@clarks-letterman - Tumblr Blog

Jun 5

things broken begun | Wally Clark x Male!Reader

a/n -- this is now officially my longest fic! also I think this is my first top!reader fic...?

warnings -- Period Typical Homophobia, use of slurs (faggot), bullying, smut, blowjobs, anal sex, dildos, bottom!Wally x top!reader

words -- 13.2k

summary -- The Reader attempts to tackle rumors about the football captain head-on, but there's one rumor makes Wally tick...

~~~

Under the weight of nearly five-thousand pounds, which accounted for around twenty six pairs of dirty cleats, the floor of Split River shook with each jump. Cavemen, better known as football jocks, slapped themselves against each other with their chests, hands, and prowled and pounced around with a certain ferocity that could only be equated to the first time someone made fire. They all chanted, howled and beat their chests. From their lips came the same chant. Ritualistically, they yelled: “SPLIT RIVER, SPLIT RIVER, SPLIT RIVER!”

Something different lurked around them, bending and twisting himself in all kinds of directions, but he’s more pumped up than them for the upcoming game. Wally is the one rushing around the room, too busy to join in because he’s making sure everyone else does. He moves fast—he’s good at that—dancing around the broader figures of some of his teammates, and taking big steps around the skinnier ones. Everyone has their place on the team, from Keith’s killer arm that can nearly get the ball all the way across the field to Scotty’s wicked sidestep that is guaranteed to bypass any unsuspecting meathead who chooses to try and tackle him when he has the ball.

But where were you? Not among them. Instead, you stood on the outskirts of the circle forming, your inhibitions telling you to act human. Normal. Even when everyone else is having fun, it’s more than fun for you. It’s life or death. The team’s sportsmanship—that being a smack on the ass, a forehead kiss, or even boosting team morale by showing off their newly-developed muscles to their teammates—would be seen as perverted by your standards. Your appreciating gaze that watches with the rest of the team, usually in the back, is now the menacing stare from behind a tree to the actual normal people. The people hiding in the shadows should be scared of, and your teammates would do worse than someone who’s scared. They wouldn’t run, they’d fight. And a team of jocks, both the large and small ones surrounding you, chasing you didn’t sound even remotely close to a winnable fight. Besides, you would be the only one facing consequences, and then? The town would hate you. So, you kept yourself at the edge, distanced from everyone else with the equivalent of having your hands in your pocket at a party but holding on to your chest protector. The plastic end digging into your ribs, like they were aiming for your heart, couldn’t be more a comforting layer to wear.

Your shortcomings weren’t the distance you were lacking from the goal, how far your efforts brought you. No. Your failures and weaknesses only set you back further than where the start of the race for everyone else began. You could never outdo anyone on the team, because you were in your own league. A league without a name because it wasn’t the standard, so it shouldn’t exist. You felt like you didn’t deserve to belong on the team, in a locker room full of normal people. That was until Wally came around, making you feel validated and ready to play.

Wally rounded two players and made his way to you. His energy was contagious and he tried passing it on to you. “Come on, I’m not seeing a smile!”

“Nuh-uh.” You shook your head. You were nervous about the game, and hoped he would see that more than your other worries coming to the surface. It wasn’t that you were always this worried about it, because you could be normal. Sometimes. You could join post-celebratory victories and hang around the other guys as if you were one of them, and you often forgot about the fact that you were different. But, some days, you just couldn’t find a way to bury it. It’s what you deserved for trying to bury those alienating feelings with Earthly things, they just shot you back into the stratosphere. The feelings—which dared to act the same as how other guys talk about the girl cheerleaders—reared its amalgamated ugly head around the corner. Well, it was more like around the adjacent locker bank.

“Then bark for me. For the team!” Wally waved his hands in a big and wide gesture, beckoning you towards him. As if the rest of your team hadn’t provided a clear example, he let out a deep bark, then looked at you to copy him. “Let me hear it!”

“Not barking.”

When it was clear that you weren’t going to listen to him, Wally conceded.

“Okay,” Wally clapped his hands together before putting his hands on your shoulders. He patted the side of one with his palm. “I’m just glad you showed up. See you on the field.”

He left just as fast as he appeared, and that brief interaction reminded you how Wally was good with that, too. He never dwelled or stayed on a subject, even if he felt upset by it.

“Alright, team!” Wally ran towards the exit. Everyone rallied behind him. “Let’s win this bitch!”

Hungry for the win, they moved like a pack of ferocious beasts. You stayed further in the back, avoiding all the pushing and shoving that was going on in the front. You followed in everyone else’s footsteps: going outside the west exit of the school, making your way to the stadium by following the small sidewalk down. The group of twenty-six animals morphed into birds in a flock, staying in a formation of twos as the sidewalk wasn’t wide enough to accommodate for more than that. Twenty-four of those twenty six birds stuck together, with one spearheading the migration—Wally, who stood at the front of the line alone—and you, who trailed behind the rest.

✦

Lingering behind the team provided you a good view of the stadium, something that most of them would overlook in favor of the game. The stadium lights were bright—standing overhead and reaching higher than some of the stars in the sky. Dimming the surrounding stars just came naturally to them. This was their home to light, though, and it could feel special to walk under a spotlight by your tall and immobile, observing friends. They were kinder than the visitors of this game, who were rallying a chant from the crowd of students and parents from their school, who must have come to watch their team as yours took home another victory.

However, you could see the unsightly littering of trash and scum around the entrance. Wrappers and paper-trays scattered on the ground around overfilled trashcans, in addition to the cruel and unpopular Michael Moffat and Stacey McDougall. Or, as they were best known around the school, Macey.

They waited in the shadows cast, like gossip-seeking goblins who were leaning against the stadium’s wall with the same posture as the twisted and bent wrappers scattered around them. Michael slumped against the wall, the back of his short bleach-blonde hair getting ruffled against it, and Stacey leaned on the wall with her shoulder, arms crossed. Her shoulder-length brown curls bobbed as she tilted her head, currently deep in conversation with Michael. Only the embers of the cigarettes they puffed shone a light on their face. They weren’t entirely enshrouded in darkness, but it was enough of an excuse to ignore them as your team started passing them. Not even the eager-to-speak Wally said anything to them about joining in on the spirit of the game.

Besides that little eyesore that kept growing in size as you approached the entrance, the route was scenic, if a little too short for your liking. Performing, and on some equidistant level: impressing Wally, was prolonged by each step that you had to take. You had to twist the truth to fit your distorted prerogative, you only cared so much about his opinion because he was the team captain. Not everyone cared about his opinion, though. Some even tried to get an impartial rise out of him as your team funneled under the arch and into the stadium.

“I heard that Wally Clark blew Stephen Barclay under the bleachers at Homecoming.” Michael said.

You could see Stacey’s face twist into a wicked grin as she added expletives to Michael’s rumor. “Really? I heard he took it up the ass.”

You stopped in your tracks, and it felt like you were the only one to hear it as the rest of the team looked unfazed, walking deeper into the tunnel. Wally especially paid them no attention, continuing to lead the team. You watched them march ahead, heading off to the home team’s side of the field for that night’s game.

Your attention turned back to Macey. Even thinking of the name, and of the two together, made you shudder. They used to be the cutest couple your grade… until high-school, where the upperclassmen who valued getting girls pregnant and getting a D in pre-algebra as the coolest thing to do existed. When they realized that they couldn’t separate them by bullying Michael and getting the girls to target Stacey in the bathrooms, they started using their love against them. Michael and Stacey turned into Macey. Macey turned into the term ‘Mace Me,’ which prompted them to stop seeing each other for nearly two years. They reinstated their love at Angie Harrington’s sweet sixteen party when they were caught doing it on her parent’s waterbed, much to the horror of Angie and her parents—who had come home early that night—when they heard something pop. Now that their dirty laundry had been aired out, they took it upon themselves to make sure that any rumor will see the light of day. While they may not always be accurate, they made sure that their voices were heard. And this was no different—was this intentional? A trap to get you to correct them with equally damning information in a reverse-psychological mindfuck?

“I’ll do you better, I heard he was seen leaving his house the other day. We don’t even neighbor their school district. He went out in that loud ass Jeep for the dude’s dick. What a fucking homo.” Michael added.

You approached the two, figuring that anything you say could be taken by even the worst responses, like a punch from Michael or a smack from Stacey, thanks to the padding of your football gear. They didn’t acknowledge you until you spoke up, “That’s not cool to say.”

Michael put out his cigarette on the asphalt, then stood upright. In one motion, he was closer, popping up like a snake. He hissed, “You defending that faggot?”

The answer almost stupidly came out because it was so simple. Yes, yes you were. Even if the rumor wasn't true—and if Wally was the last person you suspected to be gay—it didn’t sit right with you to let these jerks continue to slander him. One day, it could be your name coming out of their mouth, if it hasn’t already, and you would hope that Wally might return the favor when put in that position. His status could give it some bite, too, with the meatheads under him sure to follow his opinion. But you had to keep it clear in your head that you weren’t doing it for the good karma, you were doing it because it was the right thing to do. “No, you just shouldn’t say that about people. It’s damaging.”

Damaging was the nice way of saying he would have no career. From the many scandals like the one they’re threatening to have happened, across the country, scouts and scholarships were known dry up, and if not for you, then the star athlete of the school would suffer the worst of it. All of that potential and momentum that he has spent years to build would crumble.

“Imagine if it was actually true,” you said with vitriol. Every falsely enunciated sound of disgust made it sound too perfectly delivered. You had practiced and you were good at this. Hiding it.

“I hope it is, I’d love for Clark to become the town pariah.” Michael said with amusement lacing his voice.

You barked back at him, “Did your get dropped on your head as a kid, or does it just come naturally to you?”

“Depends.” Michael said. He didn’t wait for you to ask what it depended on, he simply continued with a bite in his voice. “Was Clark born a bitch, or does he choose to suck dick?”

“Go fuck another waterbed, Mikey.”

“That’s not how it happened, dipshit.”

“All it takes is one little prick, and it’s not like you have a big popper.”

“You know, I think Wally should have another fairy to frolic with.” Stacey chimed in, annoyed at the digs you made towards Michael. “I think I saw you and him under the bleachers in this exact spot last week. Sucking so much face it makes us look bad, weren’t you?”

“That would never happen.”

“Doesn’t matter. All it takes is one little prick.” Michael said, but you could tell that he was mere seconds off from beating Stacy to saying it. He was right about being an asshole, because, in that moment, you had never wanted to punch him in the face more.

In the distance, the marching band finished their rendition of Eye of the Tiger, and that was your cue to line up and get ready to run out to the field. “Don’t you have a game to catch?”

You were forced to leave them, and to leave their opinions unchanged. At least they were challenged, if even briefly. A small push went a long way for the endless fight. You neared them, proclaiming so, “This isn’t over.”

You turned on your heel and bolted out to the field. Everyone was already in formation, and you were the last to join them. Right next to Wally.

The crowd cheered for your entrance, realizing they had missed a duckling in the pack traveling out behind Mother Goose Wally. It must have been more apparent with how the team was spread out across the field. They could spot the missing place where a fullback should have been, and you eagerly filled that spot, stretching and bowing down to Wally’s level as he waited for the ball to be snapped back to him.

His focus lingered away from the ball held by the center player, and you could see the decals on the side of his helmet rotate ever so slightly. You did the same small swivel of your head towards him. The sliver where his eyes flitted around to see quickly flew to his left, to you. The tension left him—visible in how his eyebrows repelled each other, unfocusing. He had stopped looking for you and let the comfort of knowing where you were seep in. Something that, at the time, you would never guess that he needed to feel.

His eyes wandered away from you, and you did the same so as to not stare. Hiding it, the thing you needed to do to make that brief moment of eye contact feel as nothing more than him being concerned about your whereabouts, and not the secretly stolen glance you wanted it to be. You could still hear his voice, his words slick and wet as he spoke around his mouthguard. Occasionally, you could hear the blunt edges of his teeth make a grinding sound on it. “I knew we were short a man. Where were you—was your head in space again?”

“No, dude!” You spoke, realizing that your mouthguard had been dangling off the string connected to your helmet the entire time. You popped it in, and continued speaking with the impediment. The words sounded slick and slippery. “I was saving your ass.”

✦

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must decide on one thing: whether or not he will smack the ass of his supposed ‘best bro’ as a form of approach. You wanted to, you really wanted to now that Wally had taken his jersey and shoulder pads off and was bent over the sink in nothing but his white football tights. But with all these rumors swirling around, ready to launch and destroy the entire fifty-mile radius of your social life like a nuclear bomb that would make it impossible for you to show your face on land for decades, it was for the better that you decided against it. As tempting as it was—and as likely as it could be that you would never get this chance again to do it under a totally not-weird pretense—you didn’t want it coming back to make your own ass sting with a vengeful bite.

You opted for a tap on the shoulder with one fingertip being the only thing to make contact with him. Like you were contagious, and your secret chronic illness of abnormality could transfer from you to him. It felt like that some days, where the touches made you feel something more than you should—a mix of love and a need to make him touch you more and the shame and embarrassment crawling up inside you to make you feel just as red hot when his touch was gone because friends shouldn’t feel that way. Teammates shouldn’t feel something more about smacking ass. The tap was enough, but you wanted to do more.

The feeling diminished when Wally directed his attention from the sink to you. You could hear him splash the water on his face and turn the squeaky knob to stop the flow of water. Then, thanks to his height, he easily reached for a paper towel from the dispenser hanging on the wall nearby. He dabbed at the drops running down his cheeks and smudged some of the dark blue face-paint around, more effectively with water and a paper towel than the sweat and removing his helmet had done to him all throughout the game.

Somewhere in the motions, he let out a raspy, “What’s up, dude?”

Your throat ran dry, how could you possibly tell him about the horrible things that Michael and Stacey were saying? And when he looked like this: panting, sweaty, and beaten from the game. The final nail in your coffin was when he turned around, and your eyes flitted down for only a second. There, you noticed how his bulge looked… different. It wasn’t smooth or blending in with the rest of body. There was form, there was definition. There was his dick. He must have taken out his cup as he re-entered the locker room. And now, thanks to the white tights that didn’t hide anything, you were staring at the tip of his dick and the outline of the rest of it tucked snugly under defining lycra. God help you if you even saw one pulse or twitch or slight sagging of his balls in the area where his cup would be.

“You know what? When you’re dried off, then we can talk.” You had to leave the area as soon as possible, abandoning Wally who was still patting his face with the paper towel, his eyes miraculously closed. It was the perfect opportunity to run back to your locker giving you enough time to change out of your own tights and escape the awkward conversation of explaining why you had a boner, or why your cup was lopsided. Whatever the outcome was, you didn’t want to stay there to find out.

“No foul, see ya in a few.” Wally waved you off with one hand and then returned to rinsing his face under the sink once more.

Your cleats made quick but heavy and noticeable steps back to your locker, your normal walking path disturbed by the sudden weight in your pants. You wanted to look down and see the damage of how unsightly your cup and dick looked stretching the white tights, but in a way, it was all you could feel: heart beating fast and feeling the blood travel equally to your ears and dick to the point that they were thrumming with their own pulses. Looking down would mean you knew and were aware about being hard, and knowing how worked up Wally got you would only make you think about him more. Then, it would be even more impossible to tame your obvious shame.

Rounding the corner, you dipped into your locker bank and immediately parted the two flaps of your duffle bag. You normal clothes only took up half the space of all of your football gear, so you had to reach down and spend more time. Bending over retracted your cock back into your body ever so slightly, causing the skin to rub against itself and the tight spandex around it and sending an unwanted wave of pleasure throughout your body. You shivered, realizing that it somewhat helped to be bent over, because people couldn’t see your bulge like this and you could do something about it without having to touch it. You hand brushed against the material of what you knew to be your jeans and underwear, and you pulled them out in one swift motion. You tossed them on the wooden bench in the middle of the bank.

Standing upright, you finally let yourself look down at the damage. To your surprise, the only thing to come of your achingly hard dick was that it nudged the cup to the side, but barely showed as much of the tip. Like everything else about the part of you that you tried so hard to keep buried, it stayed hidden.

Now, it was on to the next problem—getting changed before Wally finished cleaning himself up. If you’re fast enough, he won’t have to see you naked and you can save the boner that will inevitably come when watching him change across the way. Your tights couldn’t feel tighter as your fingers pulled on the taut band around your waist, failing the first few times to hook your fingers into it and letting it snap back against your skin with an audible slap. You pushed them down, taking the cup with them as it was trapped in it’s own little pocket on the inside lining, until they bunched at your ankles. While you were bent over, you undid the laces of your cleats and toed them off by the heels as best you could with the tights cuffing your ankles. You stepped out of the tights and towards where you laid your clothes.

The sensation of your half-hard cock—thankfully, it softened with Wally’s visit feeling more like an ominous threat than something to look forward too, with what all you had to tell him—swinging felt strangely freeing. You quickly locked the feeling back up by stepping into your boxers, one leg at a time, and pulling the much looser waistband over your privates. It bagged everything together, making it indiscernible compared to all the details of Wally’s dick you could see through his sheen white tights. You needed to stop thinking about his dick.

By the time Wally came over to speak with you, you had done the same motions to get your jeans on, zipping them up as he walked over to his locker bank. He reached down to grab his backpack—not the one you watched him sling over his shoulder by one strap in the hallway, this one was much fuller. You could see his helmet bulging out, already stuffed in there amidst the archaic mess pouring out. Your eyes gravitated to his ass, bent over in the tights you already knew had no underwear to block the things underneath. It wrapped around his cheeks, but didn’t nearly define them as much as you would have liked, and he stood up too fast to do more than take a fleeting glance at it. Maybe you were the monster in all of this. Staring and lusting at him in ways that were unwanted, and being the bearer of bad news that could fizzle out if you didn’t say anything.

He turned and brought his bag, along with himself, over to your bank. He set the bag down and started rifling through it. “So, whatcha got for me?”

Wally pulled his jersey out and let it flutter onto the bench like throwing a top-sheet over a mattress, air catching in a ball underneath it until it smoothed out on the flat surface. He dug his arm deeper into his bag and pulled out a clean white shirt, his letterman, and his deodorant… but noticeably no pants.

“I…” You watched him for a second, unsure about ruining the moment but it was also the exact reason this moment was even happening. You owed it to Wally to be clean about his name, both as his friend, and as part of the football team. “…don’t really know how to say this but Michael Moffat and Stacey McDougall were talking about you under the bleachers.”

“Mikey?” Wally turned to look behind him, checking to see if the coast was clear. It was the first time you had stopped to think about the noise in the locker room, and there was nearly none. Everyone had gone home already, but you figured that it made sense given how slow time felt as you got changed, knowing Wally could appear at any moment. He leaned closer. “What did he say?”

Wally started putting on his deodorant as he listened, and you shifted focus between his dark pits and his narrowing, darkening eyes. Every second passing made them harder to look into them and tell him the truth. The harder thing was how to say it, should you act disgusted like you did with Michael and Stacey? Should you downplay it? Make it sound casual? Show your support? You knew that only one constant needed to remain: you couldn’t give yourself away.

The words poured out as he waited for a response, and you knew that every minute stalling to tell him would make it sound worse than it actually was. Which, to you, it wasn’t bad at all. “Dude, they said that you were hooking up with Stephen Barclay from the Kalkaska Blazers at the first game of the season. So, like, at the homecoming game.”

“Keep your voice down!” He hissed, grabbing you by the shoulders to emphasize how serious this was to him. He moved the two of you deeper into the embankment, stopping once he had pinned you against the locker. Wally immediately knew what you were referring to. “Do you believe them?”

Your nose twitched at the smell of Brut 33. Notes of citrus mingled with Wally’s sweat-soaked musk—clearly, spray-on deodorant wasn’t enough during the game. “Is it true?”

“No, I’m not one of those freaks. Dude, you know this.” He looked away, then looked back at you for a second confirmation. “You get it?”

“Got it.” You squeaked out.

“Good.” He said sternly. Despite his tone, it was good to know that you landed on the right side of things in his view.

Wally released you from his grasp, letting you thud against the wall of lockers behind you. He moved faster, almost in a desperate hurry to leave, stuffing everything he could in his backpack and heading straight for the door when he managed to zip it shut. He didn’t bother putting the bag on, simply letting it swing by his side with each heavy, intentional step. Most days, on his way out through the double doors that lead into the hallway—then, to the exit—he would smack the top of the doorframe. He didn’t do that this time, letting the last sound from any of his actions be the door shutting closed with a click.

The sad facts of the matter came one at a time, weighing down on you enough to make you slide down the lockers and make your chest hurt: Wally wasn’t a freak, you had completely pissed him off when you were just trying to do the right thing, and you were now entirely alone in a place that you already felt beside yourself.

But, a new fact came into fruition as you looked around the empty locker room—Wally left his jersey here. You saw his shirt splayed over the bench, the number fifty-seven unmistakable. It fell in a way that meant the only thing visible was his number—the same number spanning the broad of his back you had ogled over too many times to count. In his rush, he must have forgotten to stuff it back in his bag.

You needed to be a man and bring it to him, but he was likely already pulling out of the parking lot. This gave you a new mission, one where you would have to go to his house and return it.

✦

Leaves rustle in the wake of your car passing by. The streets were scattered with orange and brown leaves, piling in the cracks of the road and the raised sidewalks. It seemed to be worse in everyone’s yards as there was a higher ratio of rustic orange than paling green grass in each yard. The sleepy neighborhood intended to stay that way as they entered Sunday. Despite it being ten in the morning, everyone was likely still tucked away in bed, as the street was empty but the driveways were full. You pulled down the road Wally’s house was on, reaching the end of it as it lead into a cul-de-sac. You had been to the house before for parties—birthdays with a cake and presents and streamers that turned into house parties decorated with sex and booze, both empty bottles and kegs aplenty. Some meatheads even knocked down one of the trees lining the backyard at the senior player’s goodbye party last year with the broken table leg of the Clark’s patio furniture. Who knew innocence could become such a painful memory?

This weekend, Wally was on good behavior. Strangely good behavior. When you pulled into his driveway, only one car—his golden Camaro—sat there, resting, begging to be driven in the final days of decently tolerable weather. The Cadillac half-way filled with Wally’s parents usually parked next to it had the better idea of leaving, and maybe you should have followed in their footsteps.

You could call the temperature beyond your car comfortable, but nothing you could get lost in. It was just breezy enough, with just the sharpest bite of cold nipping at your face to remind you of how nervous it made you to return Wally’s jersey. Would he be weirded out that you took it? All you did was let it lay draped over your dresser for one night, but Wally didn’t know that. He could have thought you stuck it on a pillow and went to town on it… he could have pictured you doing a lot of things to it, and the fact that those images would flow so easily through his mind was both scary and oddly hopeful. But then the shining sun hit you, with warm beams that would make anyone want to curl up in the castings. And part of you, deep down, wanted to keep Wally’s jersey because it was the closest thing you would ever have to sleeping next to him.

The ways to approach this came to you as you walked down the small path through a well-tended garden and towards his front door: you could knock on the door and just leave the jersey on his doorstep—or would that make your plight too obvious? You could just hope that he would rudely answer the door, grab it, and slam the door shut. Thereby saving you from any and all embarrassing explanations about why you have it. Even if the answer was as plain and unexciting as vanilla yogurt—he forgot it—high-school was full of sudden U-turns and incomprehensible paths of logic. Up was down. Left was right. Gay was straight. Straight was painfully watching other guys being gay while swearing the opposite. Doing Wally a favor was making a mistake.

You knocked on the door three times, arching your knuckle to make it sound deep. Commanding, in a way that said you must come to the door or else. Quickly, however, you realized that the or else option would have to be taken. Wally didn’t answer the door—maybe his parents forced him to tag along with them to wherever they had gone? You mentally kicked yourself for not thinking to call him before you left the house, for trying to prolong the inevitable of having to give him a rehearsed speech about how you totally didn’t have his jersey for any gross or gay reason. Just because he forgot it, and you were doing him a solid.

You tried to think of ways that you could just leave it here without it being like a strange calling card. First his jersey goes missing, and now it reappears on his front porch like an omen—what kind of bad tv mystery would that be? The most sensible place to hang it, if you were going to leave it anywhere, was on the doorhandle to his house. Lush and lavish, a fancy handle that lead to a fancy home. It was a polished gold color with a small leaf-shaped place to press your thumb into stuck out on top, with a curved, almost vine-like growth of metal protruding from the placard screwed into the door. The golden leaf seemed like a good place to fasten his jersey, but when you did it kept slipping off.

You tried it a few times until the door made a distinct click, and slowly, it slid open, recessing into the house on the hinge.

Now, things were looking worse. Not only did you take his jersey home and were loitering outside of a presumably empty house, but you just opened the door to said empty house. Breaking and entering was not a crime you wanted on your record at eighteen, but things broken begun. Entering through an unlocked front door without being welcomed in spelled disaster. But he was a good friend and you had been to his house for parties and hang-outs in his basement, so what was the difference of an unannounced drop-by?

You entered his house with his jersey in-hand, trying to make it sound cool and calculated. “Yo, Wally! Forgot your jersey, dickhead. The door’s wide open, so…”

No response. The refrigerator returned your call with a low hum, but it was only half as docile as you wished Wally would be when you found him.

You weren’t sure where to go at first, but you were already past the point of no return. If anyone caught you, you would be thrown out or arrested by the cops. You decided to do a lap around his house, starting with the first floor. At the front of his house was the staircase leading to the second floor, and a branching path with two doorways on your left and right. One was a bit bigger and wider and seemed to open up into a spacious living room, with a couch and a chair and television to all support this estimate. The left side had a more traditional single-person doorway that lead into a room with a dining table and some chairs. Each room was missing a few objects, things that would typically rest on end-tables and show the signs of daily life. It was all too neat, no cups rested on seashell-themed coasters in the living room, the daily newspaper wasn’t sitting on their breakfast nook half-finished, the coffee pot on the counter was empty. Surely, no one in this house had started their day yet.

A thud from the above floor you drew your attention back to the stairs. Wally was probably in his room, sleeping like the rest of his street. He deserved it though, for carrying the team so well last night. He was doing more than sleeping though, because you could hear shuffling. The ceiling creaked with the movement of something unknown to you—but it wasn’t the haste one might carry themselves when they think an intruder is in their home. It was slow, irregular. They weren’t steps taken to leave his room and barrel down the stairs to fight a potential robber, they retreated back to the spot they originated from, and then, there was no movement at all.

You went back to the foyer of his house, taking one shaky step on to the stairs. The rest came easy. Up was down. You went up but every step taken made your stomach sink further down until it became a pit. Wally’s room was the second of two doors on the left. At the end of the hall, from what you could remember, was the closet, and the other two doors on the right were for his sister and his parents.

His door was the only one with any deviation from the casing, cracked ever so slightly like someone had made a failed attempt to fully shut it, and you could see the motioning of a figure in the sliver of light pouring through into the hall. The movement wasn’t erratic like an awoken sleeping—if Wally thought that you had been a robber, it would be grander. The type of movements you would see to defend yourself against a black bear. Make them think you’re bigger than you actually are, something that you’re not. But his were rhythmic. Intentional. He was moving, but it was no longer in a rush around the room.

Then, you heard him speak, but the words fell on unseen ears. That, or it was simply too quiet for them to be meant for anyone else but him.

As you got closer to the door, you heard the words more clearly. The movements became clearer when you could see part of him through the crack in the door. He was shifting up and down.

“Give me your fucking dick.” He moaned growling out the last few words with a rasp.

Your hand hit the door, but the noise didn’t come soon enough to alert Wally as you pushed the door open to reveal the sight of him, alone in his bed, bouncing his hips up and down on what looked to be a dildo. You couldn’t get much of a good look at it before his ass sunk down on it, hiding the base between his feet as he landed on them. Kneeling just like you had seen him do during Yom Kippur, only he was entirely naked. He ceased all movement, except for his head swiveling to the side, eyes landing on where his door was. Then, he focused up to your eyes.

“H—holy shit.” Unease spiked his words, and the dildo buried in his ass probably made it harder to speak when you and it were fighting the spot for being the biggest pain in his ass. You knew the feeling of having to get off in private, it wasn’t like you could bring a girl home and have sex with her and your parents would be entirely validating of it. These things had to be done in secrecy, and you were encroaching on Wally’s private time.

But you couldn’t leave, not when you had seen something pulled straight out of your fantasies. “No kidding.”

Wally immediately shot up, sliding himself off the dildo and leaving it behind as he stood up. Still naked, so everything on him shook. His dick was already softening—most likely at the embarrassment of being caught and ruining the moment, something you would have kicked yourself a hundred times over for if you could—but his ass had a bounce to it that you had never seen. He spun in circles, thinking about where to go first for coverage. He felt stupid for not using the pillows or the blankets on his bed, but he hadn’t been thinking enough in the moment to make any thought seem rational.

You threw his jersey at him. “Here.”

Wally caught it but didn’t say anything. He bunched up the shirt and pulled the neck hole over his head, then let his arms slide through each respective hole. Without padding, the sleeves went further down his arms and the neck hole showed more of his collarbone that it had before, and the rest was true as it fell over his torso, reaching all the way down over his dick and ass. The way it fell draped over his large figure made him look small without the padding, showing off just how lanky he was. You found it cute, but couldn’t ogle at him for too long—his bare legs, his ass just one tantalizing bend over away from being exposed. You couldn’t stare for long, though, since putting on his jersey seemed to correct his thoughts, and he started to speak.

“Turn around, I need to grab underwear.” His voice hit your ears hard, unusually standoffish compared to the high energy it normally had.

You turned to give him some privacy as he got dressed, realizing that it only forced you to stare at the dildo resting on his bed. Long, thick, and it come with a built-in suction cup at the end where the balls were molded together! The questions swirling in your head forced your mouth open, and you had no reason not to start asking them: “Does that remind you of Stephen?”

“What?” The voice asked from behind. It was defensive, and you could feel the metaphorical blade held to your back as he took the advantage to suddenly act with confidence. His brows furrowed, mouth turning down—something you could picture perfectly without having to turn around. Confusion followed him, and the answers trailed from a far, distant way behind.

“Stephen Barclay. When you… banana-crammed?” You had to remember that these words were supposed to be new to you. Anything that was said too quickly, or pronounced too perfectly would make it seem as if you had been practicing them. Saying them. Wishing them. Give me your fucking dick, if only Wally knew how many times his name came out of your mouth when you thought of him like that in bed. The worse part was, those words only captured a fraction of what you really thought. Every muscle was familiar to the idea, but only in practice.

“No, he was smaller.”

“Oh, that’s good gossip. Share it.” It did pique your interest to hear about the gossip, but any mention of Wally’s self-perceived debauchery made him crumble pretty fast.

“Fuck!” Wally stormed to his bed and seated himself. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

You didn’t have to ask, because the few words he did say spoke volumes to his mind, no matter how much he tried to hide how he felt. The question asked was merely a courtesy. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do we have to talk about it. Can’t we just say you didn’t see anything?” He looked up to you with a poignant expression, one of anger that you had seen before. It was the same one he would pull when you lost a game and he blamed himself for it.

“No.” You said.

“No?” His face remained down-turned. All signs—features—point to a painfully obvious no, this shouldn’t be happening.

“No, Wally. We are not treating this like another rumor. I saw what I saw, you can’t make that go away.”

“No one will believe you.” He spat out, and you could easily see through the ire and into the panic in his tone. It was the same defense you had come to use on Macey and people like them. Did he think you were like them?

“I don’t want to tell anybody.” You tried to comfort him, finding it difficult to find the right words when you had never heard them for yourself when you needed to hear them. But you needed to be there for Wally, and the next best thing was to validate his promiscuity. “It’s probably not the right time to ask, but did you go over to Stephen’s house?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t do any of that gay shit. We jerked off together, that was it.” It sounded like he was deflecting, but more details could make him reflect on all of the ‘gay shit’ he supposedly didn’t do.

“Wha—why?”

He wasted no time in firing a response back, coldly: “Why do you wanna know?”

“Because…” The biggest statement to show him that you were cool with his lifestyle would be to just say how you felt, and maybe that would succeed in making him feel better. “I want to fuck you.”

“Dude, you don’t have to throw sympathy sex at me like I’m a fucking pussy.”

“You’re not—I know you’re not.”

“Then you really want to—with me?” His questioning sounded almost too eager, but all too dreadful. It sounded like the exact conflict you had inside of you all the time; the guilt to indulge in who you are versus who you should be. Wally was conditioned to beat your face in for even suggesting the idea of sex, it was how he should be. But the truth was is that he loved the idea of it, more than he knew how to put into words. “Stop acting like you’re not a fucking piece!” You whined. “Why did you only jerk off with Stephen?”

“Why do you want to know so fucking badly?”

“Because I’m adding meaning where there isn’t any and trying to ask if you want to fuck! I’m the thing you hate and also the thing you love and this—,” you gestured with your hands in the space between the two of you, “—is fucking confusing. I just want to be with you!”

The room fell silent just as it had in the locker room. Wally’s expression was, for the first time, unreadable. He exposed himself to the innermost layer and there was nothing to remark about it. All it could be was everything it already was. It wasn’t some life-defining fact or new revelation, it was just him. The Wally you already knew.

You had to take lead on the conversation, another atypical move. If this confrontation was to play out like how the last one did, you would be the one leaving his house and any and all hope of returning was nonexistent. “Look, I’m sorry that this is like two speed bumps back to back, but they’re hills we have to get over. I still want to be your friend, and something more too, if you would let me?”

Wally stood, and you moved to give him thinking-space. You stepped to the side, bumping into the wall. The back of your head touched something smooth, a small crinkle erupting, and you knew that it had been from the James Lofton poster hanging up with two thumbtacks pushed through the top two corners. It was from his days in ’82, and Wally hadn’t shut up about how much he loved the poster and the man on it. No one would assume that he is like you two, but that’s the beauty of it. Impermissible perception, nothing that could or should or would be right. It just was.

Wally did a quick heel-turn and cornered you against the wall, and it was clear that he had already made up his mind. “I mean, that dildo was giving me the worst pounding of my life. I had to work myself up to cum but… something tells me the guy who gets easily flustered when I’m bent over the sink might only act that way because he has too much to handle. Feelings and dick.”

“You were… I mean—I’m not that big.” You were fighting a smile at the sound of hearing those words.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Wally planted one knee down, bending the other to follow with it. Your heart sank, feeling heavier. Each beat felt like the same rush of your fantasies, but Wally was actually beneath you this time.

His fingers thrum against your jeans, prolonging the inevitable—strong enough to feel a pulse where there normally isn’t one. To the ends of his central nervous system. His body was working hard and he’s hard and it’s hard to wrap his mind around unwrapping you.

Wally unfastened the button on your jeans, and a sudden realization hit him in that moment: he had never been on this end of undressing someone else. Not with another boy, at least. The types of girls he liked typically wore skirts and his stints with boys were so fast that, by the time he arrived to their houses, they were already undressed and ready for it to end. To kick him out and avoid eye contact at school the next day. But he had all the time in the world with you—well, however long a Sunday could last. Eye contact tomorrow at school was still T.B.D., but you and Wally played for the same teams, and you weren’t afraid to look at him. He could tell, almost by your eager-eyed stare down at him in this very moment, that you didn’t wish that he was a girl or wanted anyone to take his place. You just wanted him.

He parted the two flaps at the top and used his thumb to push down your zipper, and continued pulling them apart until your bulge flopped out. Your dick pointed straight down in your underwear, like an arrow, but there was nowhere else left to go except upon it.

He slid his hands to your hips, using his grasp to jut them out and bring you closer to his face.

“Y’know, Stacey has a rumor about you going around.” Wally kissed your bulge, taking long, deep presses with his lips to catch some of the taste and most of the smell of it. His nose consistently landed on the sides, nestled between your inner thigh and your cock.

You spoke through gritted teeth, trying to not give him the satisfaction of how hot the sight of his brown eyes peeking up through his lashes was while the rest of his face was buried under your whole package was. “Yeah? What is it?”

He backed away to speak, “That you have the biggest dick on the team.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Wally lined his mouth up with where your tip was, sucking on the head for as much as the fabric would give way. He flitted his tongue against it, feeling your dick pulse and harden against his lips. You moaned, fighting the urge to throw your head back or to continue watching him halfway submerged between you. He pulled away again, further explaining, “She wanted to make Michael jealous. Said that ‘you showed her.’”

“I didn’t.”

“Dude, I know that from how sheepish you’re getting, but Michael doesn’t.”

Your face felt muscles twitch that you didn’t know were possible, an impermissible feeling. But you said what made sense, following the logical conversation instead of reacting to this once-in-a-lifetime scenario, “They’re going to cannibalize each other.”

“Speaking of… let’s see this breakfast sausage.” Wally slid his hands back around your waist and to the front of your package, his fingers curling into the elastic waistband of your underwear.

You let out a laugh, a familiar feeling in your chest undoing the tightness of it. Wally’s jokes, even if a little stilted, still landed. “That was so bad.”

He pulled on the elastic and let it snap back on your skin as payback. You let out a soft wince, mostly from his stalling. “Ouch! Not fair.”

“Yeah, well, you interrupted my morning routine.” Wally decided that it was time to take the plunge and pulled your pants and underwear down in one quick yank. Your cock sprung up from containment and now rested at a full mast, sticking out, bobbing up and down from the motion until it settled nicely in the middle. Pointing directly at Wally.

“You still look good, Mister Morning Breath. And, by the way, it’s almost noon.”

“I’ll just make your dick smell like it.”

“Should I…” You started to speak, unsure of whether to let Wally take control with his breadth of experience or if you should do it as the unnamed top, but he decided for you: he would take control by gobbling up your dick. It was almost carnal, like he was starved of a thing he couldn’t name but knew that he needed.

You shuddered, folding over his mouth and reaching for anything to get ahold of yourself on. The closest thing was his desk, and your sudden grip on it sent mini-earthquakes over the objects on it. He had only taken the tip in his mouth, making lots of wet noises with it as you felt the repercussions of his saliva. Everything felt slick, and your skin felt impossibly smooth against his warmth. Like a hand running through a stream, but you never wanted to pull away from it. You weren’t even sure you could pull away with how cock-hungry Wally was.

Unbeknownst to you, Wally had done this quite a few times before, almost in the exact same position. On his knees, sucking a drooping dildo suctioned to the wall. So, he had gotten some experience beforehand. That wouldn’t make him a professional in the art of sucking dick by any means, but it made damn sure that you thought he was with your baseline being at the very bottom. Without any reference, he could suck your dick however he pleased and you would still writhe under him. Loose and sloppy was only his first method, and it seemed to already be working. He motioned his head in a corkscrew around half of your dick, treating it like the only thing to exist, and for you that was plenty enough to make you lose it.

However, Wally wanted more, he needed to reward himself with the scent of you. Unlike his dildos, going far up enough your length with his open mouth would bring him the sweet scent of your musk, not plastic like he was being gagged with a spoon from the cafeteria. He wanted to make it a decent first experience for you, even if you couldn’t tell the difference between a good blowjob and a bad one. He reeled himself back so that only the tip of your dick rested in his mouth, just past his teeth and running over the tip of his tongue, then he nearly lurched forward. His entire shoulders and head went with him as he starting moving along your length, taking it in deeper and deeper until he passed the halfway point. Wally, with almost near-perfect timing, started sucking it down as he felt your dick enter his throat.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to control yourself. Your hips naturally bucked further, wanting to dive deeper into the realm of velvety warm wet-hot pleasure. Wally, nose buried into your musk and smell, only looked up to you with fulfilled eyes. The hunger in him had gone away, but kept sucking like that. His head twisted and bobbed up and down your entire length, and his cheeks hollowed whenever he needed to swallow every inch. After every couple roundtrips, he would pause and only stop to breathe in you. Whiffs of something he only caught every now and then in the locker room were like the perfume department at Macy’s before him, and he wished for a whole bottle of your scent to take home.

There was a sharp moan again that cut through the air, drawing his attention up to your face, and he knew that look all to well. It was the kind he would see when he could tell you spent all your energy on the field, even if he could only see it in your eyes through the small window of the helmet. He could sense it now, seeing it in it’s fullest like zooming out to get the full painted masterpiece. It was one and the same, even if you almost looked like a different person than you did out there in all of your gear. To be a decent man, he throated your cock up to the base one more time, giving you one last look while your dick was buried in his mouth, then he backed off of it completely. His lips were coating in his own saliva, and your dick had the same glossy coating all over it.

You whined, “What are you doing?”

“You said that you wanted to fuck me! I’m prepping you.”

“Oh, still… I could have blew it just from that.” You panted, trying to find some recollection and focus on the thing that was supposed to be the best part of this whole endeavor. Wally was so skilled with his mouth, it was hard to top that. “Fuck, I have a new rumor to start… the football captain loves my dick.”

“Don’t be a—”

“‘Fucking dick?’”

“Asshole.”

“Your words, Walter. Now you have to eat them.” You slapped your dick on his lips. “Can’t we just finish like this?”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of your dick, letting it rest on his cheek. His eyes twitched at the closeness of something so foreign, but his nose scrunched, taking in the smell. He exhaled audibly, and then spoke. “Why, you scared?”

“A little, but you look too good like this.” You ran your hands through his short hair, enough to ruffle and disturb the way it laid, but it wasn’t really able to be pulled. Not without hurting him.

Your grip was loose enough for Wally to slide away from it. He rose to his feet, and a new energy took over him. “You won’t hurt me. I’ve been through enough on the football field, and look at me! I’ll make it out fine every time.”

“I guess that’s true.” You looked down Wally’s body, feeling slightly too nervous to look him in the eye. He was tenting in his underwear, and it made the hem of his dangly jersey break from perfectly encircling his thighs. He was still the man of your dreams, but he could still be scary, even at his most vulnerable.

Wally moved closer, pressing his forehead to yours. He spoke in hopeful desperation. “So, you’ll fuck me? That is what you wanted, right?”

“I want a lot more than just your ass, dude.” As soon as the words left your mouth, Wally pressed his lips to yours. They were still slick with his own spit, and they tasted different than how you expected. But the second your mind corrected it to be that this is what he tasted like and felt like, it was another perfect thing about him. When the kiss broke, he started walking to his bed.

“Save it for the pillow talk.” Wally turned and leaned onto his bed, his back now facing you. He planted two hands on the bed and crawled up so that both of his knees were resting on the edge, leaving his feet to dangle over the side of it. His ass faced you, and he reared his head back to look at you. “Your turn.”

Check and mate. The first one was easy enough; you knew that you were ready to fuck him, but you had to check him out. Taking a few steps closer, you were a couple inches away from the fucking football captain spread out on his own bed, back arching as he bowed down to resting on his elbows, making his ass stick up and out more. His thighs pressed together to give the unified support of both knees propping him up, bringing everything closer and accentuating it all. That was with his boxers still on and jersey draped partially over his ass, but it was time to check out the rest.

Slowly, you pushed the jersey up with both hands. You were smart enough to make it sensual for him, placing your full palm and fingers on his body and letting it slowly slide down his back until it rested on his arch. Wally decided that he would help by grabbing at the neck of his shirt and started pulling it off, but you stopped him.

“Keep—keep it on.” You said. Once the first command came, the rest of your words came out like a hurricane, uncontrollable. “Can I fuck you in the jersey? I’ve always thought about it.”

“Really? Where?”

“Like, on the football field.” Wally wasn’t that dense to not know where it could take place, but he loved seeing you get this timid about it. It felt satisfying, like the slow release of a wind-up music box. He knew the dancer would perform, and the words would feel like music to his ears. I want you, you practically sang with rooted movement.

You were quick to grab your dick and let the boxers bunch at his knees, and you almost came at the sight. Somehow, everything you knew about him had been a lie. This was really him, his pale ass that you drooled over in all of it’s glory. Cheek pressing against uninterrupted cheek, nothing between them like his football tights or the long days at school when he would wear his letterman. His boxers had deceived you about the size, as it seemed to have grown bigger when you slipped them down his thighs. But you forgave him for nothing of his own fault because the thing buried between his ass would make up for it ten-fold. Your hands sunk into his cheeks, one to hold each blissfully smooth mound, and parted the pale gates. His opening was right there and he was ready for you, all you had to do was fill it.

The hard part—well, besides you? Mating. And making it worthwhile on top of that. The worst thing you could do was finally having the guy you liked, only to fumble it on the five yard line.

You spoke more, the words flying off your tongue as you danced around actually putting it in. “Wait, I’ve never… do we need a condom?”

He looked back at you with narrow eyes, “No, dude. Last time I checked, I don’t have a uterus. But fuck me like I have it.”

“A teen pregnancy scare, that’s a good one.” You continued to give the ordeal some more thought, and your mind hadn’t even thought about eating him out or sticking a finger up the ass to stretch him out. “Won’t it hurt?”

“It’s fine, dude, I’m already prepped.” His opening was still very much open from the dildo that was buried inside of him. It wasn’t the most obvious thing at first glance, but you had also never see it this close before.

“If you say so.” You said, listlessly. “Don’t bitch that it hurts.”

Grabbing your dick at the base, you lined it up with his hole and moved closer, pressing your hips forward as it breeched new ground. There was a surprising resistance to it that you had to fight, but you stopped when you saw Wally’s back rise and extend. He was taking deep breaths.

“Fuck, you’re big.” Wally groaned out, needing some time to adjust. He hadn’t fully thought about the fact that you were significantly bigger than the dildo laying beside him.

“Really?” You couldn’t believe that he was saying that to you, among the many other pantomimes. All the cliches of your fantasies were being enacted one after the other, and it still didn’t feel real. The alarm should have gone off by now, the curtain should have fallen.

“Bigger than any guy I’ve—fuck. Ooh fuck.” Wally’s words quickly atrophied, his lungs readjusting to take small, short gasps in as he adjusted to your size.

The further you pushed, the less composed he seemed to be. He arched his back, trying to find a way to fit an object that felt foreign to him.

On the other end, the same effect bubbled in you, making your words come sputtering out. It was one of Newton’s laws—one you were too distracted by Wally in physics class to actually bother learning it to place a name to it now. You cracked a smile in disbelief, pleasure and euphoria overtaking your tone and lacing the compliment with sickening sweetness. “You feel really good, Wally. So fucking good.”

“Enough with the ass-kissing, I thought we skipped that part.”

“We did.” You said, a brief wave of panic reeling you back into the reality of things. Averted eyes in the hallways, stuttering as you try to reach for something normal to talk about tomorrow at his locker, all as if today will have never happened.

Wally bowed his head between his shoulders again, and his entire body language was hard to read when each movement wasn’t his own. It was just his body reacting to things; every one of your thrusts moved jolted his body forward, his back arched and his posture worsened due to the dick that was not supposed to be there spreading it’s own way in. These were just the things that had to happen, the things expected to be what they were. The same kind of reaction that Macey would give if they saw you and Wally kiss after winning the game, it was all just second nature.

But you couldn’t ignore the fact that this was second nature, too. The burning in your chest sending signals to your heart, brain, and dick. Sometimes in the wrong order, fueling things to be awkward. Which one you were thinking with could be indiscernible at times, and at others, it was the exact thing you needed. Wally had the proof on him too, hanging off his waist.

“Turn around.” You said.

“What?” Wally lifted his head and looked back at you again.

“This doesn’t feel right. I wanna switch positions.”

“Fuck me, dude.” Wally said, trying to force it out as a groan but it came out somewhere as a sigh of relief when he realized the comedic undertone of his words.

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Wally stifled a laugh when you fed into the unintentionally comedic bit. You pulled out of his hole and Wally felt a sudden emptiness, craving something he only had a brief taste of. Yet, he waited for your command. “Just, ride me.”

You crawled on to his bed, shoving the dildo to the floor and taking a seat against the headboard, using his pillow as cushioning for your back. Swiveling your head, you took a quick glance at him, sending him a silent signal. Looking into his eyes from this distance revealed that he wouldn’t look away, not now, and hopefully, not ever.

“Do I have to pick you up, Clark?” You spoke, reaching down to jerk your dick.

Wally stood on his bed, bending slightly down when he was fully upright so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. He took a step over you and let himself land somewhere in the middle, shimmying up a few paces by wading on his knees through the sea of his dark blue comforter. His cock swung the entire way up, and now, he had to look at you. He couldn’t ignore his problems or act like this was whoever he wanted it to be. It was just you—something he had to face head-on.

“If only you had your padding so I had something to hold on to while I bounce on it.”

“My shoulders can help with that.” You guided his hands by the wrists to your shoulders. Wally’s fingers wrapped around the wider muscles, unfamiliar with the broadness of them. His fingers curled and dug into them, barely sinking in against the bone.

Wally let himself fall back slowly, removing one hand for a second to spread himself again. He was already stretched out to your size, so the tip went in a lot smoother than the first time. But his reaction was about the same.

“This is better.” You sighed. Your hands found purchase on his hips, going from just resting on them to gripping them as you pushed him down on your cock. You still let him have the occasional bounce on your lap, but you controlled the rhythm as much as he did.

“Can—can I ask why?”

“I want to look into your eyes. When I—” Your hands slid around his waist, copying the same moves as he did. But Wally was the one to move your hand to his dick as he cut you off.

He looked you dead in the eye, refusing to break contact. “When we do it—mhm, yeah.”

That lifted the biggest weight off your chest, leaving it to buzz freely. Like a streetlamp with nothing bearing it down as it stands in the path of a tornado. At this point, it had reached the eye of the storm, the first gusts of wind lifting the weights off before leaving it light and ripe for the plucking off of Earth.

You started jerking him off and it was clear by his abdomen, which was flexing and drawing each heavy breath in and out and in and out then in again, that he was close. Your hand became slick with pre-cum spilling out from Wally’s slit, adding to all of the feelings ruminating in him. After a few more bounces entirely done with his body weight and without your help, he bucked into your hand, shooting ropes all over your stomach and chest. The first few peaked at your chest, shooting lower and lower until you were milking him for the last few drops. Wally tried to help by pounding himself down on your dick, bringing you to climax and ushering whatever he could out of his shaft and on your hand.

The moment replayed in your head: his face, the way it twisted and his lips went puffy as his body started to contradict himself. He wanted to force out unwavering gasps and make whatever animalistic noise captured how good he felt, but his body refused to react as fast as his brain. So, it came out as a mix of things. Slowly, however, his body sorted through the actions. The moans came out first as his whine for release shifted to a deep, vocally fried rasp, accompanied by large puffs of air coming out through his nose. His eyes shut, and you felt him put more of his weight on your shoulders than he had been doing before.

Even as it played out, bits and pieces stuck out in your mind, looping until they became all that you could think about. Tomorrow was still your worry, but your dick was doing most of the thinking. And Wally’s slick, wet movements against it were enough to bring everything stirring in you to the surface. You bucked your hips into his ass as much as you could while under Wally’s weight, feeling them spasm more than they showed it. You felt your cock pulse, but you couldn’t see how much you had filled him up.

When you finally finished inside of him, you let go of Wally and started cleaning yourself up. He watched you, almost amused, and you realized that this was the first time for everything. Even the aftercare. The first thing to draw your attention was your hand, which you immediately started by licking the excess cum off. You looked into Wally’s eyes as you did it, making sure to do it with a bit of messiness that left saliva in place of it.

“Hot.” Wally said, a goofy grin spreading over his face. The kind that was stretched so far up his cheeks that he looked silly. He was still coming off the high of his orgasm. “I can do you one better.”

Wally leaned down, looking up at you as he licked his own cum off of your chest with broad strokes. It took a few licks to clean it all up, but on the final lick, he licked all the way up your sternum, along your neck, and rounding off at your chin. He used the opportunity of moving up to pull off of you, which gave one final, almost so-good-it-hurts, tug on your dick as it popped out of his hole.

“Hey, you.” His voice was full of lust, but it was strangely happier. It must have finally hit him that he was doing this with you.

“Hey.” You responded, but Wally took the opportunity of being level with your face to give you a soft kiss.

When he pulled back, you changed your greeting to a more lustful, “Hi.” Then, you continued, “I like being able to talk like this.”

“I like being able to do all of this.” He waved a hand over you.

“I’m serious.” You pushed him off and he flipped himself over as he landed on his side of the bed.

Wally responded a beat later. “Like what?”

“Like saying dude and bro so much that I’m compensating for how much my voice just wanted to… lose itself to you. Sorry if I was being a dick when we… I hope you aren’t mad about that.” You only added the last part when Wally turned and reached for something on his nightstand, making you think he was about to get up. To leave the room and run to the bathroom in shame because, deep down, he was still a painfully macho-man. But he turned back around with a pack of cigarettes in hand and a lighter between his fingers—filtered Lucky Strikes and a Zippo.

Wally stated it plainly: “No, I’m not.”

“Damn, I was really hoping you were.” You teased. “It would’ve given me a reason to talk to you like

how I’ve always wanted to.”

“You still can, but I liked how you talked to me before.” Wally placed a cigarette between his lips and flicked the lid of the lighter open. A few flicks later, it was lit. He gestured the pack over to you, “Smoke?"

He had said the words with the cigarette still hanging off his lips.

“No thanks,” You laughed and jokingly responded with the awful bro-talk that had filled your conversations before. “We say it so much. Some shit like: aw, dude. Your hand, like, totally feels so good on my dick right now bro.”

“Just like that.” Wally praised. He took a drag of his cigarette, pulling it away from his lips and sucking the air in between his teeth. It made a sharp hiss.

“It’s not me, though. It’s hardly anything close to what I’ve wanted to say to you since freshman tryouts.”

He blew the smoke out of his lungs. “What do you want to say?”

“A lot.” Feeling that you weren’t doing enough with your hands, you let it roam across the bed until it found his. He took your hand into his, holding it.

He laughed and took another drag of the cigarette, “I know! You heard those rumors and flew off the handle.”

“I didn’t fly! It was more, like, jumping. Fuck, I don’t know. When did you know?”

“What?”

You rubbed your thumb over the back of his hand. “Well, I’ve been asking all the why’s and how’s, but when did you know for sure, without a shadow of a doubt that you were…”

“Into dudes?” He asked, you nodded.

Wally took a much longer drag of his cigarette this time, and you anxiously watched the end turn into ash like a timer. Waiting for the painful answer to hear that he wasn’t fully into them, or he was in flat out denial. Your attempt to help him and move your relationship forward could’ve done nothing in the way of Wally accepting himself. He spoke up when the smoke exited his lungs, with a much visible force behind the exhale this time.

“I knew last year, on the night of our first victory. I wasn’t football captain yet, so the coach had me on the bench. Do you remember?” Wally looked over at you with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah, it was the night I…”

“The night you dislocated your shoulder getting us the win. And I rode with you in the ambulance because I was the only one who knew the number to call your parents. Your throw totally improved after that, by the way, way better than Keith—and how could you even jerk-off if it was your dominant arm that got hurt?”

“I didn’t, and yes, it sucked. Won’t that stink up the room if you keep smoking it?” You looked to his cigarette, which was about halfway burned by this point. Wally got out of bed and started walking to one of the windows in his room. You missed the feeling of his body next to yours, and the touch of his hand in yours, but you also cared about him being caught. You didn’t want to have the man of your dreams only for him to get grounded over something so stupid.

He turned to face you as his did, taking strides without the fear of running into anything since he knew his bedroom down to the crevices of every corner. “Well, anyways. The dude-nurse there was a total fag—and I’m saying that because he had no shame hitting on you in front of everyone.”

“You looked like you wanted to sock him in the face. I thought it was because you didn’t like… gay dudes.” You said the last part hesitantly, unsure of whether or not you should join him in saying the slur. You hoped that, with time, he wouldn’t be as quick to say it.

“I did, oh, I did one-hundred percent.” He laughed. Wally kept the cigarette between his lips for a moment as he lifted the window up and did the same to the windscreen. He leaned out the window, his ass sticking out from under his jersey as it rode up his back, beckoning you for another round. Thankfully, his room was on the side of the house, facing a dense wall of trees between his house and the next-door neighbors. It was quiet, only the sound of the last of the morning birds that had once been muffled now getting the chance to sing their song clearly before noon. “But I was just jealous that he got to be so open about it. I swear he came to check up on you way more than he needed to. I had never felt that jealous before about anybody, and for a while, I didn’t know why.”

“Wally, that guy was a total chester.” You deadpanned. “Good thing I don’t like you for your smarts.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You heard him say with the same tone back.

You got out of bed, walking towards him as folded over the windowsill. This time, you reached out and groped his ass, letting your hand slide fully between his cheeks and tease his hole. “Nothing, honey.”

He turned and looked back at you, a smile forming over his face. He maneuvered his lanky body back into the room, giving you a kiss that tasted like nothing but smoke. “Okay, baby.”