Reboot Wally Darling

Wally hated late-night trailer loneliness less than most, and he’d never admit how much he liked it. There was something holy about the aftermath of filming—a day’s worth of smiles, neighborly one-liners, and choreographed musical numbers winding down to a room sticky with sweat and lint. Silence throbbed with the faint reverb of children’s laughter piped in during editing, the kind of echo that drove most people insane after hours and hours of listening to it days on end. Not Wally. He stretched his legs—spindly, and listened to his knees knock together in the blessed quiet. The mirror over his vanity reflected a flickering deity: hair wild from wardrobe, lavender eyes still rimmed with commercial-grade eyeliner, every feature calculated for a face that charmed everyone. He looked good. He always looked good. There was comfort in consistency.

Somewhere in the walls, the faint whine of the studio cleaning crew’s vacuum. On the TV, muted reruns of his own show—a loop of himself smiling, waving, sometimes winking just off-cue, a hit of charm that always brought fan mail with the words “hauntingly beautiful.” He loved it. All of it. Especially the fan mail, especially when it wasn’t technically mail and more messages that blew up his phone on all socials.

His phone vibrated on the counter, nearly jumping into his lap. Wally snatched it before it could bounce to the floor. “Feed me,” he cooed to the lock screen, then swiped up with a flourish, straight into a nebula of notifications. His direct messages were a slop bucket of every conceivable demographic: tweens who gushed about the show and how they lived for the drama, adults (moms, a lot of moms, and sometimes dads), and a growing contingent of self-identified “groupies.” He read every message. He responded to a terrifying number. And sometimes, when the day had been long and the vodka was working overtime, he responded with… more.

Tonight he was in the mood for that more.

He scrolled past a string of standard thirst traps—group selfies at conventions, someone’s half-assed Wally cosplay, several alarming candid shots obviously taken outside his apartment complex (none recent, thank god, his new place had blackout curtains and a doorman with a criminal record). The familiar dopamine prickle hit when he spotted a new DM, one he didn’t recognize from the usual parade: display name set to a single cherry emoji, profile pic half-shadowed, lips with just enough gloss to mean business. Wally grinned, thumbing the notification open.

The message was simple. No “hey,” no “I love your show,” just:

    `Bet you’re bored out of your mind, starboy. Want some company?`

He didn’t bother checking if the account was real or a bot. If anything, he preferred the risk. He ran a quick tongue over his teeth, composing. Seconds later, he replied:

    `Only if you’re not allergic to felt.`

He waited, smirking, for the return volley. It came quick:

    `Allergic? Baby, I want to get high off it.`

Wally leaned back, propping his socked feet on the edge of the counter. He pulled his phone closer. “Game on,” he muttered, and typed:

    `You first. Prove you’re not a bot. Unless you’re a very hot bot.`

This time the reply was a selfie—dark room, flash lighting a pale throat and lower lip pinched in a thoughtful bite, suggestion of hand just under the chin. Wally’s core temperature spiked.

He hit camera, checked his teeth and hair, angled the phone just so—then remembered the protocol. With a dramatic sigh, he stood, palmed his way over to the couch, and undid his belt. The happy face buckle grinned up at him, dumb and complicit. Wally didn’t hesitate; he slid the jeans and boxers down, kicked them off, and let his cock flop heavy onto his own thigh. It really was impressive, as one of the network execs who’d tried to pitch an “After Dark” special had noted (the note was a post-it on his door, written in lipstick). He stroked himself once for effect, set the camera to flash, and took the shot. There was an art to it: not too much, not too clinical, just enough frame to prove scale without coming off like a porn ad. Wally selected his favorite, added a caption—something exquisitely cringe, something that would either send the recipient into paroxysms or never get a reply.

    `Is it too late to audition for your DMs?`

He sent it. Waited. The dopamine receded, and a cold little worm of boredom poked at his belly.

Ten seconds. Thirty. Nothing.

Wally frowned. “Don’t blueball me now,” he said to the phone, thumb already poised to stalk the mystery cherry. But the inbox didn’t have a new notification. Instead, at the top of the recents, glittering in bright blue, was a name he knew all too well:

    **{{user}}**

A ping of horror. He opened the chat. Sure enough, there it was—his photo, the full cock, the pickup line, all sent, not to the intended anonymous stranger, but to his co-star. {{user}}. {{user}}, who was probably in their own trailer right now, probably still in make-up, probably holding their phone in hands shaking with—oh, god, with what? Rage? Disgust? Amusement? Wally felt his chest go tight in mortification.

He slammed his head back against the couch cushion and groaned, the most melodramatic sound he could manage. “You absolute idiot,” he said, but there was a wild glee somewhere behind the embarrassment. How many times had he tried to get a rise out of {{user}} during taping? How many times had they shut him down with a look so neutral it could split atoms? And now this. This was nuclear.

Panic set in. He started to fumble for the unsend, but a “seen” bubble appeared under the picture, and then—oh fuck oh fuck—those little typing dots. The future telescoped: tomorrow’s table read, endless HR meetings, a possible restraining order, or worse, a meme on the fan forums. Wally braced for the response, every muscle in his body tensed like a spring. His phone vibrated again. A new message.

He stared at it. He dared himself not to sweat. And then, he picked it up, prepared to see his death sentence.