Hear Me Out Hear Me Out HEAR ME OUT..... Wally Getting His Ass Ate 👀 Might Write It Might Not Just

Spencer: You're the love of my life, my best friend. I would do anything for you.

Y/n: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a descent sleeping schedule.

Spencer: Absolutely not.

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. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

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Alphabet Soup - F

F is for how Wally shamelessly flirts with you. A fun way to make a boring Friday afternoon more interesting. He has to be here, some Booster Club bullshit to raise money for new cheer uniforms since Janet and her drones strongarmed the principal into bringing the squad into 2024. As the diligent, doting boyfriend, Wally finagled his teammates into helping. A car wash, guys and girls in bathing suits, flexing and feeding into fantasies that shouldn't be given a platform. You know, the kind of shit that shouldn't fly but does because Janet has Claire, and Claire always gets her way if she flashes enough of her family's money around.

And chaste little cherub that you are, you and your friends are there to help, manning the cash box and filling buckets of soapy water when Janet snaps her fingers. Whatever, it gives Wally something to look at between scrubbing down cougars' mom-vans and pretending to give a shit when Janet sprays herself with the hose. A drowned rat with a fake tan, fake teeth, fake tits, bought and paid for by Corporate Mogul Daddy.

God, Wally wants to go back in time and punch himself for agreeing to her dumb social-climb agenda. He was willing at the time. Why not? He has an ego, likes attention, and being king of Split River High comes with fantastic perks.

One, for example, being that he can get some dipshit bench-rider to take over for him for a few minutes while he follows you into the building.

You stand at the vending machine, perusing the options, hands in the back pockets of jean shorts Wally would kill a man to see you bend over in. A Cheshire smile and devious eyes, he stalks up to you and leans against the vending machine, dripping sweat and soapy water from the last car.

"Let me guess," He starts, smooth, grinning at you like you're something he wants to catch with his teeth, "your heart says Doritos, but your brain is telling you to get a granola bar."

You give him a once-over, slow, appraising, from feet to face, "My heart never says Doritos. But nice try." Your smile is easy and innocent, "You wanna try again?"

Wally smirks, leans in real close, fingers brushing your thigh along the hem of your shorts. Heat spears through him when your cheeks pink, perfect lips parting on a shivery gasp. Such a fucking sweet little thing. "What happens if I guess right?" He murmurs, the tip of his nose grazing your temple as he whispers in your ear.

Recovering admirably, you offer, "Maybe I'll be nice enough to share with you."

"And if I don't like your choice?" He smooths his hand around your thigh, settles below the curve of your ass, thumb stroking under the hem of your shorts. "What then, baby?" He feels himself twitch in his swim trunks, God, you smell good. Like coconut-vanilla and that kid shampoo he saw in the bathroom you share with Janet.

You pan your head in tiny fractions, slow-motion sensual, lips so close to his that he's breathing your air. "I guess you'll have to settle for good sportsmanship," a honeyed smirk, twinkling eyes on Wally's lips for a moment before they meet his gaze.

Wally groans, grin widening, grabbing a fistful of your ass and dragging you flush against him to make you feel the effect you have on him. "That's just mean, baby" and he murmurs, dark and heated, grinding his hips forward, "you saying you'd leave me like this?"

Without missing a beat, you rest your hands on his bare chest, rising on your toes to hover your lips over his, "Didn't your mother ever teach you that you're responsible for the messes you make?"

"Nah," Wally's grin sharpens, flicking his tongue against your bottom lip, "My mama taught me to ask for help when I need it." He grabs your ass with both hands, maneuvers to pin you against the side of the vending machine so he can lift you and grind his hard cock between your thighs. "And I really," thrust "really" thrust "need it."

Wally relieves the bench-rider twenty minutes later, a skip in his step and a ring of cherry lip gloss around the base of his cock. It isn't until he winks at you over his sunglasses that you remember why you went to the vending machine in the first place.

🧿___________________________

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Anxiety 2

summary: prompt fill. on the verge of an anxiety attack, Wally calls in reinforcements. you. the only person in the world who knows exactly what he needs. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. smut lite. flashfic. sub-adjacent!Wally Clark. mild anxiety attack. Wally Clark is a whiny lil' babe when he's desperate.

bon reading, frens

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Anxiety 2

"Hey, pretty boy, you okay?"

Thank fuck you answer on the first ring because, no, Wally isn't okay. His skin is too tight, his lungs won't inflate, he has pins and needles in his blood, and he can't calm down long enough to make his room stop spinning.

"No." It's wrenched out of him.

He lies on his bed, arm over his eyes, trying to breathe. Football practice was hell today, coach giving him a hard time for mistakes another player made like it's Wally's job to shoulder everyone's shortcomings.

"I can't...baby, I need to see you, please," And he knows it's a bad time, but, please, he just needs to feel you long enough to settle his brain for a minute.

Wally hates Tuesdays as much as he does most weekdays. School doesn't help, but you have Art Club and then family dinner and then a whole routine you enjoy mapped out for every Tuesday for forever. Your time. Not for anyone else. And, he swears, he wouldn't interrupt unless it's important.

He hears fabric rustle on the other end of the line before your voice filters through the speaker, "You need me to talk you through it?"

"No." He says, scratchy.

"Do you need me to distract you with a story?"

And he fucking whimpers, because that's not the answer either.

"Do you want me to just stay on the line and you can vent?"

"No, baby, I—" Don't want to tell you how desperate he is for your presence. Needs it like the oxygen he can't seem to suck into his lungs. "Never mind."

You make a noise of disapproval, "Oh, no, Wally, you're not doing that." Then, "Can you do something for me?"

Wally nods although he knows you can't see him.

"Can you get up and go to the bathroom?"

He does, following the order without resistance. He likes it when you order him around, take control so he doesn't have to think. He pads into the bathroom and stands there until you give him the next instruction.

"Good boy," You coo, and it sounds like you're outside now. He can't be sure, doesn't entirely have the capacity to pay attention, so he simply idles with the phone to his ear. "Turn on the water, Wally, nice and warm how you like it."

Again, he does as you order. He knows where this is going. A hot shower to calm his muscles. He sets his phone on the counter and strips. Doesn't hang up, needs to know you're there when he's done, but steps under the spray when steam starts to billow up.

It takes ten minutes before he's able to get out without black spots clouding his vision. His body is relaxed, but his head is still screaming at him to do something, keep busy, figure it out, don't just stand there—

He towels himself off, glances at the screen, and sighs in relief when he sees the call is still connected. In movements loose from a good shower, he lopes back to his room and pulls on a pair of clean boxers. Keeps his words to himself, not ready to talk yet, but makes sure you know he's still there and still needs you.

Just as he reaches for his sweatpants, he hears a knock at the front door. Blinking, he picks up his phone from his dresser to check the time.

Your voice through the phone, "You gonna let me in, cutie?"

Instantly, the remaining tension in his body releases. He hurries down the stairs two at a time, unsafe and unconcerned because you're there. Coming to the rescue. Showing up for him despite the meal he knows you're supposed to have with your parents in half an hour.

He swings the door open and yanks you into his body, holds you tight against his chest with his face in your neck.

"Thank you," He murmurs, tight, a little froggy.

Taking charge, you push him back inside and close the door behind you, grabbing his hand in yours to lead him back upstairs to his bedroom. Without so much as a hello, you get to work, shoving him into his desk chair while you set about changing his sheets.

No words are exchanged the whole time. He waits for you to finish, watches through desperate, puppysoft eyes, knee bouncing, as you strip to your underwear and t-shirt, and fold back the newly made cover.

You turn, smiling sweetly, give him a wink that signals he can get himself all over you now. He doesn't hesitate, crowds against your back when you turn around to face the bed, about to crawl in. He grabs you by the hips, pulls your ass back into the cradle of his pelvis, and has his lips on your neck so fast, it's like your skin is magnetized and his mouth is made of nickel.

"Silly boy," You breathe, melting into him, tilting your head to give him more access. "You couldn't wait until I got you into bed?"

Wally shakes his head against your neck, "Mm-mm," and continues to dot kisses along the tendon, all the way up to just below your ear. "Missed you too much," Even though he saw you right before football practice.

"Come on," You say, "Get in."

And he does as he's told. Pauses to let you climb in first, shuffle over to what he's designated as your side, under the covers and holding them up to invite him in beside you. He shuffles right into your space, arm fastened around your waist, head pillowed on your chest, breathing easier than he has in hours now that he can smell you, feel you, hear your heartbeat under his ear.

Your hand finds his hair, still damp from the shower. Fingers comb his scalp while you press little kisses along his hairline, forehead, temple. The last bit of anxiety dissipates under your attention, and finally, Wally can relax.

"You okay?" You whisper, hand stroking his back now.

He nods against you, nudges your jaw with his nose, silently requesting a kiss which you give him with a tender smile.

"You wanna have a nap?"

Wally thinks about it, realizes that, no, he isn't ready to sleep. Even for a short span, his brain isn't quiet enough. There's still a thread of restlessness under his skin he can't quite shake loose. He pouts at you, shakes his head, looking for all the world like a lost little boy who needs taking care of.

A knowing smile spreads on your face. You lean down and kiss him. Gentle. Soft. Innocent if Wally didn't know you better.

"Get on your back, baby," You tell him, already shifting.

He goes, breath hitching, cheeks heating, anticipating where you're going to go with this. You push his legs apart and settle between them, a gleam in your eye that ushers an almost soundless gasp from his throat. Hooking your fingers into his boxers, you peel them off his long legs and get back into position.

"You need me to take care of you?" You ask, serene, as if asking whether or not he wants a foot rub and not his cock sucked. "You want me to make your brain quiet, pretty boy?"

Wally nods, one, two curt movements, lips parting around a whimper as his eyes fall to half-mast. He watches you lick your lips, bow forward so beautifully that he wishes he could bottle an image, and then he feels you.

A long, wet stripe of your tongue along his flaccid cock before you take it in hand and lazily begin to stroke, your eyes intense and holding his.

Conversationally, "You want me to choke on you, baby?"

And, fuck. God. His mind short-circuits, goes totally offline for a moment that he doesn't even realize he answers with a punched-out, "Please."

"Lie down, baby, let me take care of you."

Then it's all hot, wet, tight. Sloppy at first, how he likes it. You use a firm grip to stroke in countermotion of your mouth, your tongue teasing the slit and the underside of his cockhead.

"Oh, fuck," He pants, legs spreading wider, the meat of his palms digging into his sockets as he tries not to come in under a minute. He wants to enjoy this, honest, but, fuck, you do that thing with your fist at the tip while sucking his balls and he can't fucking see.

You chuckle, sultry and smooth, then descend again, taking him in your throat and swallowing around him, moaning, kneading his inner thighs and massaging his balls gently with your thumbs until he starts choking out weak little sounds of pleasure.

"Oh God," He gasps wetly, "I'm gonna come, baby, oh fuck!"

But you don't let him, sliding off and rising to your knees. He whines, partially in frustration, partially desperation; both soon quelled when he feels the humid heat of your pussy hovering above him. You line him up, tease him through your folds.

"Want you to finish inside me, baby," You command, and then drop. Taking him in one swift movement that knocks a grunt right from his belly.

He clamps his hands on your hips and groans as you start to ride him, fast, not for your pleasure but his, giving him everything because you're amazing, oh God, you're perfect, so perfect, he can't—Jesus, he can't—oh fuck!

Wally comes with a strained sob of ecstasy, fingers digging into your flesh, eyes clenched shut, and head tipped back; cock pulsing inside you as he releases.

In the soft afterglow, he goes completely pliant, arms falling to his sides. He blinks up at you in awe, sleepy suddenly, brain emitting nothing but static. He gives you a lopsided smile that you return with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Pet his hair and roll to the side onto your back, encouraging him to cuddle into you like he was earlier.

Head on your chest again, he sighs in satisfaction, his leg hooked over your thighs as he clings to you like a limpet so you can't get away.

"Thank you, baby," He murmurs. "You're the best."

He hears you hum in acknowledgement. "You gonna nap for a bit now?"

He nods, trying to burrow deeper into your arms. The safest place in the world, he thinks, after how many times your embrace has saved him from himself.

"You want me to wake you up before I go?"

A noise of protest, his arm tightening around your waist.

You giggle, "You want me to sleep here tonight?"

He doesn't have to say anything for you to know his answer.

Not even a minute later, he's snoring softly, totally content and at peace with you in his bed.

🍋‍🟩___________fin.____________

Anxiety

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if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Simp..

a silly little subby Wally drabble because our clingy boo is fun to write.

October Sun

summary: Wally had lost his grip on reality. Even for a ghost, what had transpired in the theater had been messed up. What the fuck had happened? Where had you gone? Where had everyone gone? How had he ended up in a dirty, cramped cellar that had looked like something out of a horror movie? And who had been the people he'd been stuck with?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: manslaughter. depictions of lethal violence against a child. eventual smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

⏰we continue...🐾 we clocked in at 6818 words. for anyone triggered by violence or murder, especially involving children, the plot will still make sense if you choose to SKIP that scene. it begins in Act 3 when we return to Wally's POV. i have indicated that act with "‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗" to avoid confusion. if you wish to back-arrow out but would like a summary of events, please DM me and i'll happily catch you up in a gentler way 🧡

stay safe & bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.26

Question Three.

Why did the Monster seek revenge?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The supernatural wind hit Wally like a solid force, a blunt and brutal strike that propelled him backward, flung through the air, and spat through the farmhouse door. His back slammed against something hard and immovable, head cracking against the uneven surface. Grunting in pain, he fell forward, breath kicked out of him, barely catching himself before his face met the ground. He lay there for a few beats to allow a wave of nausea to settle before, on a shaky arm, he pushed himself up.

"Jesus Christ," He coughed, sitting back on his haunches, and closed his eyes to center himself. It took too many deep breaths before the throb at the back of his head receded and he felt stable again. In the absence of pain, Wally's other senses returned and he realized something was different. Wrong. The light too bright and the air too damp. He pressed the meat of his hands into his sockets, blinked rapidly, and then opened his eyes fully to take in his surroundings.

Dazed, he uttered, "Uh, okay..." and hoisted himself to his feet to look around.

He wasn't in the theater.

Exposed stone walls, low ceiling, packed dirt floor. Wally did a circuit of the space, as sparse as it was, and tried to find some clue as to where he'd ended up. A weathered work table sat against the wall to his right, its contents the typical accouterments one might find in a hobbyist's garage—drill, crowbar, hammer, welding torch. Totally normal. Except for the chemistry set assembled across the back of it.

"Weird," Wally muttered, fingers ghosting over the looping glass tubes and empty beakers. He picked up a beaker and sniffed, his face instantly twisting into an expression of disgust, "Gah!" He shoved the beaker back on the table, panting through his nose to expel the pungent odor. "Nasty."

Moving around, he saw a metal-framed shelf boasting three-deep rows of jars containing a variety of dried plants, all labeled—datura, rose, groundcherry, tobacco, mandragora, and more—and tightly sealed. That explained the reek from the beaker, Wally thought, cringing as it lingered in his nostrils. It was so bad he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. Heady and floral. Like licking soap.

Eventually, he came to a stop where he'd appeared, nothing else of interest in the space apart from a bare, stained mattress lying in the middle of the floor and a pile of wood under the staircase. Rising on his toes, he peered out one of the high windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar; a landmark or sign or anything. But there was nothing. Just trees and unpaved road and more trees.

As he sank back to the flats of his feet, the world around him flickered like film in an old VHS. Fast as a blink. Gone then there. Wally's eyes widened and he staggered a short distance, stunned that things had gone from milky daylight to dark and stormy in no time at all. As if the day had been sucked away as night forced its way in. And more shockingly, Wally wasn't alone anymore.

"Fuck. FUCK." Someone shouted. A deep, male voice that belonged to a man in uniform who was pacing a groove into the floor, gesturing wildly; hands gripping his head, beating the wall, tugging his military jacket. Agitated. Feral. Eyes blazing as he climbed the stairs, banged on the closed door at the top, kicked and punched it, "LET ME OUT!!" and then descended again.

Wally cleared his throat, cautious as he approached the man, "Erm...hi?" He started, hands raised like he was about to engage an angry lion. "Dude, are you okay?"

The man didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even seem to hear Wally. Which, sure, Wally was used to after decades of being ignored by the living, except that this man wasn't the living. Wally felt it in his bones the same way he always did. That lack of physical pressure that arced from living bodies. Yet, even when Wally stepped directly into the man's space to force his attention, the man didn't bat an eye. Continued cursing and lashing out at everything within reach. Everything but Wally.

"What the hell?" Wally murmured, peering at the man and then around the cellar. He tried again, waving his arms, getting right in the man's face, "Hellooo~?"

Nothing.

The man continued his rampage, grabbed the hammer off the worktable, and began to smash the jars on the shelf, yelling with every strike. They reset in seconds and he'd do it all over again. And again. And again.

"Cool." Wally swallowed, "That's cool," a tad more anxious than he had been moments before. Being dead and trapped and ignored by the majority of people he was surrounded by, he could handle. Being dead and trapped and completely invisible to everyone, including other ghosts? He didn't like that at all. He had to get out of here. Now.

Wally charged up the stairs two at a time, his breathing ragged as he began to panic. He grabbed the door handle and twisted to wrench the door open, only it seemed he needn't have bothered as someone on the other side was already on their way in. Wally reared back as the door was kicked open, stumbling a few steps down before he pressed himself against the wall to make room for that arc of physical presence that pushed outward from a living body.

When Wally glanced at the person, his mouth went dry; his eyes bulged; his heart stopped mid-tick. He hadn't felt this lost or confused since the first few minutes of his death.

"H-holy fucking Christ." Wally stammered, watching the man—who Wally was pretty fucking sure was still downstairs breaking shit—shove through the door, his steps laden under the weight of what he carried. Wait. Not what. Who. "Holy. Fucking. Christ." Wally repeated, syllables breathless and strained.

One body slung over the man's shoulder, the other, much smaller, tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. Both limp, unconscious, limbs loose and heads swaying with every encumbered movement. The man ranted, words punched out of him as he stomped down the stairs one heavy step at a time, briefly stopping to adjust the body on his shoulder before continuing.

"—and had I known, you useless little bitch, I would've taken care of it while he was still in the womb." The man spat at someone who'd remained upstairs, just out of sight. Almost regretfully, the man added under his breath, "Save us both from the pain of doing it like this."

Wally's attention snapped to the bottom of the steps when an identical voice shouted, "What the hell are you doing!?" And then, "Jesus," distressed, "they're just kids!!"

Twins? Wally questioned of the two men who were identical down to their military-issued boots. He followed Living Man down the stairs, watching as Living Man teetered slightly at the last step before correcting his stance. While the two men might've been mirror images of each other, Wally noted that Living Man moved differently than Dead Man. Dead Man was straight lines and authoritative strides. Living Man, on the other hand, was strangely graceful despite his bulk. Sort of...feminine.

Living Man scowled at Dead Man, biting out, "You have no idea what is really going on, you ignorant fool," as he moved further into the cellar, dropping the body tucked under his arm unceremoniously onto the mattress before trudging to the back wall. With more consideration, he lay the second body down, pillowing the head and placing the arms and legs in a comfortable position. He caressed a cheek, gaze softening as he muttered, "We'll get this all fixed, child." A shuddery breath, "I still need you, after all."

Wally frowned as he noted another difference. The way Living Man spoke felt unnatural in that voice. The care in each intonation, the antique vernacular. Dead Man didn't speak like that. He was rough, gritty; belly-deep pitch, and sawed off suffixes. A sensation of wrongness crept up Wally's spine as he thought about it. There were many weirdnesses setting off alarm bells in Wally's brain—the fact that Living Man, like you, could commune with the dead and that Living Man had apparently abducted two people and delivered them to a creepy cellar. But also...something Wally couldn't yet identify.

He shifted closer to Living Man and the body, the person, on the ground, leaning over to look at who Living Man had spoken to so apologetically. And, oh God, no, no way. How!? He sprung forward, dropped to his knees, immediately taking Living Man's place when he stood and walked away.

"Baby!"

Although you looked younger by a few years, he knew without a doubt that it was you. His stomach flipped, heart beating at triple speed in his chest, hands near your face as he tried in vain to rouse you. But his palms wouldn't touch. A thick halo of energy repelling his efforts. You looked pale, sick, a frail little thing drenched to the bone and Wally whimpered in dismay when he couldn't hold you. All he wanted in that moment was to scoop you up and run, to get you far away from whatever sinister plot was unfolding around him.

"Fuck." He choked, "Fuck, what did he do to you?!"

Then he smelled it on your rattled breath. Heady. Floral. Like licking soap.

At the bottom of the stairs, Living Man called up, "Hurry up! I didn't bring you here to sit idly in the kitchen, I brought you here to learn!" But Wally was too busy trying to figure out how to wake you up, how to help, he needed to help. Distantly, he heard faint footsteps descending, mild and even.

"What are you going to do to them?" Dead Man asked in a tone that edged on fear.

Living Man didn't respond, simply moved toward the mattress. Rather, a new voice answered Dead Man's question, a voice that made Wally's blood run cold. All-American, sweet as sugar, an amused hum before a statement that, on the surface was friendly, but beneath was cold and unaffected. "Isn't it obvious?" A pause. "She's going to kill them."

Time stopped. The world narrowed as Wally turned slowly to confirm the impossible. Standing primly at the end of the mattress with a darling dear smile on her face was someone Wally had seen every day since his death. Every day, that was, until last Friday.

"Janet..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You froze when the man held out his hand, staring right at you with a soft, private smile that made your skin crawl. It didn't look right. A sharp, twisty curl to its corners. You didn't know what to do. Running seemed pointless. Never mind that you couldn't—fuck, please—make your feet move. Couldn't make your tongue work or your lungs expand or your heartbeat slow. The man's smile widened, uncanny and odd, and he shifted closer.

"Amelia," He said with a fond lilt.

Finally, you budged your foot a scant half-step back, muscles stiff with fear. In your periphery, you saw something reach toward the man's waiting hand and then a voice like birdsong replied, "Alastair," with equal fondness. Your attention snapped to the right, the fear abating somewhat, and took in a vision of a woman. About your mother's age, auburn hair pleated and pinned; eyes that sparkled with an attractive combination of mischief and mirth; and a pink petal smile that grew as she placed her delicate hand in Alastair's.

Beside her was a much older woman whose severe features shared a resemblance to Amelia's. Beneath her wrinkles, the roundness of her face was the same, and her eyes held that same youthful sparkle. However, unlike Amelia, and the other female guests, who were draped in tasseled frocks and strings of pearls, the woman wore a beautifully beaded floor-length gown, her hair fluffed and wrapped in matching Gibson Girl style.

"Anabelle," Alastair bowed in deference, plucking her gloved hand in his and bussing a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm so pleased you were able to join us."

Anabelle's only response was to nod her head and take back her hand. She swept her gaze to Amelia's and the two appeared to have an entire conversation with their eyes in the time it took you to process that, no, Alastair hadn't been looking at you, he'd been looking through you.

A blessing as much as a curse, you thought grimly, still uncertain as to where the hell you were and what the hell was going on. You watched in fascination as the crowd parted for Alastair and Amelia, their hands joined and raised as if they were stepping onto a ballroom floor, about to engage in a waltz. Anabelle glided along behind them at a close distance, hands clasped, eyes trained ahead, unflinching. Instinctively, you followed, observing how the crowd closed the space behind you and positioned themselves in an arc that faced a raised platform you hadn't noticed before. They moved in perfect synchronicity. A sci-fi hive mind that made a cold chill trickle through your veins.

When you turned again to creep along behind Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, your gaze snagged on what was at the center of the formation. Almost choked on your own saliva. Your brain seemed to malfunction as your eyes absorbed the image of three low stone altars set into the shape of a triquetra. On each altar—holy hell—lay a person. Two young women and a young man. Unbound, eyes closed, skin like porcelain. Serene in repose. If you had to guess, they couldn't have been much older than you, possibly even the same age, and all were strikingly beautiful.

Sacrifices. The reality hit you like a punch. Casting about, you began to understand exactly what was going on, Ajay's voice echoing in your head: "The Something-Something of Dagda."

The unconscious teenagers were dressed in ceremonial robes, green velvet with gold clasps at the waist, but were otherwise nude beneath. Their chests were exposed, ash smeared like ink down their sternums in the same triskele pattern you'd seen on the broaches in the portraits. There were other symbols across their collars, over their hearts, wrists, ankles, and foreheads. Similar to the bastardized symbols you'd been investigating with Ajay, except more elegantly drawn and with flourish.

You approached the young woman closest to you, blonde with a dusting of freckles across her nose, and crouched beside the altar to inspect her. When you leaned in, a bold, flowery smell tickled your nostrils. Heady. Familiar. Like Aurora's horrible tea but worse.

"Dearest friends," Amelia began, projecting her voice to be heard in the large space. She stood behind a podium on the platform, Alastair and Anabelle flanking her. Amelia's smile was gentle and kind as she regarded her congregation. "Tonight, you will bear witness to what we have all been working so hard toward." The crowd applauded, some of the men declaring hear hear! while the women tittered daintily. "Though not all of us could be here tonight, I am pleased with our number." She paused, expression softening, "After all, it takes the power of many to change the world, does it not?"

Again, applause which Amelia silenced with a faint gesture of her hands. "Before we get started—" Anabelle and Alastair turned on their heels in synch, striding to a ceremonial table at the back of the platform, each lifting a carafe of what appeared to be red wine before stepping down from the platform and starting to replenish the crowd's empty coupes. "—We drink to the Father who will deliver us into a new and glorious future."

Everyone waited patiently for Alastair and Anabelle to finish and resume their places on either side of Amelia with their own coupes in hand. Amelia raised one that had been set for her on the podium, stepping out in front of it to admire the crowd who mimicked her action in one hybrid motion.

"To youth and revival!" Amelia saluted and the group returned the claim in a boastful chorus.

You glanced around as everyone chugged their drinks in unison, the sound of indulgent slurping spooky in the large, echoey space. Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, however, didn't take more than a refined sip, watching on with secretive smiles as the crowd downed the wine and then placed their empty coupes on the floor at their feet. Dainty clinks against the marble and the shuffling of cloth all made as if by one person. Vaguely, you pondered if they'd learned the choreography like churchgoers learned at what intervals to stand and sit.

Amelia began to speak again, but you weren't listening. It was the usual culty drivel anyway: We're here to celebrate the Father's approval; we're going to live forever with His blessing, blah blah blah. Rather, you stepped onto the platform and moved toward the table at the back, wanting to get a better look at the items laid across it. The whole thing—steeped in pomp and circumstance—felt contrived. As if put on to give the crowd's devotion value. Shallow. False. Orchestrated. A script and a stage to give a convincing show.

You weren't sure where that thought came from, but the longer it lingered the more certain you were that you were right. The pieces on the table were neatly placed; the carafes equal distances from the centerpiece—a green silk cushion with a wooden box upon it—a couple of blunt daggers that, so far, you didn't see a use for; and an arrangement of tarot cards—the Juggler, the Lovers, the Wheel of Fortune, and the House of God. Major Arcana. Set out to look important but meaningless within the context of the ritual unfolding behind you.

Thump.

Your head shot up and you spun around, marching to the front of the platform to stand between Amelia and Anabelle.

Thump. Thump. Thump thump thump—

One by one, Amelia's flock collapsed, some clutching their throats, red eyes bulging, cheeks flushed, lips purple. Others simply fell like puppets whose strings were cut. Meanwhile, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle remained poised, monitoring the proceedings with mild expressions until each member of the crowd was a mass on the floor, their bodies forming a perfect arc. Although no one could see or hear or sense you, you took several steps back, away from the danger that had manifested; away from those you knew had to be responsible.

At her sides, Amelia turned her palms face-up, closing her fingers around Alastair and Anabelle's hands when they took hers. "Let's begin," She said in a tranquil tone, lifting her chin as she led Alastair and Anabelle in a chant. The words were soft around the syllables, drawn and pretty and entirely foreign. A language lost to time that was only resurrected for this purpose. You gasped as the bodies on the floor jerked and quivered, chests arching up to release amorphous balls of bright white-gold light that floated above the bodies they belonged to.

Not lights, you corrected, souls.

"Shit." You croaked, watching in horror and fascination as the souls swelled and bled into each other, forming a dome around the altars at their center. A breeze fluttered through the space, quickly turning into a wind and then a roaring gale like the one that had flung you out of the theater and into this nightmare. Amelia continued to chant, louder and louder as the gale found its strength, her knuckles white as she gripped Alastair and Anabelle's hands, the vein in her neck throbbing, eyes rolling back, shouting the spell into existence.

You raised your arms against the gale, shuffled further away, and crouched in front of the table, trying to glimpse what was happening through the building supernova ahead. The light grew more intense, bigger and brighter, and Amelia kept chanting, ferocious now, practically foaming at the mouth as she screamed above the powerful noise of the gale.

And then, as the roar increased, her voice diminished and together, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle took a step forward. And then another. Slow. Deliberate. Down the few platform steps, shedding their skins like old coats. Their bodies dropped in heaps on the platform behind them as they continued forward, unphased. Two more thoughtful steps, then the light embraced them.

Unlike how it had started, it ended abruptly. The light expanded to the edge of the arc of bodies as if trying to escape before popping like a balloon. Shattered into fine dust that glittered in the air, but turned to motes of dry ash when they reached the ground. The sudden silence was heavy, weighing down on your shoulders as you pushed yourself to your feet, short of breath in the aftermath.

Just as you climbed down from the platform, you heard a sharp inhale, followed by a second, followed by a third. Simultaneously, three pairs of eyes flew open. The colors in them waned, changed from one to another. Amber to blue. Hazel to blue. Brown to seafoam green. Features subtly shifted, freckles faded or appeared, lips pinked or paled, hairs leached new hues.

On the altars, the three teenagers sat up; stiff and labored.

Alive.

But no longer themselves.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Four.

What happens as a result of Frankenstein's ambitions?

‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗

Wally stared, stunned, as Janet strode to the top of the mattress and knelt as if about to pray, setting her hands modestly in her lap. She was exactly as Wally remembered her. Brown hair perfectly groomed, outfit tidy, blue eyes sharp against a sedate expression. She studied Living Man as he hovered above the small body he'd deposited on the mattress. It was a little boy, Wally realized, dread sinking into his bones. Adorable and pudgy, no older than six or seven. Tiny beneath Living Man's bulk.

"No!" Dead Man cried out, flinging himself at Living Man but tripping and dropping to the ground on his side before he could make contact.

Janet laughed, nails on a chalkboard, "Idiot. You're a ghost. You can't touch the living." A smarmy smile and then, "Even if it is your body."

Wally gawped. Because that wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. People couldn't steal bodies like that...could they? And it couldn't be a ghost thing, definitely not. Wally couldn't get close enough to walk through a living person, never mind shove their soul out so he could wear their body like a meat suit. The only conclusion he could draw was it had to be magic, something you might know about—you you, the you he knew, safe and healthy back in the theater where Wally hoped to God you still were.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, on guard between you and the rest of the room as if it would do any good when Living Man decided to do whatever he planned to do with you. It didn't matter, Wally had to try. You looked one strong breeze away from crumbling to dust and he couldn't live with himself if he sat back and watched, a silent audience to a movie he never wanted to see.

"I'll get you out of here." He promised you, jaw tense, determined against all odds, "I don't know how, but, I swear, I'll figure it out."

Dead Man hollered in frustration, hit the ground with his fist before hauling himself upright to attack Living Man again. Failed. Tried three more times before he fell back on his ass, elbows on his knees, head hung in defeat. Throughout the commotion, Living Man hadn't so much as flinched, totally transfixed on the little boy beneath him, thumb stroking his cheek, eyes brimming with sorrow as he muttered, "You shouldn't have come back...you self-righteous bastard," the last word spat in a hush that Wally's ears almost hadn't picked up.

"He's just a kid." Dead Man implored, broken. "He hasn't even lived yet."

Living Man snorted, "That's where you're wrong, Christopher." Living Man turned his head to pin Dead Man—Christopher—with a dark stare. "You should know better given your family's connectedness."

Christopher growled, "I told you before, I don't know anything about that! We aren't magic! We're normal people!"

"Wrong again," Living Man rolled his eyes derisively, "Your family has been a thorn in my side since the earliest days of the Order. How else could I have taken your body so easily?"

Shaking his head, pressing his palms into his eyes, openly annoyed, "What fucking order? What do you even mean!?" Christopher dropped his hands, casting about, arms gesturing wide, "My grandfather was a beef farmer. My grandmother was a seamstress. My dad worked at the gravel pits. He was a loser and a drunk who beat my mom until she never woke up, what the fuck makes us so special!?"

"Your bloodline." Living Man stated, the hardness in him abating when he returned his gaze to the little boy. "It's funny, you know..." Living Man began conversationally, "I thought I'd taken care of all the loose ends last time. Turned out I was wrong and now I've spent the best parts of this life snuffing out every. single. one of them. all over again." He chuckled, dry and without humor, "You should be glad that I need your daughter or she'd be next." At the last part, Living Man shot Christopher a grin that would look at home on the Devil's face.

"You piece of shit," Christopher hissed, "You'll never lay a hand on her!"

"You won't be around to stop us." Janet chimed in blithely, leaning forward to put her hands on the little boy's shoulders as Living Man instructed her to. She seemed surprised that she could touch him, giving Living Man a brief look of amazement.

"They're the same," Living Man explained. "It's part of their connectedness. Death ushered them into the world and left a piece of himself within them." Living Man continued, fitting his big hand around the little boy's small neck, not tight, but with intention.

"You can't hurt him," Christopher pleaded, "He's six, he doesn't know anything. He can't do anything!"

Janet piped in, voice thick with undisguised condescension, "The thing about souls, Chris-to-pher," A lovely smile, "Is that they're infinite." She deferred to Living Man, "Right?"

Living Man appeared reluctant to agree, like Janet was a fly he couldn't swat, bothersome, eager for approval. "Yes. And, regrettably for dear Aiden, his knows too much, whether or not he remembers." Living Man sighed, burdened, "You are already too powerful, child. I cannot risk letting this go on any longer..." His hand began to tighten around Aiden's throat. "May God forgive me..."

Wally spurred into action, pivoting to lean over you, "Hey, hey, come on sweetheart, you've gotta get up. Please....fuck, please, get up!" He remembered what Living Man had said, that you were still part of some bigger plan, but Wally didn't trust it, gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard Aiden start to protest, clearly coming to when his lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen.

"Stop!" Wally shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks (when had he started crying?), his hands over his ears to muffle the sound of Aiden's gasps, choking, begging for his big sister—"S-sissy May..." Please no, please no, "I'm so sorry, kid, I'm so sorry." Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop, stop, stop. Wally hacked a feeble whine, a kicked dog of a sound, hating himself, hating the world, because he couldn't do a damn thing to make it "STOP!"

When Wally cried out, a pulse of energy burst through the room, emanating from Aiden's tiny body. Below Wally, your eyes shot open and you inhaled as if sucking in that first breath after being held under water. You heaved and coughed, rolling over to leverage yourself upright on your arm. You were disoriented and muzzy, movements drunk.

"Ai-Aiden?" Your head hurt and your limbs were wet-paper weak, mouth tasting like soap. You had no idea where you were. The last thing you remembered was the back seat of Christopher's car; accepting a juice box after handing one to Aiden and helping Aiden puncture his with the straw. "Aiden, what's...?" You squinted your eyes to hone your vision and then screamed when you grasped what was happening, "AIDEN!"

Janet shrieked, "She's awake!" just as you launched yourself at Living Man, tackling him like a linebacker.

Commanding Janet, Living Man released Aiden, "Hold him down! Don't let him go!" to fend you off. It didn't take much, you weren't strong enough against his mass and still weak from whatever you'd been dosed with. A mouse against a bear. Aiden sobbed, Janet kept her hands firmly on him so he couldn't crawl away, and Living Man managed to push you off with little to no effort. One punch and you muddled backwards several steps to crumple onto the cold, packed dirt.

"You can't stop her!" Janet sneered at you, "You're just a twig!"

On the other side of the mattress, Christopher rose, snarling under his breath, "But I can."

Seconds. That's how fast everything happened. Wally barely had time to jump out of the way (not that it would've mattered) as Christopher rushed you, propelled himself forward, fueled by adrenaline and anger, and hurled himself at you. No. Into you. Your ghost lurched out of your body, stammering into the wall behind you where you sank to the ground, eyes as wide and frightened as Wally's.

Living Man yelled at Janet, "You stupid girl! You didn't make it strong enough! You didn't listen!"

"I did exactly what you told me!" Janet insisted, struggling to keep Aiden in place as he writhed and jerked, wailing to be released, pleading for his Sissy May, for his mommy, for home, he wanted to go home, snotty and tear-stained and so, so small.

Without hesitation, Living Man seized his tiny neck again and squeezed with renewed vengeance. "You have to die, you bastard. You made me do this! It's your own fault!" And Janet held down his arms when he tried to claw Living Man's wrists, gagging, gasping, apologizing for something he thought he'd done to cause this, wanting desperately for it to end.

In your body, Christopher swayed on your feet, the sensation of going from massive, military-built to preteen featherweight dizzying. But he still had his strength, he knew that, to his very core he knew that and Wally could tell Christopher knew that without having it said aloud because his eyes—your eyes—bled to hazel, the same color as Christopher's, as Living Man's. Wally knee-walked closer to you, to your ghost. You were wobbly, fragile as a fawn, calling Aiden's name over and over as you wept.

Christopher turned your head to look at you and then—Wally's breath caught—he looked directly at Wally. In the eye. No questions, no uncertainty, no confusion. Just a firm order. "Don't let her see." And he sprinted forward. Wally didn't second guess it. He shifted his body to shield you from whatever the fuck was about to happen, his chest tight, a lump in his throat that strangled his words as he said them.

"Don't look, sweetheart," He choked, vision starting to blur as he was forced to watch you in agony, helpless to save Aiden. Remarkably, when you caved to your knees, reaching toward the nightmare unraveling behind Wally, you and he made contact. "God, f-fuck," Wally stuttered, catching you, grabbing your head, and pressing your face into his chest. "Don't look, I've got you, I'm here." Every word felt like cinder in his mouth. Meaningless. Empty. Because a little boy who meant so much to you was dying and all Wally could do was hold you as it happened. "I'm sorry," He whimpered, "I'm so sorry."

And then Wally heard Janet shout, "Amelia!" in warning, followed by a bloodcurdling squelch.

Wally chanced a look over his shoulder. Christopher in your body had a crowbar in his hands, raised to deliver another strike, stance set, face twisted in rage, and something else...something like grief. It's his body, Wally thought despondently. May God have mercy. Christopher kicked Living Man onto his back on the other side of the mattress, Living Man groaning and disoriented. Janet was hysterical, scurrying into a corner to hide.

"You piece of shit," Christopher bit out as he positioned himself above Living Man, one foot on either side of Living Man's ribs. "You will never. use me. again." And he swung the crowbar with the strength of a grown man, the forked tip stabbing Living Man's temple. Again. Again. Again. Over and over until Living Man's face—Christopher's face—was caved in, a pulpy mess of sinew, blood, and bone.

In Wally's arms, you cried. You cried like the world had ended. Like love didn't exist. Like all you'd ever feel again is hollow and hurt. His arms tightened around you as he rocked you, wet sniffles and a broken heart, shushing you softly. "It'll be okay, you'll be okay." He didn't think it would be. Didn't know how you'd survived this, how you had a life after this with laughter and friendship and trust.

If murdering a ghost was possible, Wally would've killed Janet. He wasn't sure if his ability to touch you extended to her—she certainly hadn't indicated that she'd seen him—but if he could, he'd beat her into oblivion. Because she'd been here, she'd participated. Wally had always had a sense about her; that she was twisted and ugly beneath the America's Sweetheart mask she'd worn around Split River High's dead.

In a voice that grated Wally's nerves, "Wh-what have you done!?" Janet panicked and scrambled toward the mangled corpse on her hands and knees. "You've ruined everything!"

Christopher tossed the crowbar aside, giving Janet a mean look as he voiced Wally's thoughts, "If I could kill you too, I would." And then, he turned on your heel and marched with purpose toward the worktable. In one swipe, he sent the chemistry set to the ground where it shattered. Next, he toppled the shelf and stomped on the jars that didn't break on impact. Finally, he stumbled back to you and Wally. He—you—was covered in blood, hair stringy and matted with it, skin stained red, speckles and smears across your face and hands and soaked into your clothes. Wally would never be able to unsee that image.

The cellar was eerily silent apart from Janet's sniveling and your weak sobs.

"I'm sorry, kid." Christopher lamented, placing a hand on your shoulder. He looked at Wally and said quietly, "You have to let her go now."

Wally swallowed, "You can see me?" as if that mattered right now.

Christopher snorted as if it was somehow funny, "It's him," he nodded to indicate behind him. "You're here but not here. I'm here but not here. A loop he dragged you into. A cry for help."

"I don't understand," Wally said, further securing his arms around you, unwilling to let you go.

"You will," Christopher assured, and then it was like he switched, got back into character, an actor on a film set redoing his lines when the director called action. "You have to let me in, kid." He told you, gentle, parental, taking your spectral face in your own physical palms. "You have to let me in so I can get out."

You didn't even protest. Simply closed your eyes and evened your breathing; embraced your physical body like a friend and melted back into it while Christopher slumped out.

Wally attempted to take your hand and give you some comfort, but, as it'd been before, he couldn't get a grip, unable to touch you, repelled by that thick halo of living energy.

Christopher crouched in front of you, blocking your view of the mattress, of Janet who was scooping flesh and brain back into the gored face of Christopher's body as if she could piece it back together, a sick cat with her dramatic wails. "I need you to do something for me, kid," Christopher said, pausing for a moment, expression apologetic, "There's something in my pocket. I...I need it to find it's way to my daughter."

You nodded, but it was clear you were only half there. Your eyes were glassy, gaze distant. Christopher didn't seem to mind as he continued, "Please, tell my daughter I'm sorry." His voice sounded pained. "Tell her...Tell Maddie I love her," and you nodded as if you understood. As if the request was as normal as pass the salt.

Before Wally could react to what he'd heard, his wrists and ankles were suddenly restrained, pitch black shadow clutching him and yanking him back through the farmhouse door before it slammed closed and vanished.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"It worked!" The boy declared, excited, admiring his new hands with a lopsided grin.

You couldn't know for certain who was who, but it didn't take a genius to deduce that the boy was likely Alastair. The girls, however, were impossible to distinguish, both moving with the grace of a grown woman of high social status. Neither seemed as taken by their new skins as Alastair; another day, another body to wear.

"We need to finish the ritual," One of the girls said primly, brown curls getting lighter with every moment that passed. The girl glided to the platform, up the steps, and to the table at the back. She stood at the box on the cushion. Opened the lid and retrieved whatever was inside, concealing the object in the folds of her robe.

Meanwhile, the other girl padded to the podium and fetched three glass vials from the cupboard in its reservoir. Corked. Filled with clear liquid.

Alastair cocked his head as he watched the girl at the podium come to him. "What else is there to do?" He asked, brow furrowing when she handed him a vial.

"We have to bind our souls to our new vessels," She smiled prettily. "Drink up."

Trusting the instruction, Alastair uncorked his vial and poured the contents into his mouth. You glanced between the girls, but neither one followed suit, merely observing Alastair as if he were a monkey performing tricks in a big top. They shared a look similar to the one you'd seen Amelia and Anabelle share earlier; a whole conversation passing between them. Alastair didn't notice, swishing the liquid in his mouth before swallowing, frowning at the vial.

"I thought their souls were what bound us to the bodies." He said after a few beats.

The girl who'd gone to the box shook her head. "Oh, no," She said, speaking as one would to a child, "That was merely to cast the lambs from their flesh."

It sounded like a lie, you thought, peering between the girls.

The first girl lifted her hand to cradle Alastair's soft jaw, "There you go, good boy," She praised when he started to look dazed.

"What's happening?" He breathed, strained.

The girl regarded him sympathetically, "You truly were marvelous, Ali." She sighed, "But mama thinks it best that you don't come with us." Amelia. It had to be.

Alastair swayed on his feet, "I don't understand," and if he could muster concern or shock or anything more than groggy confusion, you were sure he'd make a run for it.

The other girl—Anabelle—spoke, stepping into Alastair's space and presenting him with the object she'd removed from the box. A shiny silver revolver. She pressed it into his hand, curled his fingers where they needed to go, her smile somehow simultaneously wicked and gentle. "We couldn't have succeeded without your connections, Lord Belgrave, and, for that, I thank you." Anabelle took Amelia's hand to lead her away, "However, my daughter is correct. You are a loose thread that needs snipping."

Alastair began to shake, scraping together a sentiment to Amelia, "But...I loved you."

Pitying, Amelia answered, "I know."

Anabelle lifted her chin, authoritative and commanding, voice smooth as she directed Alastair to, "Put the gun to your head." Which he obeyed, the metal rattling as he put the barrel to his temple, the action obviously made against his will.

"Please," He urged, "I could help you. I know more like them."

Amelia exhaled sharply and reminded him, "But they don't know you."

"Enough," Anabelle said, forcing Alastair's attention back to her.

Again, Alastair begged for his life, "Please, I don't want to die like this."

"You don't have a choice," Anabelle said, and then, "Now be a good boy and pull the trigger."

One thin, shallow breath.

Two.

Three.

BANG.

And you were snatched back through the farmhouse door.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FIVE - PART TWENTY-SEVEN

note: unedited. written at midnight. you know the drill: i will most likely come back to tinker at the bits i think need fixing 😅

this chapter was written to Daylight (Cinematic) by David Kushner (Act 3). parts of Act 3 had also been inspired by Devil Devil by Milck, specifically the violence that unfolds when Christopher Nears attacks Living Man. the last act was written to Outta My Head by The Eagle Rock Gospel Singers. if anyone is interested in an October Sun playlist, it will be released upon completion of the story (i.e.: after PART 27)🥲🥀

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: y'all know, it ain't a thing around here anymore due to the overuse of ritual magic, some demon-summoning, and an unfortunate sacrifice that resulted in more technical issues than tumblr could handle 🔮🗡️ if you'd like to be kept up-to-date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. we have fun here (•¯ ∀ ¯•)

please simon content i love you 🙏

Hey love bug, I was working on a Simon drabble called The After Party when you sent me this. Its a Sub!Simon Elroy x Gn!Reader. Hope you like it 💞

my biggest red flag is that I can listen to the most brutal murder documentary's while writing smut.

Spencer: I've been struggling with drug use after being kidnapped and nearly dying.

The team:

you guys made luigi mangione trend for days and I need to see the same energy for brianna boston. she is a 43 year old mother of three who ended a phone call with blue cross blue shield (after being denied a claim) “delay deny depose, you people are next” and is now being held under a 100,000$ bond and could face FIFTEEN years of prison if charged. she has no weapons, her record is clean, and yet she is being held behind bars. they are afraid of the public and are trying to subdue. do not let them!!!! be outraged that our freedom of speech is being threatened!!!!! deny defend depose! free brianna boston!

Anxiety Reversed

summary: giftie. Wally is always there when you need him most, everything else be damned.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. drabble. insinuated anxiety attack. comfort.

💌 written for @schoolspiritsfan14 based on their comment on Anxiety 2. i hope this fills some of the holes we all wish Wally would fill 😭

bon reading, frens

___________________________🍋‍🟩

Anxiety Reversed

Wally's off like a shot. Helmet tossed to the ground, cleats moving over pavement then linoleum, charging through the halls at speed toward the first-floor girls' bathroom.

Number 36, Matt Wilson, dashed onto the field after a quick break, beelining it to Wally with a summons. He'd seen you stumble into the bathroom from the library, breathing ragged, clearly unsteady, phone clutched in your hand—to call Wally, no doubt, but his phone was on silent in his gym bag in the boys' locker room, fuck.

Now, Wally skids through the door, pushes through the circle of concerned girls who all screech and yell at Wally that he's in the wrong place, get out, you can't be in here!

"Fuck. Off." He drops to his knees in front of you, hands on your shoulders, "Baby, hey, I'm here, I've got you."

Your breathing is short and shallow, body trembling under his touch, and he gathers you in his arms. Shifts. His back to the wall, your back to his chest, his hands cradling your ribs as he helps you breathe in a steady rhythm.

He starts to ramble about plays, about drills, about Coach and his new favorite all-star, Brandon Bowers. He's a dickhead, but Wally has to admit, he's good. Almost as good as Wally himself, though not quite. He tells you about the rat he's sure he saw scurrying out of the cafeteria on his way to practice, big as a cat, evil-eyed and scheming to take over the school.

That earns him a choked, hiccupy laugh, your body shaking for a different reason that puts a relieved smile on Wally's face. When he finally looks up, the crowd of girls is gone, the bathroom empty apart from you and him, and he relaxes further.

He has no trouble telling people where to go, but he doesn't want to piss off people who showed genuine concern, either.

"Thanks, Wally..." You murmur, finally breathing normally, curling up sideways in his arms and resting your head against his shoulder. "I just—"

"You don't need to explain, baby, it's okay." Wally insists.

You do anyway, "I forgot about the History project. Completely. And it's due tomorrow, and it's worth so much of our final grade—" Your words get thin, scratchy, and Wally squeezes you closer.

"Hey, hey, hey, I'll help you, okay? And, at worst, you can ask Ms. Fields for an extension, she's cool like that." He peeks down at you, looks you in the eye with a reassuring smile, "I promise, babygirl, it's gonna be fine."

"But—"

"Nope,"

"Wally!"

"Nuh-uh," He says with finality, "I make the rules. You're not going to fail, everything is going to be fine."

You give him a grumpy look, "Because you said so?"

"Exactly," He says, big, lopsided grin on his face. "Because I said so." And Wally does have the tendency to be right about things like this, so you have to believe him.

You seem to, settling into his arms, heaving a sigh and closing your eyes and letting Wally soothe the tension out of your arms and back for as many minutes as he sees fit.

Eventually, he makes it back on the field. Not to practice. Nah, that ship has sailed, sorry Coach, he has somewhere more important to be. With your hand in his, Wally tells Coach that he's got to go, something important has come up, but don't worry, he's game-day ready and won't let Coach down.

Coach eyes you, but Wally stands firm, dares Coach with his eyes to say anything. About you, about why Wally's cutting practice early, bring it on, he'll argue until he's as blue as his jersey.

When Wally gets you home, he's right on task, outlining the History project, brainstorming with you, helping you come up with what to say to Ms. Fields when you ask for an extension tomorrow.

"I'll be right there," Wally assures, pecks a kiss to your forehead, "Don't worry."

And he is right there, always, every time. Because that boy loves you so wholly and completely, nothing else in the world matters unless you have a smile on your face.

🍋‍🟩___________fin.____________

Anxiety | Anxiety 2

also on AO3!

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Punctuation..

a fluffy, cozy look at how Wally Clark delivers boyfriend-goals when you're on your period and everything sucks.

Reblog if you've ever cried over the death of a fictional character