's even registered the sweet, velvety bliss of being inside you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, your ass, your hips. Moans and keens and fucking kitten mewls pulled out of him as you ride him like a mechanical bull, fucking him to the brink, praising him for how good his cock is, how perfect, how only he can make you feel this way, just him, no one but him, and, Jesus Christ, oh God, yes, yes, yes, "I'm gonna come!"

And that's it, Wally's hips spasm, his back arches, jaw dropping as he cries out in ecstasy, thanking you profusely for letting him have this, letting him have you, holy fuck.

The static crests over him as he comes down. Restlessness replaced with peace. His body is loose, warm, content beneath your weight when he lies back and takes you with him. He can't stop his hands from roaming your back, needing to feel you in the afterglow, to know that you're real, this is real, he's here with you, and everything is better now.

"Thank you," He whispers into your hair as you nuzzle into his neck.

You hum, and he can feel your smile on his skin, "Of course, baby boy. You know I'd do anything for you." And then you lift your head, "Even after you've been a brat all day."

Wally pouts, "I wasn't."

You raise a brow.

His pout deepens. "You were ignoring me."

You huff, chuckling and shaking your head, "I wasn't ignoring you, I was busy." You correct. "You were being a naughty distraction when I was trying to help Claire."

Wally's chest puffs out, proud because, heh, he was distracting you when, the whole time, he thought you were deliberately trying to get under his skin by refusing to even look at him. And then he sobers, pout returning.

"You were flirting with those guys."

"I was doing Claire a favor," You correct, sitting up just enough to look him in the eye, palm cradling his jaw, thumb tracing the arch of his cheek. Soothing, sweet, everything he needs right now.

"I didn't like it." He admits as he averts his eyes. Ashamed and embarrassed and vulnerable in a way he only lets himself get with you.

You don't say anything for a moment, and Wally worries that he's done something wrong by confessing that. Should he be okay with it? Is he allowed to be jealous? Has he fucked up and now you're going to leave him because he can't get his shit together and act like a man?

He feels your lips on his, and his thoughts come to an abrupt halt, brakes screeching. His hands tighten on your hips as he releases a sigh, that relief, that solid-secure-safe feeling, washing through him again.

"I don't care about anyone but you, baby boy," You murmur, and press your forehead to his. And you're so sincere, Wally can hear it, that he wants to cry.

"Really?" God, does he have to sound so fucking pathetic?

But you don't let him ruminate, cut through the self-deprecation with a soft, "Really, Wally. You're perfect. Everything I need and more."

His body goes lax beneath you, sinking into your mattress like pudding, and he gives you a smile. Warm and happy and completely smitten.

Quiet, afraid to disturb the atmosphere, "You're everything I need, too."

Wally is always in control. Until he's with you. His safe space where he can let go without feeling like everything is going to break, because you know exactly how to hold him together.

🍑___________fin.____________

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if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Anxiety.

sub!Wally smut lite. Wally isn't clingy. he isn't. honest. but something about your aura makes him nervous, and suddenly he's all hands everywhere and babbling where he's normally calm, cool, collected, and he needs you to get his head back on right.