Valentine's Day Headcanons

This is for anyone scared about college. Fuck what anyone said about shit 'not flying in collage' I promise you half of your professors aren't gonna give a fuck about anything. Today my professor canceled a 90 min lecture because she 'just wasn't feeling it today' probably the funniest email I've ever received.

Wally Clark Headcanons - 3

(request)

Wally is obsessed with you. Probably to the extent he should seek help, but he doesn't care. He's happy. More than happy, in fact. He's in love.

He could spend every second of every minute of every day in your company and never get tired of it. Never need space or moments alone or time apart. Wally doesn't want that. Call him codependent, he doesn't give a fuck, he's so into you it borders on insane.

Which is why, when you and he do have to separate—aka: surgically fucking removing him from your presence—he's like a puppy left alone at home. Watching the door, pacing the house, counting down along with the clock until you come back. Chin on paws, soulful eyes begging the universe to bring you back now, please.

He watches TV, throws some hoops, showers, eats; manic and anxious and needy. And, yeah, Wally's totally capable of doing his own thing. He has the other ghosts to chill with; has pastimes Mr. Martin had encouraged over the decades Wally's been dead. He did stuff without you before you came along, and could do that stuff again.

But going back to anything after experiencing how vibrant his world is with you in it...nothing holds a candle. It's all boring and cheap and unappealing. So, he pouts, bounces his knee, annoys the crap out of Rhonda who's trying to read a book while Wally stares at the same word in his for the next forty-five minutes.

You and Maddie spent the day searching for clues in Maddie's murder case, a girls' day spent stalking Claire without Wally because Maddie was opening up to you more without anyone else around, and you wanted to help.

Wally's sweet, beautiful saint.

He makes a grumpy little noise that Rhonda rolls her eyes at.

Finally, finally, the library door opens. No time to say hello, already hoisted into Wally's arms after he torpedoes straight for you the instant you step inside. He cradles you close, kisses your face, hair, neck, giddy that you're back.

"How was it? Did you find anything? Did you miss me? I missed you."

Babbling and eager and wanting to hear your voice. You giggle (which he likes more), and he smiles back at you, big and excited, though his eyes are soft.

"It's been, like, an hour, Wally." You remind him, and he huffs.

"Longest hour of my life." He complains, to which Rhonda seconds under her breath.

He sneers at her, but his expression melts into complete adoration when you pull his attention back to you.

"How about we go relax for a bit, huh? The faculty lounge is empty..." You suggest and he's already moving, not letting you down, just carrying you like a toddler down the hall and through the door to the faculty lounge.

Wally loves cuddling with you. Doesn't even need things to go further to feel satisfied. You sit with your back against the armrest. Wally fits himself between your legs and rests his head on your chest, nuzzling into you and humming contentedly.

This is what he was made for, he believes wholeheartedly. To be yours. Built by the universe just for you because he can't imagine being anything else. He's been his own person for enough years; he's fine. Been there. Done that.

Now and well into beyond—for the rest of fucking time—all Wally wants is to be a piece of you.

And you absolutely let him soak you in whenever he wants because he's been through hell and needs unconditional love like fish need water.

Look at that face. I dare you to say no.

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating. miscommunication. public sex. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

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Alphabet Soup - M

M is for misunderstandings, and miscommunication, and misleading rumors that bring Wally to his knees while he's still in his game day kit. Baby, I swear and I know it's fucked up, but you have to believe me because you DO. Whoever told you that he sexed Janet up at Brandon's Homecoming Game Eve party fucking lied. The notion makes Wally queasy and you're not listening, Jesus, baby, stop, just listen! But you're too busy hurting, putting distance between you and Wally like he's fucking contagious, and he doesn't know what else to do.

He grabs you by the shoulders, spins you around, and pins you against the wall with his body, arms fastened around you like boa constriction. You push and shove and loose a muffled scream against his chest. He doesn't budge. Kisses your head, temple, the curve of your jaw, "Stop, baby, please. Please, listen to me." A kiss to the corner of your mouth when you finally submit, pliant in his arms, huffing and hateful and oh so magnificent in your anger.

One hand glides down your spine, the other cradles your face, his eyes begging you to hear him out, "It's not true, sweet girl." He promises, "I wouldn't do that to you. I'd never do. that. to you." And he really fucking wouldn't. To Janet? Yeah, they aren't a thing; not how matters. But you? It would have to mean life or death, and even then...

You and he are behind the stadium, the back area used by concessions, recycle on one side, trash on the other, hidden from view. Wally lets go. You slump against the wall, expression closed and ears open. He can't play until you smile. Until he knows you're his again. And bench-rider Matt pops his head out of the security door to tell Wally t-minus too few minutes before he has to hit the field.

"Get lost."

"But—"

"Get fucking lost, Wilson!"

Matt gets fucking lost, off to assure Coach that his MVP will be ready for kickoff. Wally turns his attention right back to you, hands on your neck, thumbs stroking your cheeks, trying to make you look at him. When he kisses you, you fight back with teeth, but at least you respond. Fire and passion so strong that all of Wally's blood jets south and his vision is more inkspots than reality. He shackles one of your wrists in his big hand, then the other. Over your head on the wall as he fucks your mouth with his tongue.

"You gotta believe me, baby," He urges, voice rough and low, taking your wrists in one hand so he can grope under your Devils' blue dress with the other. God, you'd look good in his letterman. A package so pretty he'd have to unwrap you on sight. A smirk against your lips when his fingers rub your pussy through your panties from behind. Soaked. "You like it when I'm rough with you, don't you, baby girl?" He kisses you again. Hard. Nips your lip sharp enough to break the delicate skin.

The moan he swallows makes him throb.

"You wanted to pick a fight, didn't you?" He coos, rich and dark and so hard he thinks he might pass out. "You wanted to get me like this..." He grinds his hips against you, that just-right pressure making his eyes roll back. "Fuck, baby, all you had to do was ask." His fingers keep playing with your pussy, rubbing and teasing, sneaking under thin fabric to feel that sweet velvety heat he can't wait any longer to get around his cock.

In one coarse move, Wally turns you, bends you, ass in the air and a curve in your back, fingers digging into your lovehandles. He tugs your panties down to your knees, his pants shoved down to his thighs, hissing when the cool air hits his cock.

"Gonna make a mess of you baby." He promises and he does, fucks you hard and unforgiving against the stadium wall. Slams into you over and over, angling himself in a way he knows will hit your g-spot every time. On every beat of his hips, you choke, moan, whimper, beg for mercy, and he growls in response, moves faster, harder until, fuck, baby, I'm gonna—

Just as it starts, he pulls out, rubs his cockhead through your folds, paints your pussy lips with his come as he strokes himself stupid. But he's not done yet. Before you can breathe, he plunges the fingers of one hand inside you, the fingers of the other on your clit, furious and savage, "That's it, baby girl." He feels you clench, spasm, and then you shout his name as you squirt all over his hand.

Your panties are ruined, used to mop up the mess Wally made as it trickled down the inside of your legs. He smirks at you, hungry, the look in his eyes a guarantee that you're not sleeping at home tonight. You're not sleeping at all.

He takes your bunched up panties from you when you try to throw them in the dumpster, "Nuh-uh, sweet girl, these'll be my lucky charm," and he flagrantly shoves them inside his jockstrap, discreet under the cup, and leaves you with a smack on the ass to join his team.

It's the best damn game Wally has ever played.

27-0.

Coach slaps his back and demands that Wally ensure he does whatever pre-game ritual he did today and Wally's only too happy to oblige. His eyes find you easily in the stands, dress pulled down as far as you could get it, and a feral grin curls his lips. After all, if there's one thing you don't fuck with, it's athletic superstition.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

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

It's not the best but it's something

(Once again another mini one-shot that fell victim to being in my drafts for over a year because I used to not have the balls to post my writing. I fixed it up a bit because I was in highschool when I wrote this. I've been wanting to write for Ben Plunkett a lot more and I found this and thought it was fitting. Enjoy)

Ben Plunkett x reader

Warnings: Fluff. Like I said I wrote this during my last year of highschool and it was basically to help me cope with the fact that I was lost in French so yeah... Shitty French

You and Ben sat on his bedroom floor, textbooks and assignments all laid out in front of you. This was what every Monday afternoon for the past 6 months has looked like. It was his way of trying to help you plan better, knowing what assignments were due and helping you study for them.

Sweet as always. You two had started seeing each other at the beginning of the year after his best friend Mandy introduced you to him. A tall, awkward, kind eyed boy who didn't realize he was hot. And after 3 long grueling months of trying to throw hints at him you finally realized you were gonna have to be the one to ask him out.

It was adorable, seeing the way his entire body basically blushed, stuttering over his words. Somehow he managed to spit out a confused, nervous 'yes' that made you giggle.

It was simple, you went out for coffee, talked and giggled, then he dropped you off at home with a goodbye. Somehow you ended up here with your favorite boy in the world.

"I haven't paid attention to Madame McBaily since French 1" You grond as you realized you were completely lost.

"How the hell are you already in French 3?" He gave you a confused but kinda impressed look.

"That's the thing, I have no clue. Somehow I just slipped under her radar." The magic of somehow guessing everything right.

"You have to know something." He was really trying to help you study but sadly hes taking Spanish so he doesn't know much more than you do.

"Ja'mappelle" your name rolled off your tongue. "Comment sa va, Ja dix-sept anz" he looked at you expectingly, like he was waiting for you to finish. "Yeah that's all I got"

He laughed, rolling his eyes. "3 French classes and thats all you've learned."

"Chat" You smiled at him, hoping that it would somehow help.

"Not much better" He giggled at your poor attempt at french as you grond. Crawling over to him, you wrapped your arms around his waist and snuggled into his chest.

"I'm gonna fail this class." You whined as he wrapped his arms around you.

"No you're not. You've made it this far..... Somehow" The last part was whispered under his breath. You playfully slapped him on the shoulder, still not pulling away from him.

"I heard that" He laughed once again, light and airy. You'd get back to studying later, for now it was just the two of you, cuddled up, forgetting about that fact that you're probably gonna fail your french quiz.

Sucks that "sleeping together" refers to sex. Sometimes a fella just wants to snooze with a pal.

when she says she doesn’t send nudes

Punctuation.

summary: prompt fill. it's that dreaded time of the month and you're miserable. thankfully, you have the most thoughtful, adorable boyfriend in Wally Clark, and he isn't going to let you suffer alone. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. drabble. period fic. feelgood. cuddles and romance.

bon reading, frens

___________________________❣️

Punctuation.

You groan, rolling out of bed with a pained expression. Hand on your belly and lower back aching, and everything sucks so why is someone at the door bothering you now!? Ugh.

It's gruesome Day 2, the worst of the seven. You haven't had the energy to bathe or eat or, Jesus, sleep because, apparently, God hates you and when your body is in agony, sleep isn't required. Stay awake, stare at the ceiling, cry at videos of adorable old men loving their wives, and live with it.

All part of being a woman, your grandmother says without sympathy. As if your body going to war with itself should be dismissed and you should just control and manage and ignore. Yeah, fuck that to hell and back, thanks.

With a frustrated whimper, you pull the front door open and scowl at the figure on your doorstep.

"Hey, baby."

And that scowl melts into a pout—lower lip jutted all the way out, brow knitted, eyes glittering with affected emotion. You slump forward, arms lax at your sides, and whine pitifully into Wally's chest.

One of his big hands cups the back of your head, and at the same time, you feel his lips press into your hair. You hear the rustle of plastic; smell the aroma of your favorite fast food place, and peek out of the corner of your eye to see the two bags Wally's holding. Stuffed full to bursting. Just for you.

Again, you press out a weak whimper and burrow deeper into him, body against his, face hidden in his collar.

"I'm smelly and gross and everything hurts." You complain.

He chuckles, kisses your head again before encouraging you to lean back so he can look at you.

"You're a goddess, baby, shut up." He tells you like you should know that by now. "Come on, let me make it a little better."

You shuffle back inside, stop suddenly, and stand there with your arms around your middle when another sharp cut of period cramps hits like electrocution. As the wave descends, Wally—who must've deposited the bags somewhere—gathers you in his arms and carries you, bridal-style, upstairs.

"I'm not a damsel in distress," You grouch because you can.

"You're right," Wally says, tone deceptively neutral, "You're a little dragon in distress."

You scowl up at him, but he simply grins back, boyish and bright and sparkly-eyed. He deposits you on your unmade bed, tucks you back in, and kisses your forehead. Nuzzles his nose against yours before leaning back to gaze at you. Soft. Sweet. Stupid, you grouse, since you're matted in last night's sweat and greasy and he shouldn't be looking at you like that when you're a mess, it makes every time he calls you cute or pretty feel like a lie, is he a liar—

"You're spiraling, baby, I can hear it from out here." Wally chuckles quietly, booping the tip of your nose and then cradling your jaw. He strokes your cheek softly with his thumb, back and forth, soothing, "Stay here, I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

Defiant. "No." But he rolls his eyes playfully and tucks you more tightly into your bed. Pecks kisses all over you face until you giggle and relent, relaxing into the warm cocoon to settle while he wanders off and does whatever it is he came over to do.

Your parents are out of town for the weekend, so you've been left to suffer alone. Something you told Wally last night when the headache came out of nowhere, and suddenly there was a crime scene in your underwear.

Right in the bin. Along with the new leggings you just bought last week with Claire, since you cannot be bothered to do a whole cold-wash cycle for a stain that ghastly.

Ten minutes later, and you're dozing. Wally comes in, gently rouses you with more kisses and soft pets to your hair, words whispered against your skin as he rolls you onto your back.

"You wanna walk, or you want me to carry you?" He asks, to which you raise your arms and blink big cow-eyes at him.

Hey, if he's going to be accommodating, let it happen, right? You're in no position to argue, anyway, face pinching in pain when another roll of cramps rises in your belly and lower back simultaneously.

"I hate my body," You whimper, face tucked into his neck, "I hate everything." Except, "Not you, you're okay."

Wally laughs, "Thanks, baby."

He sets you down on the vanity, slowly peels off your layers, not at all disgusted or shy or embarrassed when he helps you out of your underwear. As if it's totally normal. Just, whoop, bundles up the pad and drops it in the bin beside the sink, helping you into the warm bubble bath he ran for you before he collects your dirty clothes and disappears to put them in your hamper.

It takes awhile, but eventually he comes back, and Wally's carrying a bottle of painkillers and what looks like a fancy bottle of the bodywash you finished last week. You perk up, lifting your upper body out of the water. He manifests a water bottle—pulled from his deep back pocket—and hands you a couple of pills along with it.

"Here, take these. The lady said they're way better than what you've been taking."

You want to cry. So you do. Tears fat and wet, lashes starred, blubbering through a mouthful of water as you swallow the painkillers. By now, you're not even surprised when he strips down to nothing and adjusts you so he can slip into the bath behind you. Long legs on either side of you, hands gentle on your hips, lips planting little kisses across the slope of your shoulder, up your neck to your ear.

"You wanna wash your hair now or later?"

"Now." You murmur, sinking into him.

It's a process that involves the detachable faucet, draining the bath a little, and then letting it fill again after the conditioner is rinsed, and Wally does it all while chatting to you about what he got up to last night with Rodney and Ajay. Breezy and cheerful and not even an iota of annoyance when you paw at him to let you slosh into his lap so he can wash your back while you cling to him like a koala.

He's not even hard which makes you feel insecure way too fast, the feeling sharp and burning and you start to tear up again, because what do you mean your boyfriend isn't attracted to you when you're wet and soapy and naked!?

But he reassures, "Baby, you're the hottest thing on earth, and I was hard five minutes ago, but I've been repeating fucking football stats in my head because you're in pain and I love you."

"Fine." You grumble, and, yeah, you believe it. Wally doesn't lie to make you feel better ever, so you kind of have to.

Bath done, he dries you off—quick and efficient as time is of the essence. He brought in clean underwear and gets you a fresh pad from the drawer by the toilet, turns around when you ask him not to look while you assemble yourself.

Then he's back, hands rubbing body butter into your muscles before he so much as pulls on his boxer-briefs. You're my priority, pretty girl, he murmurs, following you back to your bedroom to get dressed.

Your bedroom that is tidy, bed outfitted in clean sheets—you can hear the washer going downstairs—and he even brought over that massive band shirt he's had since he was a chubby freshman. You know, the one you often steal because it smells like him.

When you ram into him for a hug, Wally laughs, delighted to have made your day a little better.

"Alright, baby, do you wanna do bed or living room?"

"Living room," You decide, feeling more human, and wanting to let your room air out a bit.

He takes you by the hand, letting you walk under your own power now that the painkillers have kicked in and your muscles don't feel so stiff. Down the stairs to the fucking nest he made on the living room floor. The couch is pulled apart, cushions joined under a fitted sheet, pillows and blankets from the guest room piled on top. Beside it, the coffee table is laden with a combination of your favorite snacks and his, as well as the takeout you smelled earlier.

There's even tea. In a pot. Under a cozy. A new mug sitting beside it with a bright pink rose leaning against it.

Your lower lip wobbles. He doesn't give you a second to break down, merely swoops you into his arms again, steps onto the makeshift bed, crosses his legs, and drops onto his bum with you securely in his lap.

"Nope," He commands, "You're supposed to be worshipped, baby, it's the law. You can make life. And that means you need to be pampered."

"But you—"

"Love and cherish you?" Wally interrupts with a goofy grin, "Yeah, you're right. I do. So, suck it up and let me love you."

Releasing a heavy, almost grouchy sigh, you resign. He releases you so you can find a comfortable position; between his legs, his back against the bottom of the couch. You pick at your takeout order in your lap while he lists the names of your favorite comfort movies.

"Ever After," You announce once he's rattled it off. "And then Bridget Jones."

"You got it, baby girl," He smacks a silly, sloppy kiss to your cheek, pushing your whole body to the side.

Giggling, "Watch my food!" You scold, but Wally keeps smiling at you, eyes tender and filled with affection.

"I promise to get you more if I spill anything, okay?"

That pleases you enough to share a fry with him, feeding it to him when he opens his mouth for it.

"But that's it, the rest is mine."

He holds one hand up in surrender, "I'm not gonna argue," while he uses his other hand to massage your hip.

Wally spends the rest of the day coddling and doting on you, at your beck and call before you even ask for anything. Up to get you more painkillers when the first round wears off. Offering a back rub, fetching the hot water bottle, holding your hand when you feel suffocated in the house and sniffle that you want to go for a walk around the block.

No complaints. No judgment. Just unconditional thereness and support. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream...

❣️___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Wally Clark Headcanons - 3.

an affectionate, fluffy little glimpse into our favorite ghost's mind when he's completely obsessing over you.

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

Wally: Back in my day there was so much toilet paper and so many eggs that we gathered at night and threw them at the houses of our enemies