SKINNY DIPPING Pt. 3 ✩ Wally Clark

It gives fuck boy, but like not at the same time

Finally posting these ❤️ Loff them sm

I'm drawing the 'living team' next 🤩

GOOD LAWD

I love a man in a suit and HIS HANDS. I’m going insane

Hurt You, Heal You

summary: prompt fill. your friends have rallied around you to make you feel better after your boyfriend cheated on you. Wally, in particular, is determined to put that pretty smile back on your face... (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. flashfic. AU - everyone's alive. hurt/comfort lite.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🤎

Hurt You, Heal You

You sit at the end of the deck, feet kicking the water, the world around you quiet and still, though you can hear your friends laughing up at the firepit. Up the path and through the trees, Claire's lakehouse lit up at the top of the hill.

It's almost sundown and you needed a moment to yourself. Spent the whole weekend surrounded by the people you cared about most in the world. Who'd essentially kidnapped you at someone's behest because you'd isolated yourself for days after the doubt crept back in.

Two months and things are better—they are—but...in the lonely in-betweens, you forget the rage and indignance. The lies and the deceit and the pleas for forgiveness that kindled that beautiful, empowering anger that got you through most of the aftermath.

Brandon Bowers, your boyfriend of a year, cheated on you with Kirsten Bloom. One of Claire's former entourage, now exiled to cling to the last shreds of her popularity on Brandon's arm.

You were devastated. Not that you'd pictured white picket fences and a wedding dress, but you'd invested time, energy, love. Really made an effort and enjoyed being in a relationship. Found yourself discovering new parts of who you were and reveling in them.

Now, you wonder if you'll ever find that again.

With a sigh, you lay back on your drying towel, eyes watching the stars appear above. It's so clear, unlike your head which is steadily descending into chaos as you imagine Brandon and Kirsten, cuddled up somewhere, all in love and happy.

You hear footsteps on the wood, the cadence telling you exactly who it is without you having to look.

Wally Clark plops down beside you and lays back, joining you in repose. His body so close to yours that you can feel the heat emanating from it. He turns his head and you turn yours, eyes meeting. He gives you a big smile, eyes bright and soulful.

"You doing okay?" He asks.

You return his smile with one of your own, meaning it when you say, "Better."

Before the incident, Wally was a casual friend. Someone who hung out with your group when everyone got together. But after the incident, you aren't sure what changed, but there he was. Every time you were down, he picked you up in every way he could think of.

He rallied where your friends were reluctant to. They knew you liked to handle things alone and respected that. Wally, however, didn't believe that for a second, and maybe he was right, since you don't think you would've made it out the other side without him.

It wasn't gradual. Wally was all in all at once. He showed up at your door when you texted Maddie that you weren't going to make it for Movie Night. Standing at the door with a calculating look on his face as he gave you a once-over.

"Get changed." He said.

And that was it. First was the rage room, and, God, was it cathartic. Then came the escape room (a few of the others joined in). After that, karaoke because, belting it out is good for you, cutie, trust me. Friend date after friend date, Wally anticipating exactly what you needed when you needed it before you even processed what was happening.

The night at the old theater downtown was by far your favorite. The band was terrible. Screechy and out of tune. Lyrics that were supposed to be profound sounded like inexperience and naiveté. Still, you and Wally moshed your bodies aching, laughing the whole time until you nearly peed yourself.

He's a good friend.

Your heart flutters, cheeks pink as you recall the few instances he's looked at you in a way you can't quite decipher, but the feeling those looks stirred inside you was more than platonic.

You didn't mention it then, and you won't mention it now. Too afraid for too many reasons. You don't want to ruin a good thing, you don't want to feel how Brandon made you feel again. Fear and confusion and self-deprecation.

Wally's hand finds yours between your bodies, and he squeezes. Although his face is toward the sky, you know he's paying attention.

"You sure you're okay?"

You take a moment to answer, letting the heat and weight of his hand on yours sink into your skin.

"Yeah." You say, trying to sound nonchalant. Keep it brief so you don't reveal where your mind wandered.

He remains silent for a while. Just lays there with you as the sun sets. And then he's in motion, rolling onto his side, eyes glittering as he grins down at you. Uh-oh. You know that look. That playful gleam.

The next thing you know, he's on his feet, his hands clasped around your wrists to haul you up then haul you over his shoulder. Spins on his heal, you shriek, and he jumps into the water, taking you unceremoniously with him.

When you break the surface, you're spluttering, pulling your hair back out of your face, spitting water and glaring at him as soon as he comes up with that stupid, crooked grin that makes your blood tingle.

"What the hell!?" You demand, splashing him in the face, "I just got dry!"

Wally cackles, splashing you right back, "You were getting in your head again, angelface, I had to!"

Oh, no, he absolutely did. not. have to.

You splash him again. He launches toward you as fast as the water will let him and then pseudo-tackles you back, submerges you both gleefully before releasing you so you can suck in a harsh breath.

"You're the worst!" You say, but even you can hear the laughter in your voice. Giddy. Happy. Wally's bright mood is contagious.

As he treads water, you see that look fall over his face. The soft one that makes your brain fuzzy and your stomach twist. He ruins the moment by spitting a fountain of water at you and backstroking out of your reach when you try to lunge in retaliation.

He's never said I told you so, despite being the only person you know who could. He warned you about Brandon, how Wally didn't like the guy, thought he was bad news. No one else picked up on it, so you ignored him and Wally never brought it up again.

You've been waiting for Wally to boast since he started spending his free time putting a smile on your face. Now, you realize he isn't the type. He'll never say those words, never make you feel like an idiot for trusting someone who Wally read like 3rd Grade English while you chose to be illiterate.

You've never appreciated anything more.

Wally sloshes the water around, tipping onto his back to float while he gazes at the sky. You join him, drifting close by in the water, allowing the moment to settle between you and him.

"How're you feeling now?" He asks eventually, voice as soft as the ripples. "And be honest. I know when you're lying."

He really does. It's kind of scary how, in such a short time, Wally knows you better than Nicole or Maddie or Simon.

This time, you really think about it. Take stock, measure and analyze and process. Finally, "I feel really good." The water slips as you turn your head to look at him, "Thanks to you."

It's so quiet, you aren't sure he hears you, but he does. You can tell by his smile. The gentle, pleased-with-himself one he wears when you've said he's done a good job.

Unfortunately, the moment ends with a shriek, this time in horror, not delight, because, ah, holy fuck, ew, oh God, you felt something bump against your leg in the water.

You're a flurry of motion and noise before you feel Wally's hands on your body, hear his laughter in your ear, loud and carefree.

"It was seaweed," He snorts, lifting up the clump that drifted into you for you to see.

Embarrassed, "I knew that."

"Sure you did," He tosses it further into the water.

Your lips twist in displeasure. Either way, "I'm gonna get out now."

"Just in case the Loch Ness Monster tries to eat you?" Wally grins.

"And here I was starting to like you," You glare. It lacks heat, a smile already curling the corners of your mouth at his teasing. "Now you're being mean."

Wally doesn't go still, can't unless he wants to sink below the surface, but he's so close you can sense how he tenses.

"Yeah?" He says in a breath. His leg brushes yours under the water when he wades closer. "You're starting to like me?"

There's something in the question—in his tone—that ignites a spark of heat in your belly. And now he's as close as he can get without absorbing you, your legs forced to spread to make room for his impossibly long ones. Only a narrow fraction between your chest and his. His face right there, lips still holding that dumb, gorgeous smile.

He says it like a secret, nearly lost under the chirp of crickets and distant laughter from the lakehouse.

"I'm starting to like you, too." Wally confesses and lets it sit in the air between you, waiting with baited breath for you to respond.

Your brain halts, eyes widening slightly. This isn't his usual playful teasing. The unsubtle flirting he lays on thick to make it a joke. This is real. Sincere. Vulnerable.

"Wally..." You begin, have no idea where to go from there so you trail off and leave it at that.

He doesn't seem to mind, can probably read it all over your face, as dark as the world is now. You feel one of his arms hook around your waist and draw you into his body, his lap.

Wally's eyes dip to your lips, then return to hold your gaze. He doesn't speak, just holds you, stares at you as if taking in a work of art. You swallow, shivering at the intensity in his eyes. The air thickens around you and him, syrupy and warm, and, wow, you never felt this with Brandon. This innocent, sweet desire for something to happen.

"I—" Wally stops, starts again, clearly nervous yet determined to tell you, "I do like you...a lot."

As if you couldn't figure that out from the way he holds you now. Actually, you probably wouldn't have. Would've chalked it up to Wally being casually affectionate and touchy like he is with everyone.

No, this is different, and you know it.

A single, short moment of silence as you try to find your words, only for you to blurt, "Me too."

Jesus, the smile he gives you rivals the sun.

You find yourself melting into him as you and he bob in the water, shallow enough that you can feel him steady his feet on the bottom of the lake as he keeps you in his lap. Buoyant. Light as a feather, yet feeling the weight of everything pushing you into him.

He doesn't waste a second. Takes it slow, sure, but makes sure you know exactly what he means by likes you. One of his hands grips your hip to keep you steady, the other trails gentle fingers down the slope of your jaw.

Wally leans in by degrees, giving you a chance to change your mind, no doubt. You have no intention of doing that.

And then, barely a touch, his lips brush yours. You gasp at the sensation, lips already tingling, and it prompts him to release a sigh. He lets out, lingers, then moves back in with more purpose.

A flick of his tongue, "Baby," and he kisses you harder, his grip on your hip sliding down to your thigh, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

Nothing else exists. Not the lake, not your friends. Not the memory of Brandon and Kirsten tangled together in Brandon's bed. Nothing apart from Wally and you and this kiss.

When it breaks, you're breathing heavy, somehow pressed even closer to him. Wally openly admires you, his hand on your neck so damn worshipful, his thumb stroking your cheek before pressing into the corner of your mouth.

"I wanna do that again," You murmur without thinking.

He chuckles, raspy and rich, "Me too."

So he does. And again. And again, until someone—Nicole—calls from the top of the path that burgers are ready! and you and he have to get out of the water to rejoin the gathering.

You sit beside him, curled up in your Adirondack chair, feet on his lap. No one mentions the new exchange of intimacy between you and him, and you realize belatedly, scanning your friends' expressions over the course of the night, that they knew.

Wally doesn't deny it when you stage whisper the question. Instead, he takes advantage of the fact that you figured it out to manhandle you from your chair into his lap, where he keeps you for the rest of the night.

And, just like every time before, you didn't realize what you needed until Wally gave it to you. Somewhere safe. Somewhere secure.

Now, you don't have to wonder if you'll ever find the type of love you wanted again, because it found you.

🤎___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

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if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Fifty Seven.

fluff. 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.

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

___________________________🏈

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 when 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. You had hard rules to follow, but after sundown, no one paid attention to your whereabouts. You could sneak out unnoticed and do as you pleased 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; grazed the back of his hand across yours, then, bolder, squeezed 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 patrons. 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 under his gaze. 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. Your tongue against his the most incredible thing he'd ever tasted.

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 your 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 him 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 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 moonlight 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 a 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 life to 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 if he wasn't responsible for it.

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 at night. I'd consider that something to look forward to, no?"

"I guess," Wally wheezed as his brain tried desperately to catch up to what was happening.

"Or," You went on, "and hear me out. Eventually you can talk to people again. Just the ones who didn't know you, but still. Variety."

The gears turned in Wally's head. He 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."

"But...I walked you home. I saw your house."

"You saw a house." You corrected.

He couldn't believe it. You were dead. You were like Wally. You were with Wally.

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 and cup your cheek, "I just wanna spend it with you." His girl, whose name he would treasure forever in his heart.

fin.

🏈___________________________

also on AO3!

Something about Milo in glasses just makes me so 🥵😏🫠🥵🤭

obsessed with these cast pics posted by nick

MY HEART NEARLY FELL OUT WHEN I GOT THIS NOTIFICATION ON TIK TOK! ITS A FAN ACCOUNT

“all you do is daydream” god forbid a girl has hobbies

😭😭😭😭😭😭

the way maddie’s fear in her scar was not being able to save everyone and how she spent her seasons trying to save her friends, both living and not, her mother, mr anderson, and everyone she could and when wally told her she could stop and pulled her out of the water to save her from drowning while trying to help others she could finally breathe. and she finally stopped trying to save everyone but just by existing and being there and loving wally she saved him and helped him get his exit like omg. she didn’t have to try to do anything crazy to save him she just had to love him and be herself even tho that has never helped her in the past, it was enough for wally <3333