Starting A Collection

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. slice-of-life. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

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Alphabet Soup - S

S is for the soft in-betweens. The silly, sweet, soppy moments Wally didn't expect to yearn for. Yet, here he is, coveting them like silver from the stars, stockpiling them in his heart beside childhood memories and first loves. Or, who he assumes are first loves, but the more time he spends with you, the less he's sure he ever experienced that.

Shit.

What he does know is that Janet is at Claire's lake house with the rest of the squad, a weekend away—no boys allowed, except Gabe because he makes the best blended margaritas—and Wally has the house to himself. His parents are in Michigan visiting Aunt Tal and your dad is busy with some lame staff retreat leaving you and Wally with nothing else to do but each other.

It's sybaritic, sexy, sensual, fucking supreme. First, he lures you into the house with the promise of snacks and a movie. Lowkey, innocent. He knows you know it's a scheme. Can see it in the way you stretch to expose a strip of belly and hipbone, the way you take your sweater off because it's, "too hot in here, Wally." Sure it is. And the seducer becomes the seducee because the next thing he knows you're on him, a strip-tease, a lap dance that leaves him panting, kissing him with intention. And, hell yeah, he likes this side of you. Bold. Bratty. Taking what you want when he doesn't give it to you at your pace.

He fingers you on the couch, eats you out on the coffee table, fucks your mouth at the island while the pizza burns in the oven and the smoke alarm shrieks. He can't get enough. Will never get enough. Shower. Bed. The jacuzzi tub in his parents' master suite after splitting a bottle of something worth more than his life. "God, baby, you need my cock so bad, don't you?"

It's after you and he break his fucking bed during Round Double Digits that Wally feels the shift.

You're lightheaded, wobbly-limbed and sticky from lube and come and salted-caramel drizzle, reaching for whatever article of clothing is nearest—Wally's shirt that falls to your thighs—and you say with uncertainty, "I need something to eat, if that's okay?" Like Wally wouldn't take care of you unless it's to make your body sing for him.

He's on his feet in seconds, boxers on, scooping you into his arms as you giggle and squeal in delight. He carries you toddler-style down the stairs to the kitchen, places you on the counter, and searches the fridge for something to throw together. You joke as he cooks, talking about this and that, and Wally laughs, responds, engages. You stimulate his brain, challenge him, tease him, and then he feels it. A tiny thing at first, warm, subtle, but it swells into holy shit, she's perfect so fast it makes his head spin.

You're witty and smart and confident. Wally never let himself notice that before, and now he can't un-notice it. He wants to learn more, know more, gobble up every piece of you he can until he's satisfied.

You eat his food, compliment him, snuggle into his side for the movie he puts on to fall asleep to, his hand stroking your hair, back, side as his eyes droop. He doesn't mean to do it, is hardly aware of himself, but he nuzzles into your hair and kisses your forehead. Softhearted and tender. Like a boyfriend.

Half-asleep, you sigh contentedly and burrow closer, but now Wally's wide awake. Staring at the ceiling, freaking the fuck out because this wasn't supposed to turn into something more than an easygoing, no-strings way to blow off steam.

Double shit.

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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

Alphabet Soup

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

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

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

bon reading, frens

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Alphabet Soup - K

K is for the kisses Wally drew a hard line in the sand against. Told himself he wouldn't hand them out like conversation hearts because this wasn't that. Kisses were too intimate. Too loving. Too sentimental. Too, too, too. And he managed to avoid them the first few times he had you alone.

He kissed your neck, shoulders, tits, thighs. Anywhere and everywhere else. He wasn't an unaffectionate monster, he deigned to give you a peck on the cheek after he ate you out on Janet's birthday. But he wanted to save his kisses for that special connection. That right person.

Hell, he doesn't kiss Janet. Not really. Not unless it's for their audience. Sweet dry stamps on the lips with smiles. Fast as the flash of a camera. Romance wasn't part of the deal and Wally respects that to his soul because the thought of kissing Janet for real makes him hate his reflection.

But, in the bed of his friend's truck at the lookout with you beneath him, he gets ideas. Lips candy pink and pouty, eyes glazed as honeycomb, a delectable feast in the afterglow. And what the fuck, why's his heart running a fucking marathon in his chest?

You stare up at him, gaze flickering between his eyes then skating down to his lips where it lingers. He feels himself lowering his head, hovering closer, breathing shallow and deep by turns. Licks his lips, tongue grazing yours, and, shit, you taste like the cherry pie he bought you at Daisy's on the way up.

Just once, he told himself. Then twice. Then one more time for the road, except he couldn't stop thinking about it until he crowded you under the bleachers at lunch the next day when he was supposed to be running drills. He stole four, five, six more before the bell. Frosted cherry and something else. Something distinctly you.

Now he's hooked and doesn't know what to do as you enter Janet's bedroom to announce dinner. It's Wednesday, the evening Wally dedicated to run lines and rehearse blocking for their next performance after the game tomorrow. Head cheerleader leaps into the arms of the Devils' star running back. The crowd oohs and aahs as envy bleeds from the stands. Their social net worth skyrockets.

Wally can't peel his eyes away from your lips.

Janet says something sharp and you say something snarky, and Wally watches your mouth shape the vowels like ambrosia. How your teeth press an indent into your bottom lip that Wally wants to trace with his tongue to stop yourself from lodging something catty at Janet's next hostile remark.

Wally suffers through the meal, your mom and stepdad making idle conversation and dumb jokes as he hides his semi under a cloth napkin, staring at you as you suck whipped cream off your thumb at dessert. Fucking. Tease. He knows you're not doing it on purpose—he doesn't think so, anyway. You're not calculated like Janet is—but it fucks him all the way up and he can't stand without embarrassing himself for another ten minutes after you're excused.

It's 10PM when he says goodbye to Janet. Your mom and stepdad are already asleep, door to the third floor shut, and your room is right there. He plays it cool, raps once, doesn't even let you answer before he opens the door and slides in, closing it behind him quietly. You sit up, and—damn you—put the lollipop down on the plastic, eyes asking a question Wally answers by closing the distance and tackling you to your bed.

"Do you have any. fucking. idea..." He licks into your mouth, groaning when he tastes spun sugar and vanilla cola, kisses you like he needs it to live, and gropes your ass as he leans up and settles you in his lap. It should worry him that he doesn't even want to fuck. He just wants to kiss you over and over again, drink you up until there's nothing left and he's free of whatever spell you put on him.

He pulls back, chest heaving, eyes blown, frowning when you chuckle.

"You said you were never gonna kiss me," You remind him, such a cruel little minx. "But that's all you've done for three days."

And he wants to pin you down and fuck that smug tone out of your voice. Later. Right now, just one more taste. One more kiss. One more and another and another—shit.

Lids heavy, eyes dark, panting, "I lied," he admits although it wasn't a lie when he took kisses off the table. "Fuck, baby, what've you done to me?" He murmurs, more to himself than to you, but you grin victoriously all the same.

He finally pins you down. Finally fucks that smug tone out of your voice. At least, he thinks so. He doesn't actually give you a chance to speak, his lips on yours until you get too sleepy to tease him again.

🧿___________________________

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

I remember taking French and being confused the whole time I don't think I learned a single thing I didn't already know

I feel like I need to put out an apology or sum, I did a dumb thing last night. I got drunk and used ChatGpt to write me a fic. It was just for fun but in my dumbass drunk mind I decided to post it. I DONT support using AI nor do I use AI to write my fics. I just got really bored and wasn't thinking. AI steals bits and pieces from people's work and gives no credit.

Thank you to the person who called me out because I wouldn't have noticed I posted it.

I hate the way I look,

I hate my smile,

I hate the way I talk,

But you loved everything about me

You took all the hate and replaced it with love I never had before

Now I'm left with the essence of your love mixing with my hate not understanding how I could ever let you go

I hate myself more than ever

Boyfriend Simon Elroy (NSFW)

prompt fill. (request)

Simon Elroy x fem!reader

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Simon is exactly the type of romantic who takes your favorite color or favorite movie or favorite holiday very fucking seriously. Everything you tell him, he commits to memory. Tattoos it on his brain so he'll never forget. You only eat the green M&Ms? He'll pick them out of every bag and hand them to you like treasures. You hate it when the sauce touches your spaghetti before you can mix it yourself? He'll replate everything over and over again until you smile.

Simon is exactly the type to be sarcastic, wields his dark sense of humor like a test—none shall pass—but knows when to brighten himself up if you need a boost. He'll defend your honor against anyone, disguising sharp remarks behind a smile as he cuts down the passive-aggressive idiots who try to make you rethink your values. He's soft words in harsh tones; observations collected over hours spent together; always studying you, always learning, always finding new ways to make you feel like the sun.

Simon is exactly the type to keep a hand in your back pocket and kiss your neck after he walks you to class. Yeah, he knows you're independent, but he doesn't give a shit, gimme your bag, babe, or suffer the consequences. He isn't into soft affection for the sake of it, but he'll find reasons to touch you. Funny enough, despite that quirk, he does like to roughhouse at the drop of a hat. Grab you around the waist and bodily move you where he wants you. Throw you over his shoulder when you suffer decision fatigue and have been standing in front of the squishmallows for twenty minutes.

Simon is exactly the type to make the little moments significant. Celebrates every achievement like it's the cure for cancer. He'll put together backyard picnics under the stars because he can't afford a restaurant. He'll set up a blanket fort around his bed to watch scary movies in the dark after you admit you've never seen The Ring. Even secretly calls your phone right as the end credits start to roll and cackles when you jump a foot in the air. Bundles you up and rocks you, kisses you until you say you forgive him.

But Simon is also the type to get obsessed. He isn't controlling, just wants to make sure his girl is okay, taken care of, happy at all times. Because if she isn't, there will be hell to pay and Simon will gleefully be the one to unleash it. He would go to the ends of the earth for you, no questions asked. You want sushi from that place in Milwaukee—an hour and a half away, and closed on Sundays—Simon WILL make that happen. He's the first one there and the last to leave, helps clean up the basement after everyone exits Game Night. Doesn't expect anything in return. You know that if you get hurt, he'll nurse you back to health, a bit of a helicopter mom, and that he'll also fucking murder whoever's responsible. (You've never seen the school patch a crack in the pavement so fast...)

Simon is also the type who doesn't get jealous. He isn't territorial. He doesn't worry about you if another guy decides to make his move; watches in amusement because he knows dickhead Dom Sawyer can't do what Simon does for you. He simply raises a brow at the guys who try to pretend Simon doesn't exist. It's only if and when you get uncomfortable that Simon intervenes, "You okay, beautiful?" and extricates you from the situation, a protective arm around your waist.

Simon is exactly the type who makes promises he doesn't break. If he swore to make you scream his name, that's exactly what you'll be doing, no matter how long it takes. "Come on, beautiful, I know you can be louder than that..." He's methodical, thorough, has done the research and gathered the evidence, your honor, this is what word to spell with his tongue to make you squirt. And Simon loves to make you come as many times as you can take, groaning as he tastes you, his lips and chin dribbling, his eyes rolled back in his head as he tries to get his tongue deeper. He listens to you, knows your limits, won't cross them even when his curiosity is begging him to. Giving you pleasure gives him pleasure, and sometimes he won't even have to fuck you to get off. He doesn't get embarrassed, is sure of himself, just gives you a wolfish smirk and starts all over again. Makes you taste yourself on his tongue before he decides to use his fingers this time. "You want to come again, love? Say it. Tell me what you want."

Simon is definitely the type to fuck slow when he does have you beneath him. He's traditional in some aspects. Prefers missionary to anything else because he needs to see your eyes, to gaze deeply into them as he rocks into you, angled perfectly to tease you. "You feel amazing, beautiful girl," he murmurs as he kisses your neck and pinches your nipple. "You're so perfect, fuck, I'm so lucky." And then, finally, he'll position himself just right to hit your g-spot, ram into it until you and he come together.

Simon isn't vanilla. He'll secret you away to a bathroom at the arcade or have you ride him behind the Peddie's barn when there's a tailgate. He just knows what he likes and that's all there is to it. But if there's something you want to try, he's more than willing, "Anything for you, love."

Simon is exactly the type who knows how to laugh during sex. He's silly and doesn't take himself too seriously. Honestly, he just loves the way you sound when you giggle, he doesn't care what's happening when you do. Simon doesn't get drowsy after, either. He gets hype; wants to play; loves to tickle you into submission and then snuggle the shit out of you as he talks to you about plans he's made for you and him to travel to New York Comic Con. He tucks your hair behind your ear, blushes at his own gesture—like he can't quite believe he's allowed to be that intimate—and then smothers you in kisses so you won't notice how red his cheeks are.

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also on AO3!

Vetted and Verified Fundraiser 🚦

KINDLY SAVE WHAT IS LEFT: KINDLY READ, DONATE AND SHARE IF POSSIBLE!!!

I am Vivian,I had been diagnosed with Latent Autoimmune Diabetes at a tender age, a condition that demanded a delicate balance of insulin, a commodity scarce in Khan Yunis, Gaza.

As conflict raged around me, have struggled to find the insulin I desperately needed to survive. With medical supplies scarce and hospitals overwhelmed, obtaining medication became a daily battle fraught with danger.

One day, as the bombs fell closer to Gaza tents,my insulin supply ran out completely. With no pharmacies open and no aid reaching my area, I faced a life-threatening dilemma. Without insulin, my blood sugar levels soared, threatening to send me into a coma.I I'm here begging for your support to help me get insulin.Every donation, no matter the size, will make a meaningful impact in my life. I sincerely appreciate your consideration and am grateful for any support you can extend during this challenging time.

I have managed to receive $67/$365. Kindly help me reach my goal please 🖤

BALANCE: $298

KINDLY COME THROUGH FOR ME WITH ANY LITTLE FINANCIAL AID (DONATION LINK)

Felt this in my core

if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.

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

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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.