Anxiety 2

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

The After Party

Sub!Simon Elroy x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Porn with the tiniest speck of plot, Obviously smut, Edging, Overstimulation, Dacryphilia.

Your hand was wrapped around the base of Simon's cock, moving with slow strokes that made his brain melt as desperate whines fell from his lips.

He was laid back on a bed that belonged to whoever's house you were in, while you sat on his thigh, having a perfect view of his face. You had dragged him to a random party, convincing him that it was gonna be fun. Dancing, karaoke, and a few drinks. That was all it was supposed to be.

But the way you bumped and grinded on him in front of everyone drove him crazy. The tightening in his pants becoming almost unbearable. His hands digging into your hips, dragging you off into a random room.

He couldn't help it, he needed you. The buzzing in his head from the few shots you convinced him to take made him not care where you were, the only thought occupying his mind was the way you made him feel with something as simple as your hand.

His tip had grown from a light brownish pink to a deep red, precum leaking from the angry head due to the amount of time you had brought him almost to his peak and denied him the pleasure of release.

"Baby" a deep whine left his lips. "Please" He reached out to grab your hand but you pushed him away, giving him a stern look as he let out a sob.

You lightly slapped his cock making him jump, another quiet sob racking his body.

"you wanna cum?" Fake sympathy laced your voice, a mocking pout forming on your lips. He nodded vigorously, body shaking slightly with the force of his movement. "Words." A rule you had made a while back, no words, no release.

"Yes! Yes, please" His words were jumbled, strewned together through ragged breaths and quiet cries. "Need it" The pout that decorated his face and his teary brown eyes are what made you give in.

Without a word you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock for the millionth time tonight and delivered hard fast strokes. Desperate cries left his lips, throwing his head back as he screwed his eyes shut.

Your free hand reached up, grabbing his jaw and angled it towards you. "No, look at me baby." Your voice was gentle. You saw his lip quiver, it took everything in him to force his eyes open. A far away fucked out look filling them.

You leaned in, giving a soft gentle kiss before pulling away, a huge smile on your face. "You're so fucking pretty when you cry." The praise is what pushed him over the edge. Thick, hot ropes of cum covering your hand as you worked him through his orgasm. His desperate cries, hopefully being covered by the music playing downstairs, filled the room.

After his body finally relaxed, limbs turning into jello beneath you, your hand unwrapped from around his cock, whipping it off on the strangers sheets.

You leaned your forehead against his, pecking his lips softly. "You did so good for me baby." You could still hear the music playing downstairs as Simon slowly drifted off to sleep.

October Moon

summary: you and Wally had had an incredible night at the homecoming dance, and he'd managed to surprise you with something you'd never expected.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

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

🌶️🌶️🌶️ for over 93,000 words, you've been patient. today, i stand and deliver, fam. here is what you've all been waiting for.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.4

Wally stood by the punch bowl, goofing around with Rhonda and Charley as he waited for you to arrive. The gym felt like a different world; dim lighting and disco balls, old pop music playing low as people started to trickle in. He saw Simon enter with an easel and a large framed picture of Maddie.

And if Simon was there, that meant—

"Wow." Charley stated as he stepped up beside Wally, taking the sentiment right out of Wally's mouth.

Everything moved in slow motion, the music faded, the world slipped away as you entered through the balloon arch. A vision in emerald satin. Wally's heart thrummed, his breath caught, and, for a moment, he forgot every thought he'd ever had.

"You good, superstar?" Rhonda teased. Stared up a Wally with an amused smirk on her face.

Wally couldn't respond, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He wanted to rush over there, pick you up, never let you go. But his feet didn't move. Couldn't. Not until after, you'd said. After what, Wally could only guess, but you'd assured him he'd know. You did catch his eye and smile, waved discretely, then made your way to the small stage that had been set up for the DJ.

Wally's eyes tracked you, unable to look away even for a second. He stared longingly at you as your friends arrived and surrounded you, discussed something with you, you and them glancing at the door as if waiting for someone. To Wally's surprise and delight, you excused yourself and speed walked to the refreshments table, ladling a cup of punch right beside Wally.

"Hey, big guy," You said quietly, turning slightly to smile up at him.

Wally smiled back, eyes softening, "Hey, pretty girl." He leaned down to whisper in your ear, "When do I get to give you a proper hello?"

You blushed, impossibly cute, "After your surprise." Simple as that, although Wally was stunned to hear you had another surprise planned. Already today, you'd skipped your last class to bring him his suit since nothing in the costume closet had fit; you'd DoorDashed another meal from Max's for Wally and Ajay; you'd shown up looking like a masterpiece come to life. What more could you have planned?

"What surprise?" He asked excitedly.

You daintily sipped your punch and then, "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?" And you swanned away, rejoining who Wally recognized as Hana, Lucas, and Eli. To his consternation, Xavier cut across the gym, laden with two guitar cases, and met you at the stage. He handed you one while speaking to Eli with a smile. Almost human, Wally grumbled to himself.

Over the span of the next few minutes, you and your friends climbed onto the stage and started connecting instruments to cables that hooked into amps. Adjust microphones, tuned strings, shared a brief exchange with Principal Hartman. At 9:30PM on the dot, the lights above the stage darkened. A spotlight shone on the ground in front of the stage and Principal Hartman stepped into it.

He welcomed everyone to 2023 Homecoming, excited to celebrate another school year. When Wally cast about, he noticed the gym was filling up quickly, the empty dancefloor flooding with students jazzed up in their best eveningwear. No one could compete with you, in Wally's opinion, but it was fun to see the sparkly dresses and pressed suits.

Wally's attention snapped back to the stage when Principal Hartman announced a live performance to kick the night off. The gym lights went out, people crammed closer to the stage when Principal Hartman moved to the wall to stand with the other staff chaperones, and then the stage lit up. Xavier was behind the middle microphone, you to his right, Lucas to his left. Behind you, Hana stood at a keyboard, and at the drums, Eli tapped his sticks.

Xavier began to sing as he strummed the first chords of a song Wally had loved since it was released. Take Me Home Tonight by Eddie Money. A cassette Wally had stashed to this day in his little box of ghostly treasures.

"Isn't that your favorite song?" Rhonda said over the intro.

Speechless, Wally nodded, too smitten with how your fingers moved over the strings of your guitar, the sound of your voice as you sang with Xavier who, Wally begrudgingly admitted, sounded incredible. The audience began to dance, clapping along, and Wally didn't want to be left out. He squirmed his way through the packed bodies, Rhonda and Charley in tow, and let the music wash over him.

He rocked out like he'd never rocked out before. Jumped. Sang. His body loose and his mind free. Even Rhonda got into it. Moving in tandem with Wally as he bounced and swayed. You were born to be up there and Wally couldn't take his eyes off you, your smile big and bright, vocals kindling through Wally's veins. Fuck, he wanted you. Badly. Right then and there.

The song ended, the crowd whistled and cheered as the DJ took over and began his set with another upbeat '80s classic for a smooth transition. Wally immediately searched you out, but he couldn't seem to find you. Xavier was packing his guitar in the corner beside the stage, the case you'd walked in with already closed and tucked away.

He did a tour of the gym, saw Simon and Maddie and Nicole. Hana, Mathilda, Lucas. Claire and her minion squad. Where had you gone? Many unsuccessful minutes later, Wally stood in the center of the dance floor, eyes peeled, examining every cluster of people for you. And then, just as he was about to give up, he felt a tap on his shoulder blade.

When he turned to see who it was, his jaw dropped. There you were. He felt the difference instantly, how the air moved through you rather than around you.

"Hey," You said, smiling sweetly.

Not wanting you to slip away, Wally pulled you close, hand to your cheek, arm around your waist, "Hey, baby girl." He chuckled, overjoyed, "You really meant it when you asked me to be your date, huh?"

"It would be kinda shitty of me to ask and then not spend the night with you, wouldn't it?" You said, flattening your hands on his chest. "Did you like your surprise?"

Did he ever. "How'd you know?"

You grinned, "Sophomore year. You rambled through my whole Geography class, remember?"

Laughing, Wally nodded, "Yeah. I mean, I don't remember what I talked about, but I remember doing that." He sobered, a tender smile curved his lips, "You remember that?"

A shy one- shouldered shrug, "You're kind of the one thing I've always paid attention to in school."

Wally's heart exploded. His mind exploded. His soul exploded. The music shifted from country pop to fast-paced electro house that encouraged more people to the dance floor, you and he surrounded yet the moment still felt intimate. He held you, swayed gently, leaning in as you angled your head.

"I really wanna kiss you." He murmured.

"I'm not stopping you."

He didn't wait, capturing your lips in a soft, slow kiss; the kind that coaxed those noises out of you that he craved. The hand around your waist traveled to your hip and brought you closer, as close as he could get you without absorbing you into his skin. Wally never wanted to let you go.

The realization struck him like a lightning bolt to the brain. Yeah, he loved you, but this was bigger than that. Heavier. He wanted you hold you while you slept, eat every meal with you, explore the world with you, have adventures. Accumulate a lifetime of memories, wild and mundane alike. He wanted to...to grow old with you.

His heart twinged, however, that didn't deter him. He'd make the most of whatever time you and he had together, regardless of how long that might be. You'd figure out the symbols, you'd lift the barrier, he'd haunt you like a dedicated boyfriend should haunt the love of his life. He didn't care if you grew old, aged into wrinkles and white hair. He was never—never—going to let you go.

The night was spectacular and Wally didn't want it to end. He had your full attention. You'd even brushed off Simon and Xavier when they'd asked for your input on Operation Claire—what appeared to Wally to be a cringeworthy experience for all involved. The DJ played an awesome selection of songs that Wally taught you, Ajay, and Charley the lyrics to.

Maddie came and went, as did Rhonda since she'd agreed to keep Bernadette and Katelynn distracted so they wouldn't look too closely at Wally's date. Though, how could they not? You were stunning. And goofy, and silly. And talented, as proven when you performed some of the choreography you'd learned in your 10 & Under dance class.

When the mass on the dancefloor began to dwindle due to the DJs choice in oldies music, Wally figured it was as good a time as any to reveal that he'd assembled a surprise of his own for you. Another '80s pop ballad and the dancefloor would be deserted entirely, and Wally didn't want to risk outing you to Katelynn and Bernadette.

He seized the opportunity to whisper in your ear as you were fetching another cup of punch, still breathless and flushed from the line dance you'd tried and failed to execute how it was supposed to be done. Wally brushed a strand of hair over your shoulder, slanted close so his lips hovered by your ear.

"It's my turn to surprise you, baby." He felt you shiver, his lips grazing down your neck, arm curling around your waist. "Come on."

Several feet away, loitering beside a patently bored Claire, Xavier watched you and Wally leave the gym hand in hand. Xavier cast a glance to Simon, who shot Wally a thumbs up when Wally glanced at Simon over his shoulder.

Behind Claire's back, Xavier bobbed his head at Simon, silently asking what was up. Simon returned the gesture with a slight and slow shake of his head, the sentiment plain, "Please do not ask me to spell it out for you."

Xavier frowned, returned his gaze to the now empty doorway, then back at Simon, suspicious.

‗‗‗‗🌶️‗‗‗‗

His fingers laced with yours, Wally led you through the school, out the back, and across the courtyard to the greenhouses. While most of the row was dark, warm, dim light spilled out of the greenhouse at the end. You had no clue what Wally's surprise could be, but you didn't think it involved potting plants given how nervous he seemed to get the closer you got to the last greenhouse.

He stopped in front of the door, turned, drew you against him and held your jaw in his large palm as he said, "Baby, I—I don't want you to think I'm expecting anything, okay?" His gaze was imploring and he waited for you to nod your understanding before he continued, "You've been amazing, getting me—us—things from the outside even though you've been busy trying to get to the bottom of everything. And, I just... I wanted to do something nice for you."

Wally reached behind him to grab and turn the doorknob. He opened the door and then stepped aside for you to go through first.

You couldn't believe your eyes. The long tables had been pushed against the glass walls, plants across their surfaces and beneath curtaining the space from the outside and giving it a sense of privacy. Above, strings of fairy lights had been threaded across the ceiling and trickled down the walls like a tent made of fireflies. In the center, to your utter astonishment, was a sheeted and covered air mattress laid upon a pallet to keep it off the floor. Candles flickered from various spots around the greenhouse and soft music filtered from an old stereo in the corner. Wally had even wheeled in and set up the outdated school TV, your favorite silver screen classic muted on the fishbowl screen.

"Wally..." You didn't know what to say. The atmosphere was intimate and magical, and no one had ever done anything like this for you before. "...how did...?"

Wally planted himself behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pressed his front to your back, mouth finding that sweet spot on your neck that made you keen when he bit it.

"You like it?" He asked nervously as the tip of his nose trailed up your cheek. He kissed your temple, "I didn't know you were gonna do your out-of-body thing and I wanted tonight to be special."

You turned in his arms and gazed up at him like he'd hung the moon, "It's perfect." The connection between you and him simmered, a low, intoxicating heat that preened at Wally's romantic gesture. You added in a whisper, "You're perfect," your hand finding Wally's jaw.

The way Wally looked at you, like you were the most precious thing in his world, made you melt. He brushed the backs of his fingers down your cheek, his face hovering close to yours, humid breath fanning your lips and chin. His other hand rested on your hip and he used his firm grip to drag you flush against him, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I love you," He said, so quietly you almost didn't hear it.

You gasped a weak breath, your blood pumping faster, pulse racing in your ears. The moment felt too much like a fairytale to be real.

Just as quiet, not wanting to ruin the intimate atmosphere, you returned, "I love you, Wally."

His eyes closed and you watched him absorb the sentiment, treasure it, hold it for a peaceful lull before he opened his eyes again and traced your features with his gaze, committing your face to memory. His thumb rubbed across your lower lip, tugged it slightly, and the hand on your hip glided lower until he held a handful of your ass through your dress.

The air warmed and grew thicker as you and he stood like that, the connection between you and him steadily swelling, little shocks of fire in your belly that made you mewl without realizing.

"Baby," Wally gasped and grazed his lips against yours as the hand on your jaw slid back into your hair and grabbed. His lips connected with yours, the kiss slow and deep and filled with desire. He moaned, an almost frustrated sound, as he spun you and pushed you against the door. "Fuck, baby," He exhaled, voice husky and dark, "you don't know how bad I want you."

His words evoked a meek, needy whimper from you, but you couldn't respond, his mouth back on yours, his hands moving down your sides to your hips to your thighs where he clenched his fingers into your flesh and lifted you. He pinned you to the door with his hips and released your lips to kiss down your throat, nipping and tonguing your skin, sucking a mark at the juncture of your shoulder and neck.

That sweet, caramel heat smoldered inside you, deep at your core. You threw your head back, arms tight around his shoulders, arching your back when he ground his hips into yours so you could feel the effect you had on him.

"Do you feel that, baby?" He asked as he ground into you again, setting a steady rhythm, "You feel how hard I get for you?" And Jesus Christ, you were going to lose your mind. His voice was sandpaper rough, movements punctuated by choked moans and heavy breaths. A hand slip under your dress to grab your ass, the other crawling up your back to find the zipper.

"Wally..." You whined, hips rolling against his, and the need inside you was fast becoming dizzying.

You both heard and felt the zipper split down your spine as he dragged it open with a wanting groan.

"Let me see you, baby." He said. The hand now at your low back raised to fist into your hair, angling your head so you had to look at him, "Show me." And, as soft as it was given, you recognized it was a command.

He held you up as you pulled the thin straps of your dress down and slipped your arms out of them to bunch the bodice around your waist, chest exposed for him. A thick swallow and a desperate groan, and then his hand snuck from your hair to your breast, his fingertips featherlight as he explored the roundness of it. He rubbed over your nipple, licking his lips, grinding his hard cock against your core a little harder as his need for you built.

Lips by your ear, "I wanna see more, baby girl," greedy and sinful. "I wanna see all of you." In a show of strength, he turned and carried you to the bed, lowering to his knee and tipping forward to lay you down gently. He discarded his jacket, yanked off his bowtie and then fell over you when you spread your legs wider for him to fit between.

"I wanna see you too," You breathed and managed the first four buttons before you got frustrated. He chuckled, rich and wicked, pulled the dress shirt over his head and tossed it aside. As soon as it was off, he was on you, your bare chest pressed to his, the sensation stoking the flames within you higher and higher.

Shoes were kicked off, your dress removed, his pants undone, between feverish kisses. His touch left blazing fire in its wake, his hand climbing from your knee to your inner thigh, thumb teasing under the edge of your panties. "I need to touch you," he said, "Let me. Please."

All you could do was nod, consumed by a lust you never knew existed within you. He watched your face as he traced the waistband of your panties, his weight on one arm so he could hover over you. His eyes were heavy lidded and blown, lips slightly parted, gaze intense. Torturously slow, his fingers dipped under the elastic and brushed across your lips, middle finger rubbing between them.

"Fuck, baby, you're so wet for me." He crooked his finger and pushed inside. Just a little, just enough to make fireworks burst under your skin. As he pressed deeper, his eyes never left your face. "Do you want this?" He murmured, not even letting you answer before he took your lips in another hungry kiss. "Do you want to feel me, baby?"

"God, Wally," You whimpered, "please."

He moaned, lifting himself up to sit back on his haunches between your thighs. Carefully, he peeled your panties off your legs, then took what felt like an obscenely drawn out minute to admire you. You felt vulnerable, exposed, yet that didn't bother you as you thought it should. Instead, it made you ache for more.

"So beautiful," He said and rose to his knees to push his pants and boxers halfway down his thighs. He took himself in hand, stroked once, twice, eyes never leaving yours. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, baby, I promise."

You believed him.

Unexpectedly, he shifted back, and when he lay down again, his face was eye-level with your pussy. "Just relax baby, let me take care of you," was all the warning he gave. He licked into you, lips and tongue moving against and inside you as he kissed into your core, moaning as if you were the sweetest thing he'd ever had. "You taste so good," He groaned and surged in for more, a starving man at a feast.

You arched and writhed, hips humping against his mouth as he ate you out, your hand on the back of his head, "Fuck! Yes!"

Right as you got close, he pulled back and rearranged himself so he was draped over you, kissing you hard and hungry and hot. You could taste yourself on his tongue, tangy sweet, and keened, a sound that went straight to Wally's cock.

"Need you so bad," He groaned, grinding himself against you, cock sliding between your lower lips as he got himself nice and slick with your juices. "Please," He panted, "I need to feel you around me, baby, please."

At that stage, you couldn't deny him anything, offering your agreement by wrapping your legs around his waist. He shoved his hand between your bodies and lined himself up, nudging the tip against you, teasing himself, and then, "Wally!" he began to press himself into you in measured increments.

You felt like you were about to split in two, his cock thick and long, sinking deeper inside you with every slow thrust.

Once fully seated, he slid his arms between your back and the mattress and then, once again, lifted you so you were in his lap, your legs tightening around his waist. The position forced him deeper, rubbing every sensitive nerve ending inside you.

"That's it baby. Fuck, you feel so good."

Instinctually, you began to roll your hips, short snaps and long drags that made Wally moan. He moved with you, matching your tempo, driving himself into you over and over, sounds of pleasure spilling from you both as your movements and his quickened. You bounced in his lap, your punched out whimpers of need filling the air. The blunt tip of his cock met your sweet spot with military precision, again, again, again, until stars exploded behind your eyes and you cried out.

"I wanna see you come for me, baby," Wally told you, nipping and biting the skin of your neck. "Let me see you come."

You rode him faster, harder, his fat cock sending you closer and closer to the edge until, "Wally, I—I'm gonna—"

He groaned in desire, "That's it baby, come for me, let me see it."

One, two, three more hard, sharp stabs of his hips and you plummeted over the edge, choking on his name as the inferno within you burst and released. You trembled through it, convulsing around him, squeezing so tight as he kept moving inside you that—

"Oh, God, baby, I'm gonna come, I—" And he stiffened, his hips snapping in aborted motions, claiming your lips in a fierce and possessive kiss as you felt him throb his climax inside you.

It started when you found your peak, but detonated when he did. Visions of a thousand lives behind your eyes happening all at once. His smile, his hands, his eyes, a thousand times over. Sometimes old, sometimes young, always bonded, connected, drawn together across centuries. Over and over, past, present, future.

The visions vanished almost as soon as they'd appeared, and when you came to, your back was on the mattress and Wally was over you, in your arms, his wide, shocked eyes staring into yours.

💀___________________________

PART THREE - PART FIVE

note: note: the song Xavier, Reader and the band perform is Take Me Home Tonight (Cover) by Every Avenue. because it's Wally's favorite song.

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS.

Me a supposed writer that has never written anything public in my life when I can't find a fanfic thats pacific to the random scenario I thought of at 3:00am: Am I- am I just supposed to wright it myself??? 🤨🤨🤨

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 - U

U is for uh-oh, oops, and oh no. Even if it isn't Wally's fault, having become more and more unhinged as things between you and him unfold into something so perfect and permanent, Wally thinks he's died and gone to heaven.

He's caught with his head buried between your thighs, his chin and mouth shiny with your juices. He licks his lips, unbothered, raises a brow at Janet as she stands there wearing the ugliest scowl Wally has ever seen on her face, her body vibrating with unfettered rage. He sits back, naked and on display, lazily stroking his cock with pride in his eyes.

"Get out," He tells her calmly, and she closes door behind her because what the fuck else is she going to do? Watch? Wally slants his head toward you, smirking, crawling up your body to kiss you with unbridled passion, grinding his cock between your wet folds to coax you back into the right headspace. "Don't worry, baby," He coos, "She's gone." Since you can't see from under the blindfold, your wrists bound to his headboard.

You whimper, clearly unnerved by Janet's intrusion despite not having seen or heard her, the bitch wielding feline grace when it suits her. She isn't supposed to be at Wally's house, in his apartment above his family's garage. Janet was in the throes of organizing prom with the rest of the committee and wasn't due to meet him until tomorrow morning for another rundown of their court dance. Smile, wave, make a dumb speech thanking everyone for their votes. Blah blah blah, Wally doesn't care.

He's been on her shitlist since last week, anyway, so what's another nail in the coffin? He actually feels relieved that Janet discovered you and him. It gets him hotter, harder, more desperate for you, because now he isn't shackled to late nights and impromptu weekends alone. Wally can have you whenever he fucking wants. Which has steadily turned into always over the course of the year.

And, wow, has it really been that long?

He knows Janet hasn't left, doesn't hear her car pull out of the drive, so he greedily, selfishly, shamelessly eats your cunt like a Michelin Star meal. Tongue probing your pussy as he moans at how good you taste, his eyes rolling back in his head from it, and the whole time you're keening and crying out and begging him not to stop, oh fuck Wally, I'm so close, please please. Don't worry, baby, he loves this probably more than you do.

When you come, shouting his name for Janet to hear what she never had a chance in hell to get from him, Wally fucks you like reckoning. Paints your chest and belly like a Jackson Pollock before he releases your wrists and soothes you with affection. As you doze, he tucks you in, kisses your hair, vows to be back in five minutes, dons a pair of low-slung sweats and a smug grin as he lopes out of the room, down the stairs, and meets Janet outside the door.

"Something I can do for you?" He asks, obviously unruffled which just drives Janet fucking nuts.

She wants an apology.

Wally laughs in her face, "For what? It's not like I'm really cheating on you."

She wants an explanation.

Wally snorts, "I don't owe you shit." He doesn't. Janet was never his girlfriend. She was never anything. A pest at most, an inconvenience at least.

"You don't get to have her." Janet seethes as if she has some kind of say in it.

Again, Wally laughs, shakes his head, tells her where to go as impolitely as he can. "She's already mine," He states, breezy, sucking the fingers he fucked you with to stress the point. Janet has a prima donna meltdown right there on his parents' lawn, stomps her foot and positions herself to slap him. He catches her wrist easily, stares her dead in the eyes, "You jealous, Janet?"

He fondles himself, pushes her arm away and grins, "Is this what you wanted?" Then he glances to his window, slides his gaze back to her, chuckling darkly, "Or is it her?" She doesn't answer, her face flaming, brows knitted, jaw clenched, "Is that why you wanted me to stay away from her? Because you wanted her all to yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up, Clark," Janet growls.

Wally knows it's not true; he's merely enjoying himself. He knows that Janet is actually just jealous of you, not because she wants to be with you but because she wants to be you. It's been obvious since Day One of their stupid arrangement. Everything Janet did was an underhanded plot to shrink you down as small as Janet feels.

"I'll show her the video." Janet threatens, voice low and menacing, full of umbrage. "She'll never look at you again."

In an instant, Wally's in her space, fire in his eyes, "I fucking dare you."

He hasn't exactly planned for this, but he's tired of worrying about it. If you walk away, you walk away—Wally's heart stutters—at least he has enough spank bank material to last decades. A blessing since he doesn't think he could get it up for anyone else ever. Thank Christ he saved every picture and video and voice note you've ever sent him.

"I'll make sure you lose Prom King," Janet sneers and, again, he snorts.

"I don't think I could care less," and, taking stock of himself, Wally finds that to be true. "It's just high school, Janet. Get a fucking hobby."

He hears the stairs creak, your honeyed voice from behind him wondering, "What's going on?" and he turns and saunters toward you without a second thought, bundles you into his arms, reveling at how you drown in his football jersey.

"You should go back inside, baby," He says even as he kisses you, soft, warm; hands groping your ass through the polyester. "Don't want my neighbors getting a peek at what's mine," he pecks the tip of your nose and gives you a humble smile that still feels a bit unnatural on his face.

It's then that Janet does the dumbest thing she could think of. She lunges at you while you're still in Wally's arms. A rapid badger fueled by envy. Wally pivots you to safety, blocks Janet's feeble attempts to get at you with his body. She loses steam pretty quickly when Wally doesn't budge.

Janet drives into the sunset with a promise to rat you out. To your mom first and then your dad. You look confused, "Why should I care?" You ask her retreating back, inviting her to go ahead because you've wanted everything out in the open since you and Wally started fucking that fateful afternoon after Janet's pool party.

Later, between dinner with his parents and Avengers: Infinity War on the projector in his apartment, Wally feels a weight lift off his shoulders. No more Janet. No more sneaking around. No more yearning and missed opportunities and bullshit. Just you. Just him. Together for real.

He combs his fingers through your hair as you lounge, draped along his front between his legs, head on his chest, breathing deep in sleep, and Wally realizes for the first time that, despite being free to do whatever he wants now, he still chooses you.

What the hell have you done to me, baby?

Still, his arms tighten around you and he doesn't let you go until it's time to get ready for school.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

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

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

I just saw absolute cheeks LAWWWWWD 😩 seeing Milo Manheims bare ass was not on my 2025 bingo card but I ain't complaining.

October Moon

summary: So, Claire had been working with Mr. Anderson, you and Xavier hadn't been speaking, the Homecoming dance had been on the horizon, and no one had been any closer to getting answers. But, hell, you and Wally had made progress in...other ways.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

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

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER MOON pt.1

Aurora chatted merrily at you as she drove you to school, the radio playing Top 40 hits between the DJs' try-hard youthful banter and super exciting, don't miss out contests to win tickets to things you couldn't summon an interest in. Which was apparently suspect, because Aurora kept shooting you looks of sisterly concern.

As she turned into the school parking lot, she lowered the volume and said, "You know the answer to that question," as if she'd peeled back your layers and uncovered your growing treasury of secrets. She pulled into the drop-off zone, put the car in park, and turned to you, "Are you and Baxy still fighting?"

Yes.

And no.

Band practice on Saturday had been tense and awkward, but you and Xavier had made it through without Hana or Lucas or Eli commenting on it. Of course, they'd probably been pretending with everything in them that nothing was wrong for the sake of the upcoming performance. Whatever. You hadn't had to spin another tale of deceit and Xavier hadn't had to confess to cheating on Maddie to your face, so win-win.

Neither of you had even attempted to speak since, barely making eye contact when you happened to be in the same space. Mathilda had informed you that Xavier had been spending his free time with Sandra Nears, which had caught you off guard, because what? Why?

"Sort of," You finally said, tilting your head back against your seat and closing your eyes. "We're not fighting but we're not talking," you summed up as you rolled your head to the side to look at Aurora. From the corner of your eye, you saw Ajay step tentatively up to the driver's side. Hands in his pockets, gaze soft, peering at Aurora like a long-lost friend who needed to remember what it felt like to be known by someone.

And, as it had been every day since Aurora had started driving you to school, she simply sniffed the air, frowned in thought, and then shooed you out of the car with a final statement. Today's was, "You guys will be fine. Things feel a lot bigger at your age than they are. Trust me."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Rory, you nailed it." You muttered, climbing out and giving Ajay an apologetic look. Part of you understood why Aurora couldn't acknowledge that she sensed Ajay. The "Golden Rule" and a lifetime of family gospel. But. But...there was a twist in your gut as you watched her drive away, the stink of her tea clung to your hair and clothes after you'd had to sit in it for the fifteen-minute drive. Something wasn't right.

What else is new? You thought. The sheer amount of holy fuck that had cascaded into your life over the last two weeks had numbed you to anything that should be a shock or surprise. A literal alien could pop up and declare that it'd burgled Maddie's body to blend into the human ecosystem. It could return it and then rocket back to outer space to report its findings to the Mother Ship, and you? Wouldn't be fazed. Thanks so much for stopping by, dust your hands off, onto the next thing.

Or maybe you were strung out on that awful tea stench and needed to diffuse it with real coffee and one of Wally's deep, handsy, distracting kisses that you'd been indulging in all week. The connection between you and him had remained rampant and alive in the wake of last week's mass hysteria. You could feel it even now, tugging you toward the back of the school, eager and impatient to find Wally.

"She didn't say anything, did she?" Ajay's voice interrupted your pining, solemn as he stared after the car.

You didn't reply for a moment, pondering the lips-sealed angle Aurora could be taking with Ajay's presence. "She probably doesn't want to say anything. Our family takes keeping secrets very seriously," you offered, yet that didn't sit right with you.

Ajay glimpsed down at you, "Even from each other?"

No. Not usually. Although no one discussed the ghosts at Split River High (or anywhere else around town), it was more out of mutual understanding than considered outright taboo. In the past, you'd shared a few crush-riddled anecdotes with Aurora about tricks you'd seen Wally do on the field that would've landed a living person in the ER. Those days felt like forever ago. She'd still been based in New York, pursuing a career in public relations. You'd called her every week to fill her in on the shenanigans you'd seen the ghosts commit and she'd giggled along and teased you for the obvious heart-eyes you'd had (have) for the Devils' Number 57.

A year later, she'd moved home, Dave in tow, and things had shifted. Your mother's business had expanded, Uncle Andrew had relocated to an apartment in Milwaukee—only home every other weekend—and no one talked about connectedness or magic or ghosts unless it absolutely had to be discussed. Usually to the tune of, "don't let them know you can see."

You sighed and rocked sideways, knocking your shoulder into Ajay's arm. "She remembers you," you assured him, grinning, "She brought home Bollywood Grill on Tuesday."

"That's not offensive," Ajay rolled his eyes though he snickered, clearly amused by the thought that Aurora's cravings were dictated by the smell she associated with him.

"I'm just saying, she obviously sensed you."

Ajay hummed, stood for a moment longer, and then, "It doesn't feel like it did," he conveyed. "The air is thicker around her." When you gave him a confused look, he shrugged, "I don't know how to explain it better than that."

"Fair enough," You supposed.

As you and Ajay turned toward the school, Simon jogged up to meet you, nodding his head cordially at Ajay before telling you, "I followed Claire home yesterday—"

"Terrifying."

"—and she stopped at Mr. Anderson's again. She waited outside his place for twenty minutes before she gave up. He never came out."

Ajay chewed his lip before asking, "Do we still think they're part of a newly reestablished Something-Something of Dagda?"

"You mean The Emerald Order," You supplied, snorting.

In the subsequent days after the nightmare in the theater, you'd managed to gather scraps of information about the cult. Archived forums online and newspaper clippings at the town library. There wasn't much apart from one headline, "Scandal at Maheive Manor". Several wealthy and influential men and women had disappeared during a party they'd all supposedly attended in 1925. It wasn't until 1926 that the bodies had been discovered, one at a time, over the span of a month. The blame had been laid at the feet of three former Maheive estate staff who'd pled their innocence right until the firing squad had pulled their triggers.

You glanced between Ajay and Simon, "I think it's too soon to say for sure. Amelia and Anabelle had a lot of help to get them to the final ritual. If Amelia's still around, she'll need more than a high school cheerleader and her English teacher to get things moving."

Simon see-sawed his head as he contemplated your statement. "Don't forget Claire has her little army of Chanels. And her step-dad definitely has the money to bankroll a shadowy organization like the Something-Something."

"Emerald Order," You corrected, and then, "You think Claire is smart enough or convincing enough to singlehandedly assemble that many people?" You asked.

"If they're gullible, sure." Simon said.

Ajay, pointed out, "And wasn't Alastair able to singlehandedly do that? That's what Amelia and Anabelle used him for. Claire herself might not have the right connections, but her parents probably do. Claire could just be the next tool in Amelia's culty kit of malice."

Simon smirked at Ajay, "Poetic."

Grateful, "I try."

You and Simon parted ways at your lockers with a promise to catch up at lunch. Ajay lingered for a moment longer, mind as distant as his gaze.

"Still no sign of Mina?" You asked quietly. Despite everyone assuring you that last Friday's events weren't your fault, you carried the guilt of it all the same. Those had been your memories, Aiden had been your brother. And if Mina, like the others, had been subject to a piece of your past so terrible it'd spooked her, you couldn't see how it wasn't your fault she'd gone into hiding.

"Not even a glimpse," Ajay reported, mouth weighed down at the corners, "I've looked everywhere...it's like she vanished."

A hand on his shoulder, "We'll find her," you promised.

Ajay pressed a tight smile to his lips and nodded in thanks, but you could tell that, as much as he wanted to, he didn't believe it. Eventually, he cleared his throat and changed the subject altogether, informing you, "Wally's outside. He's doing drills."

You chuckled, "Ah, yes, the big game's tonight."

"You'd better be there," Ajay warned with a slight glimmer in his eye, "He wants his girl to see him bring the Bandits to victory." For the last part, Ajay impersonated a hyped sports commentator and then a roaring crowd, shaking his fists in the air like he'd just won the Super Bowl.

You guaranteed, "I wouldn't miss it for the world," because you wouldn't. A kid at Christmas, Wally had been amped since Monday, pulling you onto the field after school to show you how to toss the ball well enough for him to practice catching. It was fun, although you refused to admit it. Every time you stubbornly announced, "Sports are sooo dumb," he could read through you and would tackle you (gently, playfully) and tickle you until you submitted. Laying under him, giggling, before he'd stop, breathless, grinning, and gaze into your eyes, lean down, brush his lips to yours—

The fact was you were looking forward to it. To the game, to the celebration, to the dance; it would be a welcome reprieve from the stress and uncertainty you'd found yourself up against recently.

"Tell him to be in the gym in half an hour," Ajay said as he gave you a quick side hug, dutifully checking to make sure the coast was clear. He then sauntered off to join his fellow Group members to prepare for Wally's big night.

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Wally was halfway through a set of burpees when the connection between you and him exploded in his chest, causing him to almost fall flat on his face. Thankfully, he caught himself and snapped to his feet, wiped his forehead with a towel that he draped over his shoulder, and turned to watch you walk onto the field.

Fuck. You looked good. You always looked good, but today you looked particularly edible. Short skirt, curve-hugging top, hair tied up to show off the soft curve of your neck. He licked his lips and openly stared as your hips swayed with every step. Wally was keyed up, he knew, because of the big game, but so much of it was also the time he'd finally been able to spend with you without constant interruptions and impending doom.

"Hey pretty girl," He said as you got close enough for him to hook his arm around your waist and yank you into him. His eyes went heavy and dark, his hand sliding down your back to the curve just above your ass, "You come to see me workout?"

You blushed so pretty, pink cheeked and Bambi eyed. "I came to tell you that you have thirty minutes before you gotta be in the gym," You replied, a sweet little smile on your lips that Wally wanted to bite. "You're getting your sweat all over me," You complained, scrunching your nose up at him.

Wally leaned in close, nipped your earlobe, his voice low and husky, "Don't pretend you don't like it, baby." His hand slipped lower to sneak under your skirt while his lips grazed the soft skin on your neck. He heard you gasp, your body arching into his, and he grinned victoriously.

"Don't start something you can't finish, Clark," You advised in a light, breezy tone, leaning back to look him in the eye. "I have class in ten minutes."

Wally pouted, "I don't even get a kiss?"

You laughed, head thrown back, beautiful, "Fine, one kiss, but then you'd better freshen up and make an appearance. I hear there's a banner you're responsible for."

"There is a banner," Wally agreed with pride. "And balloons." He narrowed his eyes in thought, "And I'm thinking of a crown of sparklers."

"Because that's safe," You scoffed playfully.

Wally shrugged, "Can't get more dead." And then he dipped his head and captured your lips with his, the connection between you like fireworks behind his ribs. He kissed you until you and he were breathless, rested his forehead against yours, willing his body to cooperate and calm the fuck down otherwise he didn't know what he'd do. Well, that was a lie. He totally did. He'd pin you to the grass and remind you of the effect you had on him. Twice. "Fuck, baby," He murmured before he licked into your mouth and kissed you hungrily, hands gliding over your waist and hips and lower.

You broke the kiss with a whimper that went straight to his cock, petitioning, "Class. Test. Seven minutes." The connection flared as if it refused to believe that that was a good reason to stop things from progressing.

Unfortunately for the connection, Wally was raised a gentleman and offered, "I'll walk you to class, pretty girl," letting you go with a pinch to your ass cheek and a boyish grin.

"You wanna carry my books, too?"

"And see your teacher freak out when they appear out of thin air?" Wally chuckled, "Absolutely."

He didn't do that. He knew better than to mess with the status quo. But he still enjoyed the banter between you and him as he walked you to the third floor.

"You're coming tonight, right?" He asked just as you and he neared your math class.

You stopped and turned to him, "Of course I am. And, I have a surprise for you. So you have to meet me before you get on the field, big guy."

Wally perked up, "A surprise?" And then he recalled the surprise you'd brought him and Charley yesterday. "Is it Max's?" He asked, excited. Max's Diner had been his favorite spot when he'd been alive. An old-school greasy spoon even in the '80s. Wally's parents had worked there when they'd been teenagers; it had been how they'd met. The diner held a special place in Wally's heart and he'd almost cried when you'd presented him with his go-to order: Double cheese burger, extra pickles, extra fries, and a large coke.

"Not quite," You said with a wince, "but I think you'll like it just as much..."

"Then I can't wait, baby," Wally said, glancing up and down the hall before leaning in to press his lips to yours once more. It was turning into an addiction. And since he was going to get caught up in game prep and might not see you for the remainder of the day, he took his time, impressing everything he felt into that kiss and smiling when he heard you release a pleasured sigh.

"You suck," You pouted when he finally released you, "I'm going to fail and it'll be your fault."

Wally smirked, admittedly proud of himself, yet he maintained, "You'll be fine, you've got this. We went over everything three times yesterday and you got everything right."

God, there was that blush he was starting to love so much, "You are a good tutor. Even if you can be distracting."

"Get in there and kill it, baby," He encouraged, winked, watched as you disappeared into the classroom, and then he turned to head to the gym as instructed, fantasizing about what your surprise later could be. However, as the connection between you and him dimmed, his senses rushing back in beyond how you felt and tasted and...smelled—he caught a whiff of something off-putting and familiar.

Pinching his shirt, he brought the fabric to his nose and sniffed.

Heady.

Floral.

Like licking soap.

Without a second thought, Wally spun around and rushed into the classroom. The teacher was already behind his desk correcting another class's papers, the room study hall hushed as everyone read over their test sheets. Wally hurried to the back of the class where you were sat, hunched over your sheet with the eraser end of your pencil between your teeth.

The connection between you and Wally sparked to life again and caused you to glance up before he even reached your seat. Your eyes widened when you saw him approach in a panic, but you otherwise remained still, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He crouched beside your desk, careful not to touch you, gaze supplicating.

"Why do you smell like that?" Wally asked in a whisper though no one else could hear him.

He watched you surreptitiously sniff your hair, make a face of revulsion, and then write in the corner of your test sheet, Aurora's tea which you erased as soon as you knew Wally had read it.

Wally swallowed, nervous, and looked back at you, "I smelled that in the cellar the night Aiden died." He explained, "It was on your breath. And in one of the glass things I picked up."

You stared at him, dumbfounded, for a split second before taking a deep breath and raising your hand. Wally had no clue what you were thinking as you slid out of your desk, leaning most of your weight on your other hand that held that back of your chair.

"Mr. Davis?" You said, and Wally was shocked at how weak you sounded, like you were—oh. "Mr. Davis, I don't feel well, may I please be excused?"

Mr. Davis stood and scrutinized you, brow deeply furrowed, "Are you sure this can't wait?"

You shook your head, took one, two small steps and then, whoops, fell forward. Or, your body did. Your ghost remained upright, freaking out at Wally, "You're sure that was the same smell?"

Wally nodded, his eyes on your unconscious form on the floor. "Did that hurt?" He had to wonder.

"Probably. I won't feel it until—"

And there you went, back into your body as soon as Mr. Davis' hands were on you to check you over. The class was in chaos, students shifting and hovering over your limp form. Mr. Davis instructed someone to fetch the school nurse and three students took it upon themselves to do the honors. By gentle degrees, your eyes fluttered open and you came to, looking for all the world like you'd genuinely fainted due to some unknown affliction. A sad Victorian child, pale and weak.

Oh, you were good, Wally mused, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.

You sat up, blinked at Mr. Davis, and again asked to be excused. The school nurse dashed in and fussed over you for a moment until she discerned you could stand on your own two feet, "No need to call an ambulance," she said when you'd answered a series of questions she'd posed. "Probably dehydration or stress."

To be on the safe side, Mr. Davis dismissed you. Wally accompanied you to the nurse's office where you were given a glass of water and orders to lay down on the sofa for ten minutes. Wally sat on the ground, back against the bottom of the sofa, shaking his head at your sad panda-like reflexes.

"You just dropped like a sack of potatoes, baby, what were you thinking?"

Peeking out from beneath the cold compress the nurse had handed you, you noticed the nurse had left the room to speak to someone in the hall. Free to answer, you justified, "I was thinking that someone told me they smelled my sister's gross tea the night my little brother was killed by a woman wearing my friend's dad's body." You sat up to give Wally a significant look, "What else was I supposed to do without possibly failing that test?"

Wally conceded that that had been the best way to leave and avoid a bad grade or accusations of cheating. "Next time, maybe don't do something that'll leave a bruise," Wally said softly, reaching up and brushing the backs of his fingers down your cheek where a red mark was blossoming into a bruise from the angle at which you'd hit the floor.

"No promises," You grinned.

Ten minutes later, the nurse cleared you and gave you a note to give to the secretary to dismiss you for the rest of the day should you feel you needed it. Wally wished you could use it just to spend that freedom with him instead, but you reminded him that Mr. Martin would be heavily involved in the rest of Wally's day and that might not go down so well.

Hey, Mr. M, this is one of now three living people who can see us that we lied to you about. Also there's a cult and, oh, hey, did you know Janet was evil or did she move on by complete coincidence right when things got crazy?

Wally agreed, "Yeah, let's not do that." He led you into an empty classroom where you and he could discuss what the hell that smell meant, if it meant anything, which...it had to, right? He was quickly learning everything was connected in some random way, no matter how absurd.

"You're sure it's the same smell?" You wanted to know, leaning against the wall, thumb nail between your teeth.

Wally leaned in close and breathed in your hair, "Yeah, exactly the same. It smelled a lot stronger in the science glass than it does on you now, but it's identical." He confirmed.

A few beats as the gears turned in your head, "My Nana drinks that tea, too. So does Dave. And, honestly, I haven't noticed anything different about anyone. They're all still them." You said, appearing to have trouble connecting the right dots.

"It could mean nothing," Wally rationalized, "Maybe there's an ingredient missing that was in the stuff I smelled versus what's in your sister's tea, who knows."

He saw you process that and then something seemed to come to you, "When I was in that...memory or whatever, the kids Amelia and the others transferred into...they smelled kind of like it." Your gaze caught Wally's, brows knitted in worry, "It wasn't exactly the same but it was close enough. Really flowery. Like—"

"Licking soap?" Wally finished. "It might be related."

"Or it might not." You groaned, pressing your fingertips into your eyes. "Why do I feel like we have all the pieces, but we're putting together two puzzles that might not have anything to do with each other?"

Stepping into your space, Wally took your hands in his and lowered them, kissing your forehead before resting his against it. "We're getting there, baby. We'll figure it all out."

"I hope so," You murmured and Wally could tell you were overwhelmed. "Do you remember any of the ingredients you saw on the shelf?"

"Yeah, a lot of them." He leaned back and searched your expression. "Want me to write them down for you?"

You nodded, "Yes please."

With a gentle smile and soft eyes, "I got you, baby girl," Wally assured. "I'll give it Maddie to give to you." At your adorably lost face, Wally said, "Like you said, Mr. Martin is gonna be heading my hype committee and will probably want me around for my input all day. Maddie, on the other hand, has a habit of disappearing at random."

You chuckled, "Gotchya," and drew Wally into a short, but very hot kiss. One that got Wally's everything running. He moaned against your lips, hands trailing down your hips to your thighs then under your skirt, pressing you more firmly against him.

"You gotta stop doing that," He said with a heavy exhale.

"Doing what?"

Wally nipped your lower lip, flicked his tongue to soothe the sting and kissed you dirty and deep before telling you, "Making my god damn brain melt."

You giggled and told him in no uncertain terms, "Definitely no promises..."

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PROLOGUE - PART TWO

note: no note, just desperate and feverish writing! love you guys!

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS.