Miusies

Wally Clark x fem!reader

October Eclipse MASTERLIST

October Sun - 83,288 words. rated R.

October Moon - x words. rated E.

October Dawn - x words. rated PG.

October Betweens - N/A words. various ratings.

a 2-part case-fic retelling of Season 1 with Reader Insert. includes mystery, sexual tension, smut, flirting, occult themes, HEA, and more.

Alphabet Soup MASTERLIST

a prompt-fill NSFW alphabet challenge that includes a collection of mostly porn-with-plot oneshots. 24,207 words. rated E.

Boyfriend Wally Clark(NSFW)

a smutty flashfic Wally Clark headcanon outlining who he is as a boyfriend. 801 words. rated R.

Cuddle Bug

a fluffy flashfic delving into Wally Clark's tactile nature and how damn cuddly he is with you. 1755 words. rated T.

Tongue Twister

a PWP drabble highlighting Wally Clark's addiction to eating your pussy like a man starved. 1098 words. rated E.

Wally Clark Headcanons

SFW personal headcanons outlining who Wally Clark was before he died. 435 words. rated G.

Wally Clark Headcanons - 2

SFW fluffiness centered around Wally's adorable requests for head-pats. 262 words. rated G.

Anxiety Reversed

a fluffy hurt/comfort wherein Wally comes to the rescue when you have a panic attack. 697 words. rated G.

Jealous

a smutty exposition of Wally's inner workings as he comes to terms with the fact that he may not be able to be super casual about you. 3382 words. rated M.

Order Up! MASTERLIST

Fifty Seven - fluff - 5093 words. rated PG.

Marshmallow Miles - smut/fluff - 3302 words. rated M.

Best Friends Club - fluff/smut - 4607 words. rated M.

Boy Noise - smut - 1396 words. rated E.

Simp. - smut - 1440 words. rated E.

Wally Clark Headcanons - 3 - fluff - 610 words. rated G.

Anxiety - smut - 1305 words. rated M.

Wreck It Like A Rumor - angst/smut - 6643 words. rated M

Anxiety 2 - fluff/smut lite - 1787 words. rated M.

Punctuation. - fluff - 1787 words. rated PG.

Hot For You - smut - 1608 words. rated E.

Hurt You, Heal You - fluff - 2223 words. rated G.

Crush - smut - 3528 words. rated M.

Control Freak - smut lite - 2731 words. rated M.

Transcendental - fluff - x words. rated PG.

Canvas - fluff - 1186 words. rated PG.

Cannon Ball - fluff - x words. rated G.

Intimacy with Strangers - smut - 3094 words. rated E.

a series of prompt fills/requests under one banner. please visit the masterlist and refer to in-fic summaries for more information.

Wally Clark x male!reader

Order Up! MASTERLIST

Silly Boy - smut - x words. rated M.

a series of prompt fills/requests under one banner. please visit the masterlist and refer to in-fic summaries for more information.

Simon Elroy x reader

Order Up! MASTERLIST

Boyfriend Simon Elroy (NSFW) - smut - 1068 words. rated E.

a series of prompt fills/requests under one banner. please visit the masterlist and refer to in-fic summaries for more information.

Zed Necrodopolis x fem!reader

Bubblegum

smutty oneshot illustrating how you're the only one who can sate a Zombied Out Zed. 1739 words. rated E.

Order Up! MASTERLIST

THORNS

But he isn’t feeling rational right now, sitting in Billy Hollister’s musty basement, all dark wood paneling and grey carpet, glaring daggers through the crowd at you and Dipshit Darren laughing at something Dipshit Darren said.

Fucking Darren.

Forced chuckle, charming comeback, big smile and scene: you’re leaning in like Dipshit Darren earned some kind of gravity in your universe.

Wally’s fist clenches around his Pabst Blue Ribbon. The can crunches slightly, cheap beer bubbles out of the mouth, dribbling over his fingers. Eyes narrow, jaw tight, molars grinding as he tries (and fails. spectacularly.) to calm the fuck down.

                “…Hey, buddy,” Rodney says from somewhere over Wally’s shoulder, voice slow and controlled, a little hesitant, “You good?”

No. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Wally answers through gritted teeth, unable to hide the fact that he’s on the verge of beating the shit out of something. Someone. With eyes that shouldn’t be looking at you like that.

                “You sure? Because you look—”

                “I said I’m fine.” Wally snaps, though his words are still low enough not to draw attention.

Rodney nods and pats Wally’s shoulder, supportive despite not having any clue what he needs to be supportive about. “Alright. Well. If you feel less fine, let me know. Keith and I are thinking of heading to Max’s if things don’t pick up soon. Burgers might help whatever has you feeling fine.” And that last word is said with a hint of amusement.

Wally nods stiffly in response as he continues to stare at you and Darren being unnecessarily chummy. A long, lingering beat passes before he eventually feels Rodney’s presence withdraw.

He doesn’t bother seeking Rodney out ten minutes later. Instead, heart beating wildly, he stands, slaps his half-empty beer can on the table beside him and retreats up the wonky stairs to find somewhere to breathe. You and Darren are pissing him the hell off, and he can’t see straight, think straight, rationalize. He just needs a minute to compose himself before he does something stupid. Like charge over there, hoist you over his shoulder, and drag you away like the base fucking caveman you make out of him.

He creeps down the hall to an empty bedroom—Billy’s—and falls back onto the single bed, the lumpy duvet doing little to comfort him. He takes a deep, grounding breath, hands folded on his belly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Another breath.

Another.

This isn’t fucking working; his mind is spinning out. All he can think about is Darren’s hand on your knee. Your bright, beautiful smile blooming when Darren suggested something Wally couldn’t hear because it was whispered, all private and flirtatious, into your ear. The music was loud, the people louder, but who the fuck cares, it was still way too intimate for Wally’s sanity.

Take another breath, Wally. Just breathe. One, two, three, four. Exhale. Two, three, four.

He coaches himself through it, cutting the intrusive images of what might—but hasn’t, but could, plausibly—happen between you and Darren if Wally doesn’t intervene.

Don’t intervene, his mind commands. You’re not his girl. And he doesn’t want you to be, his stomach tying in knots at the mere suggestion of ‘permanent’ and ‘real’. Wally doesn’t do ‘real’. He does slow smiles and cheeky winks across the cafeteria. He does terms of endearment when he needs homework done and Claudia Lobasso is alone in the Yearbook room.

Wally does single likes it’s his job.

He likes the freedom, the unpredictability, the endless stream of options—fuck. Why can’t he get over it? He’s had a string of shortlived pieces since he was a sophomore. Girls he’s been with casually for something pretty to look at while getting his dick wet. But you? Fucking you~. You’ve altered his brain chemistry somehow. Had to have. Because as much as he recognizes himself in the mirror, there’s a bunch of shit happening under the surface that doesn’t make sense.

“Fucking weak.” He grumbles, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. Billy’s alarm clock ticks away beside him, the din from downstairs wafting in waves between the thin silence of the room.

How the hell did he get here?

You’re supposed to be one of dozens. Just like the rest. A hot body and beautiful face; an object that Wally wants on his arm for maximum two weeks before he moves on.

That’s the normal order of things. Wally wants something. Wally gets it. Wally uses it until it no longer serves him. MVP of the football team, king of the school, Wally is the guy all the girls throw themselves at just for a smile.

You hadn’t wanted just a smile, though, and he’d known that, but he’d liked the way you’d looked in that slinky little number you’d worn to the school dance in September. Strappy and short and sparkly. Caught his attention like a magpie to a diamond. So fucking pretty, surrounded by your friends, dancing like nobody was watching. He’d never noticed you before that night, a junior to his senior. But the music had faded and the crowd had parted like the Red Sea, and he couldn’t get his mind to click over to anything else until he had your number in his pocket and the promise of a date the following Friday.

Wally had wanted you. Wally had gotten you. Again and again and again. Because, Christ, that pussy might not be one in a million, but the way you move, the way you respond to him, the sounds you make when he fucks into you slow and sharp and deep, cock kissing your sweet spot, making you whimper his name like a prayer and a plea in one breath—

Shit. Now he’s hard.

The doorknob clicks, the door opens with a rusty groan, and he doesn’t have to turn his head to know it’s you, your perfume heralding your entrance before you even step foot in the room.

Double shit.

Wally sighs, sits up, elbows on his knees, head down, hands clasped. Gives you a moment to orient yourself in the dark and find his silhouette before he’s on his feet and prowling toward you.

                “Wally?” You ask, voice soft and sweet and fuck you, he doesn’t want to acknowledge how his system instantly slows down. “Rodney’s looking for you.”

He doesn’t answer, instead crowds you toward the door, reaches behind you to snick it closed and turn the lock, a thin line of space between you and him that does nothing to dampen the heat he can feel radiating off your body like an invitation.

What the hell is he doing? He should just thank you and be on his way. Go find Rodney and Keith, get burgers and stir shit up at the arcade. Okay. Go do that, Wally. Back up, get a move on.

He doesn’t.

Instead, unconsciously, subconsciously…fucking conscious as fuck, his head dips and his lips brush against your neck. A shaky inhale through his nose; an equally shaky exhale through his mouth. And then he retreats, refusing to look at you, returning to sit on the bed, glaring ahead like the world has personally offended him.

Wally lets the silence stretch as he steadies the impulse to call you out for trying to make him jealous; for flirting with Darren, letting Darren touch you; for looking like a fucking angel in a musty basement and acting like Wally won’t eat you for dinner.

Finally, he snaps his gaze up, finds yours easily even in the dark, holds it long enough to question his sanity, before he says, “Come here.”

And, God, without resistance, without question, you do. Stepping carefully into Wally’s space, right between his legs, hands still at your sides because you know—you fucking know—it’s always better when you wait for and follow Wally’s instructions. He’s absolutely buzzing beneath the surface, heat tingling under his skin, coiling tight in his belly, making his heart thud harder in his chest. He places his hands on the backs of your thighs, glides them up so, so slowly, his touch bordering worship (not that he’d ever admit it). Up, up, up, under your skirt, until they find the perfect globes of your ass.

He drags you closer at the same time he leans forward, nose drawing a line from your bellybutton to just below your tits through your top. Another shaky inhale, eyes closing, lips parted. Overtly savors the scent of your perfume and, beneath that, the ghost of that tropical kids’ bodywash you still use because your mom finds it cheap at Kmart.

How the hell does he even know that?

His grip briefly tightens on your ass before moving again, pushing your skirt up to bunch it around your waist. And, mmmm, that’s it baby, that’s what he wants, the heady smell of your arousal in his nostrils. He licks his lips, hands dragging down again to hold you by the hips. He hears your breath hitch, the sweetest little gasp that goes straight to his cock. He feels the shiver that runs through you when draws your top up, his breath tickling your sensitive skin; tries to coax another from you with a graze of dry lips just under your bra.

Dipshit Darren can’t see you like this, Wally decides, fingers flexing where they hold you. No one else can see you like this. Confidential. Classified. His eyes only.

Shit. Fuck. “Why are you doing this to me?” He breathes between your ribs, cursing himself for how lost he sounds.

                “What—?”

Nope.

In one quick, fluid movement that impresses even Wally himself, he stands, hoists you into his arms, spins around, and then pins you beneath him on Billy’s bed. And there’s not enough room for this, Silly Virginboy Billy, but Wally isn’t actually ready to hear what you have to say so this is happening. Your skirt still bunched around your waist, his hands sneaking under your top, under your bra, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingertips as he watches your expression melt from surprise into pleasure.

You’re gorgeous as always; gaze unfocused, cheeks flushed, lips parted so sweetly, all because of Wally. His attention, his touch, his desire. His. He can’t stop now, couldn’t if someone held a gun to his head. Snakes down your body, taking your panties with him, off and over his shoulder. Pushes your thighs apart roughly while he stares into your fucking soul, determined to convey exactly how his you were, are, will be.

You don’t move, holding your breath as you watch him watching you, and he’s fucking living for it. To be what holds your entire focus, every ounce of you attuned to him and only him. Nothing else can possibly exist in this space, in this moment, in your head except Wally. Fuck, yes, that’s all he wants.

The instant you look like you’re about to try and speak, he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laves it through your folds with a moan. You’re already fucking drooling for him, as always, perfect pink pussy responding just how he predicted. You clench around his tongue, thighs trembling in his hard grip, and he can’t help it, can’t stop himself from humping Billy’s fucking childhood bed as he eats you out. Tongue prodding, sinking in as deep as Wally can get it, like he’s trying to trace the fucking secrets of the universe inside you.

He tonguefucks your pussy sloppy and desperate, every muscle in his body thrumming with an energy he can barely rein in. Your chorus of weak moans and whimpers punctuated by reverent gasps of his name, fingers clenched in his hair at the back of his head, holding him where you need him. Wally’s not one to let a girl think she’s in control, both you and he know that’s not how this works. But right now, he’s feeling charitable. Gives you the illusion of control when, really, he could pull back and leave you here, feeling slutty and used in Billy’s room.

Ignoring, of course, how that thought makes his belly tug unpleasantly.

Pushing that thought aside, Wally puts everything he has into making you come for him. Two long, thick fingers plunge in and out of you as he suckles your clit, all tongue and teeth and determination. Grinding his cock against the mattress like a spotty fucking freshman, the friction a relief as much as furthering his frustration.

He crooks his fingers just right, circles your clit with the point of his tongue, and almost comes himself when you choke on his name, thighs spasming, back arching, a work of art as your sweet juices douse his lips and chin. Wally’s panting when he sits up and back on his haunches, gaze trawling up the length of you by slow degrees, absorbing how beautifully wrecked you are beneath him.

So perfect.

Until you open your eyes, and then your mouth, and then he’s undoing his belt, zipper, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock. He smears his fingers through your messy pussy, wraps his hand around himself and strokes as he falls over you, catches himself, braced on his forearm.

                “You feel this, baby?” He brushes his lips against yours, licks into your mouth but doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. “Want me to fill your pretty pussy up and make you scream?”

You’ve obviously picked up on what Wally’s been trying to avoid, which he’s both grateful for and annoyed about. You answer with a nod, hands smoothing up his back and over your head to rest on the pillow above you, placing them neatly crossed at the wrists. Wally groans, vision almost blacking out. Fuck, baby, you’re too good to him.

He guides his throbbing cock between your folds, pushes the tip in and has to stop before he loses it prematurely. He’s so wound up, he already knows he won’t last as long as he’s used to, but he doesn’t think it matters. Not now. Not with you.

In one sharp thrust, he buries deep, a moan punched right the hell out of his gut, balls slapping against soft flesh. The bed creaks, headboard hitting the wall, and the music from downstairs filters around the edges. Every hard stroke inside you squelches, claps; every long retreat pulls guttural moans and tight mewls. You always sound so fucking hot for him, needy and lusty and wanton.

And Dipshit Darren thinks he can have this?—Wally beats his cock into you harder, faster, teeth sinking into the join of your neck and shoulder—Not a chance.

You scream, pussy convulsing so tight around him it cuts his air supply. Head spinning, eyes rolling back, a rough groan and then—Fuck. Jesus Christ. Yes, baby, milk him, such a good girl. His good girl. His perfect girl. Wally comes so hard he sees whole galaxies explode and reform behind his eyes.

It takes several long seconds before Wally is capable of rolling off you, wedging himself on his side between your spent body and the wall. Seriously, Wally is going to have a chat with Billy about asking for a grown-up bed, this is ridiculous. He doesn’t notice that you’ve turned to face him, big doe eyes peeking up at him from under thick lashes. He doesn’t notice his fingers drawing lines of comfort and closeness down your back and over the swell of your hip.

Of course, when he does, he stiffens, clears his throat; already has a thousand excuses lined up, but what comes out is, “My brain is all fucked up,” his fingertips skimming softly up your arm, neck, then down your jaw. He traces your bottom lip with his thumb, exhales, and adds, “I think it’s your fault.”

You don’t say anything, merely raise an interested brow, urging him to continue.

He doesn’t. Not right away. Mostly because what the hell is he even supposed to say? Hey girl, you’ve scrambled my whole personality and now I want things I can’t have because I don’t know how to handle it. Yeah. Sure. Very Big Boy of him.

Again, just as you’re about to speak, Wally surges forward and presses his lips against yours. Only this time it isn’t feral and emphasized by needtakewant. It’s unhurried. Soft. Pulling in and letting out, waves lapping on the shore. When he leans back, he nuzzles your nose with his, his brain gone gooey and warm as molasses. Who even is he right now?

Apparently, the guy who says, “You’re mine, baby,” all low and serious. The guy who looks you dead in the eye, holding your gaze so you know he means it; this isn’t just something he’s telling you to make you feel special. The guy who follows that up with, “Be with me.”

…

Wait.

What?

Who said that?

Wally sure as fuck didn’t. Right?

Only…he doesn’t want to take it back.

You’re clearly as shocked as he is, eyes even bigger as you process what he just said right along with him. He’s about to backpedal and brush it off when you chuckle, asking in that sweet-sassy tone that hooked him in the first place, “What…like as your girlfriend?”

A part of him, that part with the vintage wiring, wants to deny it. Say no, ha ha ha, got you, he was joking. Except, that’s not quite what falls out of his mouth.

Eyes darting away, “What? No.” Wally snorts, feeling his face heat under your scrutiny. He can tell you aren’t convinced. Which is good since he doesn’t want you pissed and running to find solace in Dipshit Darren’s arms. “Just. Don’t be with Darren.” Wally tries to course-correct. “Or anyone else.” And loses the plot immediately, but now committed, he musters the brainpower to convince you that he can be all you’ll ever need. Not Darren. Not anyone else. Just Wally. “I’ll pick you up before school and drive you home.” He starts, studying your expression as it shifts from amused to mildly alert. “I’ll take you out and show you off…hell, we can just hang out and watch a movie if you want. I don’t care.” So convincing, Wally, good job. “Just…” A nervous pause, and then, quiet, like a secret or a prayer, he isn’t sure which, “be with me.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Like a girlfriend.” You repeat, pointed.

Wally swallows thickly, the weight of your words hitting him in phases he can’t brace against. He lays still and stiff as a statue for a moment, probably longer than what’s acceptable, letting it sink in that he’s fucked. His brain chemistry is so changed that he can’t see himself wanting anything other than dates and drives and movies.

What have you done to him? He’s about to demand answers: is this why you entertained Darren earlier? Some weird ritual alchemy that turned Wally from proud and happy one-man-show to…to…this!? Simping and softbellied and—stop. Stop it. No. That doesn’t feel right in his body. In his soul. He... Christ. Shit. He wants those things. Sincerely, genuinely, full-on fucking for real. Wally wants this. Wants you. All to himself just like he’s willing to give himself all to you and nobody else.

Eventually, with your gaze pinning him, legs tangled with his, giving him no way to run, Wally takes a deep breath (that absolutely doesn’t sound like a wheeze) and faces the fact that, “Yeah. Yeah, baby, be my girlfriend.”

And all of a sudden, seeing your expression change from slightly guarded to something vulnerable and soft; feeling you melt like butter in his arms, Wally can relax. Who cares that things between you and him started with tension and jealousy and too much unknown for his mind to manage? He knows, deeply, intrinsically, rationally, this is the best thing he’s ever done for himself.

…

…

…

Take that, Darren.

fin.

🍏___________fin.____________

Also on AO3!

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Best Friends Club.