#milo manheim x male!reader

[clarks-letterman]

Even though Ryan didn't get a whole lot to do, he was REALLY doing it for me with his obvious displays of interest, so Ryan x Male Reader request where both are preparing for the Thanksgiving parade, he's expressed being attracted to the reader in the past, & has been heavily flirting while in the pilgrim costume with lots of holiday appropriate innuendos. When everybody else clears out, it leads to him fulfilling his promise of "stuffing" the reader.

sososo good omfg

a/n — brought to you by slotslights! would've been posted sooner if finals and holidays didn't exist ayyyy ... little late for the holiday im so sorry

summary — check the ask!

warnings — standard smut, jokefic cause this movie is unserious, spit as lube and this was rushed sorry!

words — 2.4k

~~~

You stood on top of a small, obviously fake ship. It was comical in design and size, being barely enough to fit you, let alone two people on it. There’s some kind of block—a wooden crate, you think—at the very back of the narrow space to stand. The ship was a bit taller than the rest of the floats, overlooking the living cornucopia of little kids painted to be greens and sweet fruits to your left, the dinner table with some townsfolk in pilgrim costumes sitting around it to your right, and your ship was spearheading the order precisely in the middle. Their costumes only reminded you how itchy yours was, being composed of spandex and knit cotton that caused the perfect combination of skin-hugging discomfort.

Behind all three was the large inflatable turkey, inconsistently staring at people as it bobbed and billowed. On the opposite end of things, in front of your float, were the marchers and mascot of the holiday. You envied him the most, as he stood out past the large opening in the building that housed the whole show with a thick, full-body costume on. He had to be as warm as being in a literal oven.

The organizers handed you two mic-packs with an earpiece for each rectangular receiver right before you boarded the ship, except it was just you on the deck. You started securing the receiver to your hip. Footsteps scaling up the warehouse stepladder drew your attention, and shortly after, the mock-Mayflower shifted a bit on its stand to make room for another voyager.

You turned, immediately recognizing the man under the Pilgrim hat. “And the king of putting his arm around people’s shoulders returns!”

“I said I was sorry.” He rolled his eyes, acting as if his blunt advances last week should be forgotten about.

“Don’t, Ryan.” Your cheap costume wouldn’t be the only pain in the ass on this boat. Unfortunately, they had already wheeled the mobile staircase that was your only escape away, making the only viable option to wait and ride this out at about three miles per hour.

If there was one thing about Ryan, that felt like it defined him entirely, was how forward he expressed himself to be. “Come on, stop playing cold turkey. I know you’re addicted to me.”

“Here.” He wore an identical costume that you got to eye up and down when you had to begrudgingly hand him his ticket aboard. His rite of passage to be putting-his-arm-over-your-shoulder-length away from you.

Ryan took it from your hands, a smirk on his face with his bottom lip jutting out in confidence. “Someone’s defrosting.”

The fleeting moment got away from your hands like a bird that could fly, unfortunate for the turkey that took its place. The revving of engines signaled that the parade was about to start. A messy collaboration of trumpeters, drummers, and every kind of walking noisemaker started to play in united dissonance. They marched, heading straight down the road. It only took a moment for your float and the ones on either side of it to start their slow roll out into the daylight.

The sidewalks were occupied with people and striped barriers made out of wood lined the street, separating the modern from the old. Old might not have been the right word to describe it—defunct, maybe? Something that was a dead mode of transportation and classified as primordial for a reason, because, as soon as the ship had to hold its own on the tail of a pickup truck, it was shaking and rocking against the bumpy main road. Even a small pothole rocked the ship, sending you stumbling towards Ryan. He held on to you, making sure you were on your feet. He looked back to the wooden crate, moving towards it as you pulled away from him. He sat down on it and extended his hand.

“Seriously?” You scoffed, occupying your hands with the divots of your elbows as you crossed your arms.

“Just swallow whatever mouthful of pride you have and sit with me. This thing is held together by tape and staples and a dream.” His eyes pleaded with the words he knew he couldn’t say.

Falling off this ship might not be lethal, but it sure is embarrassing. So is being in the arms of someone who so obviously wanted you, but at least one of these wouldn’t lead to a hospital visit… you think. Ryan was painfully right, you had to stomach your pride like a dish a family member got you to try that tasted like utter trash. From the slow roll of your parade float to the pace of your steps, it was like you were acting in slow motion. Thankfully, the crowd had the modern mindset that meant you could get a little historically inaccurate in costume. You placed yourself on the upper part of his thigh, legs pouring down into the space between his—indiscernible from the black cloth coating his legs down to his ankles as it covered yours, too.

You scratched at your neck, peeling a bit of the white ruff clawing at your neck away for a few seconds. Momentarily, you could breathe. In that breath taken, you spoke to Ryan, “I need this off me.”

“You don’t need to tell me.” His eyes lingered on the bare spot on your neck, ready to dive in if it weren’t for the lack of privacy. When the public was staring at you, he came in closer. Whispering, “Just a few more blocks, then you’re mine. I’ll tear this off you, yeah?”

“Like the skin on a turkey.” Your patience was like a meat timer that had popped. Your skin felt hot, and you needed this costume off as soon as possible. Ready to escape the open air and go somewhere more private, confined with an excuse to be pressed up to Ryan.

He never left your side, keeping his closeness while you were leaning into his hold. One arm running over both your shoulders was enough to send shivers down your whole back. His other hand waved so that it looked more natural like two optimistic travelers were on their way to discover already-found land. But when the hell were museums about American holidays rightfully celebrated the way they were meant to be? He added in his closeness, “And I’ll stuff you like one, too.”

The old firehouse in Plymouth was where the floats would go after everyone screamed their lungs out and waved their hands into the sky since it was big enough to store several of the old firetrucks that had all been moved downtown. It was a slow ride to your final destination. 

As each display of the town’s affection for the holiday pulled into the makeshift warehouse and parked, the worst part proved itself to be how slowly everyone filed out of the depot. There was an agonizing wait for the required assistance down from the float, meaning that you had to stay closer to Ryan longer, the attraction between you the both of you growing stronger each second.

When you did have to leave him, you almost missed his warmth and hands. Almost, because he was back on you in seconds of your feet hitting the smooth concrete in the firehouse. Pitter-pattering was heard as your buckled shoes tapped away from everyone and up the stairs to the second floor, being led to the spot by a knowledgeable Ryan. The second floor was an open area, helmed by a kitchen as you reached the top step. It was arguably only slightly more private than the parade float you were standing on moments ago, but the shuttling of the bay doors downstairs let you know that no one who belonged there would come up to see Ryan feasting on you. Sure, you and Ryan had no business wandering away from the organizers, but two heads leaving their sight wouldn’t do much now that the parade was over.

He had you backed against the dusty counter in seconds, lips to yours, and grabbing what he could through the cheap costume. You two ditched the hats on accident, knocking them off in your attempts to pull one another closer with your holdings. It seemed to be a large kitchen island of sorts, from what you saw before Ryan pulled your attention away, now cluttered with taped-up boxes and a thick layer of dust that was wiped away by you leaning against it. There was a stove on the opposite side of where you and Ryan were cooking with your own heat. Ryan made sure that people would know of your presence by lifting you up on the counter.

“I’m gonna explode if I don’t undo my pants, fuck.” Ryan complained, breaking away from you like a wishbone—his dream coming true as he had you at his mercy. He had done the hunting, the alluring, and now, he was ready to claim you.

“Can that drumstick even fit on my plate?” You asked when he dropped his pants and let them bunch at his ankles. The black fabric of his suit must have hidden what he was packing. “Looks a little too big for me. Maybe you should just butter stuff up instead of trying to fit that in?”

“Trust me, I’ll make it fit.” Ryan tugged on himself a few times before grabbing you by the hips. He slid you towards him. “Lean back, pumpkin pie.”

“You’re so funny,” you feigned a laugh and leaned back on the cold countertop. Ryan pushed your legs up so that you got the message to keep your knees tucked into your chest, giving him an easy entrance to your ass after he undid your pants just enough to see it clearly.

You didn’t have to hear him spitting in his hand to know that he was lubing up your hole with a quick solution. Wet, warm saliva was spread over your entrance and his fingers lightly dipped in with a tasteful slip of his fingers into your tightness. Not all of it went to preparing you for his massive girth, though. The hand he didn’t use to tease you was slicking up his cock with his own spit, a remark flying out of his mouth as he welled up another wad of spit in his mouth. “I don’t usually master-baste like this but…”

“Shut up…” You said softly, too inebriated by the feeling of Ryan’s hand playing with you. The only thing that could send you out of this comatose state of pleasure was the pain of him stretching you out. 

“Oh, fuck.” He moaned, feeling his tip be fought against by the constricting feeling of you constantly wrapped around him. His pleasure heightened knowing that he had effectively dominated you after you let him do this following his many, many advances. 

Ryan delved further, exploring your cavity in its entirety. He loved how he constantly felt the tightness around any part of his cock at any given moment, yet he was still being gripped by the rest of your insides—though, it was much softer, like a gentle hand tugging on him without any part of him left untouched. You liked it, too. For as much as it hurt, stretching you out beyond what you felt you could take, there was still this feeling of letting him hurt you in a way that caused pleasure. 

Ryan eventually bottomed out, pulling all the way out to regain that feeling of tightness along his entire cock. But, he noticed that you were gaping for him, your muscles relaxing for him like they wanted to welcome him back in. He let his cock sink back in, fucking you properly after getting to know the space he was dealing with and being accustomed to the pleasure.

It was almost ironic that last week, you wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole. But now, you wanted him inside. You needed him, like an addiction. His humor, his charm, and most importantly, his high-quality assets that he was more than happy to whore out to you. You figured that you should add his knowledge onto there, too, because he was handling himself like a champ. While he was losing his composure, his thrusts growing sloppier each time he forced all of himself into you, he kept up the pace like he was mashing potatoes—or, churning thick, creamy butter with each pump. And look, he was doing it with no hands! Well, excluding the ones he kept on your legs to keep you from sliding back or having your legs get too tired. He was still considerate, even when fulfilling his selfish desires.

That’s why he slid one of his hands down your thigh and past your pants, reaching into the small window formed by the stretching of the fabric between your legs and your ass. His hand went straight for your cock, playing with it as his thrusts shook your whole body. He wanted you to feel all of the euphoria entangled with pain that he experienced at that moment, his shaft feeling suffocated by your entrance, only to have wide walls to fuck and tug his dick along on the inside.

His hand was calloused and cracked from the cold weather, but he still felt good on your sensitive skin. Little maneuvers like rubbing his thumb over the head of your dick and keeping his grip tight when he moved his hand along your length sent you spiraling. Grunts and moans filled the air like the wafting scent of a momentous dinner being laid out on the table. The sight of you alone, but mixed with Ryan’s primal energy made this feel more fulfilling than any food could. 

Eventually, you announced that you were on the verge of coming, but it probably sounded a lot less clear in your head. Ryan was still jerking you off but stopped as felt sticky white spray over his fingers and he watched it cover the stomach of your cheap costume. As he saw you unfold, he finally came, leaving you with a mix of creamy white and meaty stuffing still filling you up. You enjoyed how full he made you feel a little too much, missing it as he pulled out with a softening cock coated in his own release. Some of it hit the floor as he was still leaking out the last bits of it. Your hole could barely contain his homemade stuffing.

You sat up, catching your breath. “I need two things from you. Some paper towels, and an invite to your family’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

#fanfic #x male reader #x reader #gay #fanfiction #ryan thanksgiving #milo manheim x male reader #milo manheim #milo manheim x reader #thanksgiving x reader #Ryan x reader #wally clark #milo manheim x male!reader #milo mayhem fanfic #x male!reader #male reader smut #horror movie fic #thanksgiving movie #thanksgiving 2023

[supercap2319]

"You know you're pretty cute for a ghost." Y/N said.

Wally Clark looks at him from his ghost support group and smiles. "And you're pretty cute for a what? Human? Ghost?"

"Witch actually. All witches can see ghosts."

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #wally clark #Wally Clark x male reader #milo manheim #Milo Manheim x male reader #school spirits

[denim-devil]

Yall requests open for Wally Clark cause uh-

#male reader #x male reader #school spirits 2023 #wally clark #milo manheim #smut #fluff #angst #school spirits #mans is so- #he’s hawt #like golden retriever fr

[clarks-letterman]

GUHHH???

mans said “i have no ass and a dream”

#sorry but he looks like a plank in the one pic #ily milo anywayssss #milo mannheim #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim #milo manheim x male reader #wally clark #zed necrodopolis #ryan baker

[clarks-letterman]

How big do you think zeds “thing” is, I heard zombies are packing 🫣🤭

I kinda like doing short-form answers for this stuff! 18+ obvi

Let's start with Zed's so-called "thing." It's a monster. You would see it and be scared because it's so big. I think it'd float around 8-9 inches when he's fully hard if we're being realistic, since the average human in this world would be packing 4-5 inches. So that'd make him double the size of say, Bucky, for example. It's something that casts a big shadow over anyone kneeling under it, but Zed would definitely underplay it. He's cocky and confident about a lot of things but because this would be so directly tied to his predisposed genetics, I feel like he would expect you to be disappointed when you see it (but you definitely wouldn't be!)

Side note, he definitely gets bigger when he zombies out. I'd say he peaks at around 11 inches in that scenario, but who knows, he could go bigger.

And since we're in the neighborhood, might as well talk about the things directly under it. His family jewels are just as much of a mouthful--low hanging, swinging just from walking. Any and all motion while they're free to move, and you can certainly bet they will.

#zed necrodopolis #zed necrodopolis x reader #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim #zed necrodopolis x male reader #zed necrodopolis x gender neutral reader #nsft headcanon

[clarks-letterman]

URGGGGGEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! | zed necrodopolis x male!reader

a/n — putting this as male reader because it's implied. not explicitly stated but I don't want to misadvertise the fic lol, gender neutral pronouns and body parts used. I don't really like the smut in this but the idea was funny to me… this fic will definitely be non-canon by the time Z4 releases!!

summary — Zed goes to Mountain College and gets a sex toy, his roommate comes to their shared dorm at a bad time.

words — 3k

warnings — smut! 18+ | implications of sex and actual sex occur, uses of the word "gooning", zed zombies out and they fuck so... feral!Zed, slight dubcon!! - first zombies fic so it may be ooc or just poorly written

~~~

Fall was in full swing at Mountain College. Soon the tops of roofs would be snowcapped and walkways would be sprinkled with salt, but for now, everyone tried to enjoy the weather while it was still warm. Sloping sides brought the occasional gusts of wind that all of the early morning go-getters had to deal with. They had to learn the hard way to bundle up if they wanted to make it to class without becoming the next monster to roam the Earth—probably as a snow yeti or something similar. The lecture halls were grand to handle the kind of metamorphosis a lot of human and inhuman students would be going through over the course of their early adult years. The only place where people were forced to grow together were the dorm rooms—as a push for inclusivity at Mountain College left everyone in close quarters to someone—or something—they had no clue existed before college. It was another thing to learn about, to understand that the small circle of your hometown isn’t the only circle to exist. People have groups that come in all shapes and sizes, and not all of them are going to fit together nicely, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be an effort. But there was one unspoken rule that everyone had to learn, regardless of their major: don’t enter a room with a tie, sock, or anything hanging off the door handle. Not at parties, not in classrooms—if there was such a thing to happen, and especially not at your dorm.

When Zed arrived at Mountain College, he never expected anyone to be as pro-zombie as they were. His roommate was insanely warm and kind to him. No one really hid who they were here. They were at that stage where they left the conformities of high school and living with their parents to being so overwhelmed with freedom that they had no way to grasp everything they had. The freedom; the new flaws determined by society were still unclear. Zed was one of those people, being free from the shackles of Seabrook and Zombietown’s driving force in unity to being another student in a sea full of them. It wasn’t to the same extent that he had gone through, but the established scene of breaking free from your past to start something new is what really pushed him to start trying things. He wanted to be a part of the community and to do that, you have to understand the area first. 

Zed started by doing most of his workouts around campus, then transitioning over to the city that was built around Mountain College. The short drive down to the city below could be completed in a timely manner during a daring jog down the road leading to the developed area. He never wore more than a tank top and shorts for his morning runs. The college was north of the city, so he only ever rarely went into the downtown area during his morning runs. He decided to go farther on his run today since he had an upcoming game and needed to burn off the endless brain-fest for dinner from the night before. So many calories, so little scores during his big game was how he viewed it.

Most of the shops still weren’t open, but there was one on this block that was still open. It turns out that the shop was not opening early in the morning, but in fact, closing after a very late night. The neon signs had yet to be turned off, and one reading ‘OPEN’ in big illuminated letters drew his attention. Next to it was a red triple-X sign.

The fleshlight was cobbled together with scraps and carefully welded parts to resemble the repurposed items of Zombietown. It reminded him of home, and the clerk told him that the toy was advanced, deceiving the average person by appearing to only be made of scraps and to have the basic, archaic function of just fucking it. Inside it was a hidden set of magnetic coils that both provided the correct amount of electromagnetic pulses through the zombie’s dick to prevent them from turning into the much more unpleasant version of themselves and it heightened the feeling of jerking off while the machine made contact with the skin from the inside.

He listened to what the clerk had to say about remembering to take off his Z-Band so it wouldn’t overstimulate him to the point of numbness, and that the side effects of it were mainly just slowed brain activity from “too much gooning.” As Zed would be quick to learn, it was called going cockdumb. There was the opposite, too, where his zombie side would forfeit all rational thought and quickly take whatever the closest thing to fuck is around to poundtown.

He learned quickly, though, and did as he said when he got back to his dorm. The order of instructions was simple: get yourself ready—get your dick hard, is how he interpreted it, take off the Z-Band, and use the fleshlight to calm all of his zombie urges. Before he started any of that, though, he placed one of his ties around the door handle facing the hallway. Then he got undressed, stripping down until the full-body mirror over his closet’s sliding door reflected his pale figure and vibrant green hair. He stood in the frame, checking out his recent gains for a second—still eternally lanky, but he was starting to fill out in the places that mattered.

His hands roamed over his body until he got down to his nether regions. Zed rubbed his dick until he was hard enough to stick his dick in the fleshlight, then watched in the mirror as he took off his Z-Band. The area around his eyes started to darken and dark veins started coursing all over his body. He took a few deep breaths before reaching for the fleshlight, each breath drawn in becoming more raspy as his insides changed in a way he couldn’t see. Carefully, holding on to it with an intentionally lighter grip so as to not overuse his own strength, he guided it over his cock and watched his tip disappear into the slit. He moaned, it was tight. He moaned again, it was vibrating. And then he looked back up at his reflection, the monstrous features were gone. 

Zed never told you about his little reveries into sex and pleasure as the weeks went on. After that faithful day, he found that he came harder and started to crave the feeling of release more and more. The feeling was simply addictive to him: a mix of tingles from the electro-pulses and genuine pleasure from the stimulation. But with how frequently he did it, there was bound to be a day where mistiming or miscommunication would expose him in the act. Today was that day.

It was around two in the afternoon, the ground was covered in a thin layer of snow and Zed had stopped his morning runs in favor of a quick indoor exercise and then moved to jerking off while the sun rose—you were returning to your shared dorm with the zombie from a lecture, notably earlier than usual. It was a Gen-Ed for biology, something that Zed had learned when you approached him one night in the hopes of having him help you. If he remembered correctly, it was about zombies—a newly implemented unit in the curriculum, now finding its way into its own circle of life. New studies emerged about the carbon emission of their dead cells that Zed couldn’t help with, but he explained how he felt that he functioned and the way he and plants interacted. That was at the beginning of the semester and it was how he found out that your class ran until around two-thirty. Usually.

Zed was enjoying his time inside for a change. Having finished his classes for the day and feeling the testosterone of his morning workout preserved through it all, he decided the best thing to do during his alone time was to use his broken-in toy. Zed was confident enough to not hide his sex life—well, he was confident enough to act like he was having sex with someone else, not his sex toy or the fact that he edged himself until he literally couldn’t hold it in anymore. That part was thankfully undisclosed by everyone since they knew not to enter his dorm, but you entered without thinking. He was laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling like the white ceiling was painted over with the limitless stream of thoughts flowing out of his head. His eyes were shut, soft moans slipped out and he barely shifted the fleshlight on his dick out of the fear of blowing his load too early.

His load threatening to come out dissipated quickly, though, when he heard the door handle click. Then the hydraulic mechanisms that would normally push the door shut started to whir as it opened. He reached for the blanket he slept under, letting the fleshlight hang off his dick so he could find something to cover himself up. He was mad at himself for slipping into the habit of playing with himself while naked, but it was so much easier to bunch his comforter up against the wall and lay in bed with easy access to all of his holes. In the seconds—which felt even shorter for him—he covered his lower half and just accepted that you would see his bare torso. With enough smooth talking, he could convince you that he had just woken up from a nap. 

“Don’t be mad.” You said, coming in, hoping that he wasn’t with a naked girl or anything. You tried keeping your view of the inside of the room as limited as possible by turning your head just in case. “But I got out early ‘cause of the weather and I saw the sock…”

The only issue was that his fleshlight was forming a bump in his sheets, meaning that he couldn’t be laid down without it looking like he had a huge dick—or what would be the more reasonable explanation: he had a sex toy. Either way, it looked unnatural. So while you were still acclimating to the sight of him, purposefully looking away to give him time to cover up. You were still under the impression that someone else was in there, but you heard the clatter of something hit the floor, followed by a hasty curse under his breath.

You decided that you had given him long enough and finally looked into your shared dorm room. On the floor was a machine made out of old zombie parts that seemed to have broken into pieces, scattered around a pair of bare feet that padded around the carpet in panic. Your eyes trailed up to see Zed, naked and with a raging hard dick. Still freshly coated from the lube he pumped into his fleshlight, still wet enough to glisten in the sunlight pouring in the window behind him. And to say he was naked didn’t mean much, because he was truly naked—no Z-Band in sight on his body. His dick was red for only a second before the veins on it darkened along with the rest of his body. 

Somehow, his dick looked to be bigger, more intimidating. The dark shade it turned caused it to look like anything but slimming. His chest started heaving and that drew you to his arms, bulging with thick black veins that trailed up his arms and increasingly curved arms. They started finding their way to his midsection until his hands reached his dick. Neither one touched his pulsing cock, but motioned around it as if he knew that the fleshlight was unusable. He started fucking the air like he knew the presence of it from his more conscious and tame state.

Incoherently, through a gust of grunts and growls, he started speaking. It sounded like the friendly words he used during your past exchanges but were blatantly needy and desperate. You couldn’t quite hear what he said, so you moved closer under the assumption that he still had some control. Some sense of sanity without his Z-Band on. But as soon as you were within his reach…

Zed grabbed you, pulling you closer to his naked form. You looked at the dark circles around his eyes before meeting his actual eyes. A few words slipped through—as if he could still recall the language he had used for years somewhere deep in his brain—slurring out a loose connection of words that sounded like: “You break it… I break you…”

Zed’s mind was everywhere yet nowhere at once. His feral side was feeling and processing all of the emotions from his “human” side. So many things in his head were whirring for the first time in a while, and nothing was shutting down to compensate for the rising new emotions of rapacity—the urge to have it all and take it all. His head was already running at one-hundred and ten percent so now he needed to claim things in the room. To make things his. His room; the little voice in the back of his head that he suppressed about being annoyed by the fact that he had to share a room with you was finally being heard. You’d walk out of this—or better yet, be carried—with a new perspective on ownership.

Sex with Zed was fast. The urges brought on by his true zombie nature allowed him to rip off the clothes you wore to attend class. They were in shreds, adding to scattered bits of his broken toy, some landing on the sharper parts of it so that you didn’t have to worry about stepping on something painful as he guided you to his bed. It was the closest one to him and the easiest to throw you down on since the sheets were all undone, unmade. He would make you a mess in the next few moments so it didn’t really matter to him.

But for the first time, Zed was faced with a challenge in his zombie brain. He had put you on his bed—the faint smells of sex and sweat emanating into your nose from how much he jerked off in his bed, typically covered by his comforter—but now he looked at you, laid on your back, head on his pillow, and he was faced with one of two choices: did he want to cum in your mouth or your ass? He wanted to do both, and he hit his head in frustration, grunting. The simple thoughts his undead brain was meant to handle couldn’t stomach this as easily as brains.

A feeling deep within him told him that your ass would bring him the greater amount of pleasure, so he hopped on the bed with you, kneeling. His increased strength allowed him to lift your legs easily and with an unmatched haste. Your hole was in clear sight, and he wasted no time in burying himself down into it and lapping away. It was another sensation he had, thanks to consuming a million videos of porn in his spare time. That, and he was still a zombie. Flesh was something that he wanted to taste during his feral frenzy. It was the only thing his tongue tasted: the saltiness of skin. He felt so good, and you wanted to bury your fingers in his vibrant green hair to push him deeper into you, but that seemed a little too risky in his current state. Besides, he didn’t stay down there long. His head reared up a few moments after going down on you, his clear intention to fuck you until he comes, not the other way around.

Thanks to already fucking his fleshlight, his dick was still coated in lube; still sheening with its slick surface reflecting the light. When he put his dick in, he didn’t feel any friction, and he wouldn’t have cared if he did. The friction didn’t bother him and if it didn’t bother him, then it shouldn’t bother you. It never became a problem, though.

Zed decided that the perfect position to keep you in was with your legs over each of his thin shoulders. He started thrusting, taking little to no time to go as fast as he could. He was desperate, uncaring if you needed time to adjust. But, like everything else about his zombie-heightened feelings, what it took to make him cum went up too—much higher than his regular edging point. 

Zed was a quick learner. He found which spots made you feel the best—well, which ones made your face twist and your head turn into his pillow as he fucked you. That seemed to make him climb to the peak faster than anything else. Your ass was tight and soft, sure, but it was your reaction to how he dominated you with his big dick that really made him get going. He unleashed a flurry of moans that were deeper than the voice you got used to hearing.

Wet sounds and slapping filled the room until he came for the first time. You could feel your ass burning from the rough slapping and the way he kept up the skin-to-skin contact—breeding you until he was out of breath. Just like when he first transformed into the beastly version of himself. 

Zed pulled his dick out and you could hear the wet gushing, as well as the feeling of your hole leaking with his cum. He must have been really pent-up because it was already ruining his sheets and still seeping out of the tip of his dick. You looked around for his Z-band, still gathering your surroundings and acclimating yourself to the point-of-view of his bed. It looked to be on his dresser and within arm’s reach, so you went to grab it. But Zed stopped you, guiding your hand to his dick that was still hard. This was going to be a long night…

#zed necrodopolis #zed necrodopolis x reader #zed necrodopolis x male reader #zed necrodopolis x y/n #zed #zed x reader #zed necrodopolis x you #wally clark #wally clark x you #x male reader #milo manheim #x reader #wally clark x reader #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim x you #milo manheim x male reader #zombies 4 #zombies 3 #zombies x reader #zombies x male reader #zombies x gn reader #fanfic

[clarks-letterman]

VHS Tape 1A - "Sleepover" | Wally Clark x Male!Reader

a/n – THIS is what sent me into a writing slump but lets hope i conquered it by finishing this

Summary – Last night, Wally invited you to a sleepover as a joke, but things turned serious by the end of the night.

warnings – drinking, sex, mentions of anal, oral (wally receiving), pre-death!Wally Clark, dirty talk, 18+, he might be a tad bit ooc!

words — 6.1k

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Life was something that, to you, needed to be treated with the same level of thought and care as with anything else contained within it. You tried to be mindful of your grades at school, steered clear of any and all uses of drugs, especially the lethal ones, and kept your inner circle small for the most part. The teachers addressed you the same way you did them, on a first-name basis. You had practically secured a spot on the faculty-designated pages of the yearbook. That’s why, when Wally's constant teasing about the night you stayed over at his house started up, you almost didn’t believe him.

There was a black spot in your memory, a time when nothing existed to you, but something was there that he knew of. You tried to think back to the moments leading up to everything that had happened, things you knew for sure. It was the Friday before a huge exam that would take place on Monday of the following week, and a folded-up note was passed to you in fourth period–Psychology–from the back of the class. While the teacher was turned away, you carefully unfurled it to get to the message inside. To you, the plans for that night seemed normal enough–a sleepover study session to cram in as much information for the exam with enough booze to calm everyone’s nerves, as explained by Wally’s messy and strung-together letters on the note. It felt a little counter-intuitive, but he insisted on supplying the alcohol. He claimed that it would help encourage others in the class to show up and take their academics seriously, and you were inclined to believe his words. Who didn’t love free drinks and a jock with a nice house to get wasted in?

That was your first mistake, and the second came when he invited you over the day after the so-called sleepover. He flooded your landline with numerous calls, excitedly telling you all about how he got everything from last night on film and that he would be over to pick you up soon. The mere sight of his house from the windshield of his Cutlass jogged your memory. You remembered hesitantly walking up to his door, textbook in hand with a look of awe as you ogled at his house’s exterior. Typically middle class with a clean front exterior combining brick on the first floor and light blue paneling on the second. His house extended into a two-door garage, but both doors were closed the night you went. And the next morning, one was open as he pulled into the right side of the vacant garage. The door slid down behind you, sounding exactly how you wanted the VCR to when Wally inevitably played back last night’s events on tape. Once it shut, the only light emanated from his beamers on the front and back-ends. The light forming a clearing from the shroud of darkness in the room felt exactly like your memory. You knew where to go to learn the truth, and now, it felt like you didn’t know how to turn back.

In the passenger seat, the armrest between you and him wasn’t the only thing separating the two of you. From what Wally hinted at on the ride over, you two seemed to be on the same page last night, and he didn’t mean the textbook. 

You sighed, piecing together your own path leading away from it all, “Do I really want to know what happened last night?” 

“You definitely do. It was legendary!” Wally insisted.

“As long as it’s not embarrassing…”

If you went into his house, you ran the risk of remembering something you could have lived your whole life not knowing about; something you might end up wishing to forget. But the thought of what exactly happened was too tempting not to find out. How bad could it be? The only way to find out would be to watch it and see what looks like you do things you couldn’t recall.

Wally casually placed a hand on your thigh, “Hey, we were both pretty drunk. And after watching the tape this morning, I can confidently say, I would do everything on it all over again.”

“Pfft. You held the camera, I bet you’re barely in it.” His hand felt out of place, like seeing someone place their palm on an open burner on the stove. Any heat from before didn’t boil over into this morning, though, including your worries leading up to the moment you arrived at his house.

“I was basically your co-star! Here–let’s recreate it.” Wally hopped out the driver’s side of the lowrider, rounding the hood of the car and opening your door. He offered out a hand, but you didn’t take it.

His garage door didn’t stay closed for long, as he had the perfect plan to reenact the interaction that started it all.

“I’ll head in through the door in here, you go to the front door and I’ll be there to answer,” he directed. You did as he said, taking the little paved pathway to his house, picking up on the littlest of details in his front yard to see if anything rang a bell. Nothing. The same could be said as you knocked on his door–the vibrant red facing you with a gold handle and lock above it to fit a jagged-cut Clark house key. The anxious feelings you got standing at his door less than twenty-four hours ago didn’t pull your stomach into knots this time. It was like your body had lived through the feeling of resolve–maybe a forgotten rejection–but your head was still catching up to all of those feelings.

A few seconds went by and you heard the lock click out of place, followed by the door swinging open with the turn of the handle. He answered the door in the same way as he had before: an arm raised above his head, leaning against the door with it and greeting you with a wide smile. The only difference was his clothing. Last night, he donned dark-colored jeans and a forest-green jumper. Today, he wore a lighter shade of blue denim for his pants, mostly to keep it from clashing with his white tee-shirt and navy blue letterman jacket he earned from his dedication to football. On top of his head, he wore a black baseball cap, turned one-hundred and eighty degrees to face backward. There was one accessory missing that greeted you with its eye at the door as well–Wally’s camera. You remembered the video camera he had been waving around in your face when he answered the door. He claimed that it was a gift he received earlier that day and wanted to take it for a test run. 

He practically used it as his way of seeing, his way of looking at you, and memorializing something as simple as studying. It felt a bit insincere the first time around like he was just doing it for the proof that he was a nice person to everyone, not just his football team. But right now, you felt more attended to, more cared for by his brown eyes not hidden behind a video camera. Even with his forgiving and welcoming nature, it couldn’t keep you from recalling the meandering conversation you had when you first arrived. 

“Remember… anything?” He held the ‘er’ longer than the awkward silence lasted as he moved out of the doorframe, waiting for you to enter the lion’s den. You shook your head, “Just that your house is nice and all.”

The memories started to slowly fade in as he took you inside with him. His house let you in and welcomed you with a warm foyer, brightly lit from floor-to-ceiling windows and thin drapes pulled back to let the light seep in. The furniture, from the kitchen to the living room, looked well lived in, but it hadn’t lost that cozy feeling. There were still many more memories to make on them, but you were concerned about one in particular.

He led you to the same brown leather couch that you felt vaguely acquainted with, and you took a seat on the left end of the couch. He took the right side and left the middle cushion vacant. A mismatched, wavy-patterned chair sat turned to face the couch and the coffee table caught in the crossroads of both directions. You noticed the walls were white with pastel blue accents. Images of ships at sea and framed family photos fill the space between the windows in the room, which made it feel like Wally stared at you from every angle you could think of. Simply looking to the end table to your left brought him closer to you, and when you turned to look at the older version of the man in the photo, he had scooted over to the middle seat. 

“I got the tape.” He said. Wally flashed the tape in your direction, looking proud of his creation. In those brief moments, you were able to see the word Sleepover crudely written in black Sharpie. He had already given a title to his film, and maybe you should have been happy that it wasn’t your name followed by the description of something abject.

“Well, put it in!” Your hands waved him off the couch and toward the large entertainment center. At first, it was easy to mistake it for a closet, but as Wally pulled away the two panels in the front, you knew it to house a boxy television. On the shelf below it is a VCR and it’s remote, and on the shelf below that, speakers.

While he put the tape in, you tried channeling any memory of last night from the couch, since you remembered it as the first landmark–besides his kitchen–that would mean anything to you. The note, the car, the couch, the drinks, the textbook–all things you went over and over again in your head, but couldn’t quite figure out what path they were inescapably leading towards. Spontaneity may have been your downfall here, as one unexpected factor revealed on the tape could change the direction the night had gone in. Wally reclaimed his seat on the couch, directly next to you. The tape whirred in the machine as its innards stretched and rolled around various corners to relay its evidence of last night.

The first minutes are nothing much to gawk at. Wally showed himself recording in a mirror, seemingly testing out the device until a knock played out. Holding the camera at chest height during your conversation, he answered his front door as expected. You exchanged greetings and he welcomed you inside.

“Where is everyone?” Watching the recording of yourself felt different. It wasn’t weird or confusing, but you started to notice things about yourself that you wish you could have done in a better manner. 

Wally was hidden behind the camera as he spoke, keeping it focused on you. Maybe that’s why you noticed everything–because it was how he had seen it last night. His voice was louder than yours when he spoke thanks to how close the microphone on the camera was to him. “Oh, they’ll be here later. Is that good with you?” 

“That’s fine. We’ll get a jump on studying.”

You wanted to cringe, is this how you really acted? Nervous and far too afraid to make a move that you sold yourself as a complete loser to compensate for it. This was a part you painfully remembered from last night but it looked better from your perspective. Looking at the observer to your right, he looked content with himself and the product he created. 

You tried to hint that you wanted the jock to fast forward through this preluding embarrassment without giving away how you felt. If you were going to get embarrassed by things from last night, you might as well have seen the worst of it first. “Worst movie ever.” 

“Ouch. Does that make me a bad director?” He played along.

“I think it’s just too boring, plus that one actor can’t say his lines right even if the script was in that book.” You note the textbook that you’re still holding on the screen, clutching it as if it were some kind of last-resort barrier between you and Wally. You refused to pay attention to what you were saying, so as not to feel more embarrassed. Thankfully, the director kept commentating over his home movie.

His gaze doesn’t break from the screen. “Harsh critic, I like it. Let me know what you think of the other lead, he seems pretty handsome.” 

“It’s pretty bold to have the director star in his own film.”

“You’ll come around to the casting choices. There’s one scene later on that will blow your mind,” he smirked, looking over to you.

These were all things you remembered, and he didn’t seem to get the hint, so you asked him to skip ahead outright. “Mind fast-forwarding? To the good parts, I mean.”

Wally’s smirk dropped and he went back to following your command. He was supposed to be the one helping you live through your irretrievable actions, “Yeah, tell me when.”

Wally peeled himself from the couch, reaching for the remote and hitting one button on it a few times. The footage relayed across the screen became as much of a blur as it felt in your head. The speedy actions and jumps from when Wally would occasionally stop recording felt disorienting, but you noticed a brief flash of an alcohol bottle between shaky shots, “There!”

Wally’s stunning looks were on screen, and you deduced that you held the camera this time. You were in his kitchen, just one room over from his living room with a doorway connecting the two. The doorway, it was visible from your spot on the couch, located to the left of the television stand. Seeing the perspective of the camera made you think that you were standing relatively within the doorway, and Wally stood surrounded by the U-shape of his counter. The pearly white gloss of the counter reminded you of his smile–wide, perfect, everywhere. 

The man with those pearly whites ducked below the counter to fetch a bottle of vodka–the sound of a small, whirring machine halting as a door opened played through the screen, suggesting that the Clarks had embellished a wine cooler into their base cabinets. Then, he reached up high to a pantry cabinet emerging from the wall, pulling out two shot glasses. The detail was fuzzy, but you could make out some various juices and zests already prepared for all the woo-woos and cold ducks two rebellious teenagers could want. 

“What unit are we on again?” He asked, trying to make small talk.

You reminded him of what the teacher had written in chalk weeks ago. “Interpersonal attraction.”

“What’s that? I totally studied it, I just… forgot.” He said it as if it wasn’t his fault, and it still sounded virtuous as it re-rang in your ear from the stereo. A thought crossed your mind, that, maybe it wasn’t. He excelled at football and could get into college on that, so long as he steered clear of any injuries that would hold him back, which would mean that his grades just had to be good enough. Maybe he was simply a product of his environment, and you couldn’t really blame him for that.

“When someone only sees the positive side of things in a relationship,” you answered.

“I think this study session is going great.” He said while pouring the vodka into both shot glasses. He filled one higher than the other and rounded the counter with both in hand.

“That’s not it, and it really isn’t. We haven’t even gotten to the hard stuff yet.”

“I said I needed something to help us study. I positively think this will loosen you up a little.” Wally offered one of the shots to you, the last frame holding on his charming face.

The camera cut and the scenery around it changed again, but to something familiar. You were back in the living room you currently watched the tape in, but the table in front of you had been moved off to the side. His camera laid on top of it, capturing you and Wally sitting and facing each other, with your textbook on the ground, filling the distance between you and him. The bottle of alcohol had the cap twisted off, resting upright next to Wally, some cut-up limes scattered on a plate next to that, and your shot glasses next to them. Due to the quality of the camera, you couldn’t quite tell how much of the bottle was empty until Wally picked it up. 

The angle at which he held it while decanting some into his glass answered your question. You and he must have made a dent in the bottle at that point, and your guard was likely lowered as you felt extremely comfortable around Wally. He topped off the shot glass with the clear courage. “If I get this wrong, this one’s yours.”

Expectedly, the question you fired his way was not met with an acceptable answer. Your mind was trying to think of each question like a teacher, how they would accept and consider his answer compared to other students’ responses. As you drank more due to his inability to take the class seriously, you started to slip away from that teacher mentality. This wasn’t the first time he wagered this bet, and it wasn’t the first time he lost, either. Whether it was intentional or on purpose, you held up your end of it. The video showed you preparing yourself for the shot, shaking out a smattering of salt from the castor, and readying yourself to drop the shot glass and lurch for the lime. Your hands felt almost shaky at his failure, knowing that you were bound to mess up the order of the steps.

He talked you through each step.

“Salt…” You could taste it on your tongue, even now. The same could be said for the saliva left on your hand from where you poured the salt out at.

“The shot…” The cold, thick rim of the glass felt indented into your lips. The feeling of the liquid going down your throat, burning as the dehydration set in lingered just the same.

“Then lime! Oh, yeah!” Wally cheered, looking proud of the teacher he had become to you.

You took a moment to let it sink in. Warmth on your face, soon to be everywhere. Courage building up from nothing into something that would perforate the cover of embarrassment.

Then, you looked down at the textbook. Your eyes alternated the pages beyond pages of information at your hands, having so much to pull from that you undoubtedly knew would be regurgitated on to the test, just less profoundly worded than its primary form. When you looked back up. . . had Wally always looked like that? His dark hair looked darker, and softer, like a fuzzy void to rake your fingers through. He did it just as the thought crossed your mind. No doubt he had to be feeling it, the way the buzz started to become the only voice in your head–a voice without reason, a voice known for speaking its mind.

“What three things make up the triangular theory of love?” You would have said it while halfway out the door, ready for embarrassment and tripping over your wordless apologies on the way out, but you were far too deep into his den to leave.

The answer was simple, and through the haze of last night, you still knew it–intimacy, passion, and commitment. Instead, he said, “You, me, naked.”

As you watched over yourself, you were taken aback by hearing his advances. But you were more ashamed of how you completely brushed it off less than a moment later. “Intimacy is one of them, yeah.”

“Okay, smart guy. I want to see you mess all these up.” He teased.

“You’re on.” He turned the textbook around so that it faced him, on your agreement.

“What is…” He flicked through a few pages and scanned over them briefly. “The reinforcement theory?”

“Uh, it’s when the person gets out something of equal or fair value in relation to what they put in.” You said, reciting it almost word-for-word as it was described on the page.

“Can you give me an example?”

It was hard not to utter the answer to yourself like you were watching a contestant on a game show, but even this one knew the million-dollar dinger. “An employee stays at their job because the pay–”

“A real example.” He interrupted. “Say… I kissed you. What could I get outta that?”

The confident and guided version of yourself from last night stood on their knees, almost crawling over to him as they could hardly keep themselves balanced. They looked so foreign yet so familiar–it was you without layers of fear and cowardice covering your most intimate feelings. Silence fell over the two of you as you fell into him, and then, the soft sound of kissing and pulling away played from the TV. The kiss felt straight out of a rom-com rental, but the moments following were pure and unabashed the-cashier-is-sure-to-check-your-ID-at-the- checkout pornography; you could tell when Wally’s jumper came off, and the kiss started to feel more heated than your face from the alcohol.

Next to you, you felt Wally slump forward on the couch, jutting out his hips. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen, almost entranced by what was happening, until you heard the sound of a zipper being undone. In your peripheral sights, Wally’s hands had undone his fly and the button of his jeans.

“Do you mind?” He asked. For a moment, you thought he meant the video. How he captured both of you embracing each other in a way that would be shown in Health class in the near future, likely titled Everything Not to Do In Sex. The headliner would be something along the lines of where not to touch your partner, as the actions playing out on screen were messy due to inexperience and the disorienting relaxation of being under the influence. He would probably end the viewing session by asking to smash the tape in his backyard or something along those lines, not what he had done instead.

“What–holy shit.” You turned to see his light blue denim and dark red boxers bunched further down along his thighs. He had his cock out, toying with it while it was still soft. His heavy balls sat low enough to rest on the cool leather of his brown couch, being pulled up as he tugged on his dick.

“What?” He refused to stop moving his hand. He kept going, almost at a faster pace when his eyes locked on to you in the present. Maybe you had everything all wrong. Wally wasn’t looking at this with regret, he wanted to enjoy last night. You knew he didn’t fully regret everything, as he stated earlier, but you thought he meant that he learned so much or had a fun night. Not this, and not with you of all people. What you were looking at felt like the result of a cheerleader helping the Split River Devils celebrate their big win of the night. 

Your hand pointed out to the image displayed on the screen. Your eyes never once broke from his gaze as you spoke, “It’s me–it’s us–on screen.”

“I know,” he said. His voice stayed the same throughout. 

You couldn’t fathom it–he liked it. “And you’re getting off to this?”

“We make a pretty good pair!” He tried to justify himself, finally breaking from the nonchalance to sound happy about it. You assumed that he must have not cared about whether or not you agreed with him, because he stood up seconds later. “Fuck, I have to make this feel better…” 

You heard his footsteps grow quieter as he left the room, then returned with what sounded like a spring in his step. His dick flopped up and down as he paced around the couch and back to his proclaimed seat on the couch. In his hand is a silvery Pringles Light potato chip canister, emptied of its retail packaging and filled with two halves of a sponge to make a slit in the middle. “I’ve been blue-balling all morning since I saw this…” 

And, suddenly, it became very, very real. He reached for some hand lotion on the table, squirting it into his fleshjack and then into his hand. He lathered the glob on his length, his hand finding a way to spread it along himself with only a few tugs. It was a sign that he was all for it, and you decided that you were, too. Before he could get too far into pleasuring himself, you offered him your hand. You placed it on his thigh, unsure of how far to go that would be considered too close. “I could help.”

“Really? No pressure or anything. I didn’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you, uh, see yourself doing.” He looked at the television again, and you thought that he might be right. If you felt differently about what you did last night after everything had already happened, you could leave. You could pretend that last night and the ensuing morning had never happened, and you could look at Wally the same as you always had–an unattainable crush. 

“Really.” You affirmed, completely sure of doing something that you would never forget. The confidence from last night returned, your hand gravitating to his lotioned skin. It had barely sunk in, and it was slick on your hand, emitting a wet cry and earning a moan from Wally. You would have thought the lotion became astringent, as Wally’s thighs tensed and his breathing hitched.

“Are you okay?” You asked, hand freezing all movement on his warmth, but never letting go of it.

“Yeah, I’m just used to my hand doing this part.” He became familiar with it quickly, though. Your hand made haste with the motions of jerking him off. Wally tried to level himself out by slumping further down on the couch, making himself more of a flat canvas for your designs. “But I could get used to this.”

There was one feeling he couldn’t get enough of, though. As your hand skimmed up and down his shaft, it occasionally slipped up over the head of his mushroom tip and teased the sensitive surface. Every time that your hand happened to find its way to his peaking pleasure, his hips jerked up and brought your hand down his shaft, like a drop tower that wasn’t quite ready to plummet into the needy feelings of release. Wally groaned, his head rolling back on the upholstered support backing the leather backrest. His flipped cap nearly got pulled off the top of his head, a sign that could’ve been looked at as him losing his mind over how good it all felt.

You looked over at the screen, seeing things take a sharp turn as you had your legs spread over Wally’s thighs. His legs stuck out, used to the kind of stretching he found himself doing on the field for football practice, and you sat squarely on his upper thighs. One hand stayed glued to his face and slid down to his neck as you explored five percent of the surface, and your other hand journeyed into the deep blue of his jeans. The same hand cupped his growing heat; you could remember the faintest feelings of it now. When he became too big, too rigid for your hand to mold and keep from slipping through your fingers, your hand emersed from his denim confines. The motion kept flowing, though, when your ass had found a way to push him down as he presumably pushed up, an action you felt ready to mimic. His rudimentary fleshlight wouldn’t have to leave him wanting more, and you were sure to make it known.

While he was no longer new in the box, the barrier between the two of you gone and discarded in the recycling, you felt comfortable choosing to come out of yours. “I think I want you to fuck me.” 

Just as you were about to step out of its confines, his words snaked around your wrists and tied you down to the box’s cardboard backing. Your motivation was restrained from where he drew the line. “Yeah, you might just want to use that sweet hand for now…” 

“Why?” 

“Uh, last night… we kind of did anal,” he groaned out. Suddenly, there was a cry from the TV that was unmistakably your voice, “I want you to fuck me!” Wally cleared his throat, “No, we definitely did.”

He stared down the television, entranced by its contents in a matter of seconds. The exact thing he said started to unfold. In the drunken misguidance, he had forgone lube to make the blur tinting his hindsight go a little bit faster. He carried the camera along his body until he held it in front of his face like he had when he first greeted you at the door. There was a slow, disorienting rise as he stood, showing just how tall he was. It was like the peak of the drop tower, when your stomach would twist into knots from knowing what was about to happen. You moved into frame, rubbing the bulge in his jeans as your hands rounded the waistband around to his backside, pulling his denim down.

From the view of its eye, it peered down at his torso wrapped in green knits, his cock quickly springing out and sharing the stage with your face right next to it. It was clear that your box had been perforated, and he was the cause of it.

“Oh, oh fuck. This is my favorite part–too bad my dick looks so fucking small. The TV just doesn’t do it justice, I mean come on! Look at how big it is!” 

He must have been referring to the lingering shot of his dick. The camera was still panned down from Wally’s perspective to show his cock at full fuckable potential. He got up and stood next to the image of his dick, comparing the two. Just the sight of the one on his TV made you nervous, but shifting your gaze slightly reminded you that he was painfully bigger than he looked on camera. Eight millimeters of a film reel was such a small space to capture such a big thing on screen, and his twenty-six-inch TV could only do so much to blow up the image.

The picture went dark, and black filled the screen. Wally covered the camera and gave you stage directions on the tape. “Get on the couch, all fours. No. Yeah, yeah–like that.”

You felt a warmth press into your side, Wally rejoining you on the couch again. He held his hands up in the air like he was guilty of a charge you weren’t pressing, “Sorry, not my best work, I know.”

His hand pulled away from the lens. The quality was hazy, indiscernible in some things that it captured as the kitchen light behind Wally blocked his face. But you’re on full display, arching into his touch. 

Wally tugged on his cock a few times before seizing all movement, “I could take you up on a handy–fuck, maybe a beej?”

“It might not feel as good as, you know.” You said, quickly averting your eyes from the television by fully shifting your body around and onto the floor. His legs were spread by habit but were now parted by necessity as you kneeled between them.

“A hole’s a hole, I won’t complain.” 

His gaze only rested on you for a second, to line himself up at the sweet spot. The point of entry, a familiar place for his dick–your body–but a new place to explore–your mouth. He made sure you were on track to take him all the way down without teeth or a gag reflex getting in the way. One trip down to the base of his cock and he was already looking away, continuing the motion with a more forceful pace to make up for what he was missing.

He looked head-on at the sex tape, seeing the view of the camera as he tried to evoke as much of the feelings from last night from its point of view. Wally imagined the wet, shlurking mouth in front of him was your hole, ready to give the same abuse he gave to your ass last night. Kind words echoed from the TV. He was talking you through the pain and happily giving you pleasure when you started bouncing on his cock. He planned to mimic it at the moment, spouting on about ‘how good you took him’ and praises alike.

Then, he saw himself slamming his hips into you on the screen, your ass smacking against his hips in a way that really demonstrated just how fast he was going. Coupling it with your cries to go ‘harder!’ as you took him, he did it from your past command. You couldn’t speak with a mouthful of him, but he treated it as something you wanted now. Wally shot up from the couch, standing and taking you with him. 

His eyes were trained on the screen, moaning as his hands took over from your control. In your peripheral vision, he had propped a leg up on the coffee table to fuck, not just guide you down his length. He would have done the same with his fleshlight and your hole–bending them over the table and fucking them senseless. Your mouth, and now as he reached it, your throat, were treated like those two. His hiked leg flexed and he jutted his hips forward, his pubes bristling your nose and his swinging balls plapping against your chin. Soon, as he plowed your mouth, the sound of him face-fucking you overtook the sex on the screen.

It wasn’t until the sound of you blowing a load of hot white over his chest as he did the same inside of you did he feel fully immersed in last night’s acts. He buried himself deep in your throat one final time and made you swallow what you could, taking a minute to register that he wasn’t fucking your ass.

His hands let go of your head and you pulled off, his come running down your chin and dripping onto him and the carpet. “Jesus, that was a lot…”

Wally handed you some tissues that he must have been expecting to use after watching this tape–since this wasn’t a film worth crying over–and patted the spot on the couch next to him. “How do you feel? Sorry if that was too rough.”

“You’re good, just throw in a warning next time?” You took a few tissues out of the box and cleaned up what you could. Wally filled his expected place on the couch, redressing himself quickly. He leaned towards the table he had just finished using as leverage to fuck your mouth with to get the remote. Silence filled the room as he paused the last few minutes of the tape.

“Deal,” he agreed. You took a seat in his lap this time after cleaning up, “So, is the ending gonna ruin the whole thing?”

“I, I wouldn’t recommend watching it.”

“Seriously? We basically watched the whole thing, let’s see it!” You took the remote from him, hitting the button shaped like a triangle to let it play.

Wally started speaking almost right after the sex on-camera was over, “How do you feel? Owned? Like a good boy–” 

Wally lifted the neck of his letterman, burying his face into it as he heard himself say those words. It was good to know he wasn’t happy about everything from last night, but you kind of liked hearing him say it. At least you had proof to get him to do it again.

You were quick to cut him off, though. “Like I’m gonna hurl.”

You swiped the remote from the table, pausing it just as you walked out of frame. “I left because I puked?” “Motion sickness. My fault, some people just can’t handle a long ride.”

#x male reader #x reader #gay #fanfiction #wally clark #wally clark x you #wally clark x reader #wally clark x male reader #wally clark x male!reader #fanfic #milo manheim x male reader #milo mannheim #milo manheim x reader #can milo manheim get some recognition puh lease #school spirits x male reader

[clarks-letterman]

Wally anon new request 4: Bottom!teacher!reader x Top!Wally where the reader happens to walk in on Wally cranking one out very. loudly in the school's most isolated bathroom & has an inner debate about saying something. They proceed to accidentally make noise, prompting Wally out of the stall (his pants poorly concealing his erection) & trying to turn on his charm before taking the opportunity he has to dominate the reader (& he gets very. sloppy with it) cause he notices how distracted they are from the entire situation.

A.D.I.D.A.S. | alive!wally clark x teacher!male!reader

a/n — yes, the title is a Korn song. sue me (please don't) fun fact: grammarly said this had 150 "premium errors"🤓☝️nerds. if i say it's late at night will that make me exempt from blame for the probable grammatical errors

summary — check the ask! basically the same build-up to the smut

warnings — smut (sooo 18+), teacher/student pairing, facefucking (Wally receiving), rimming (Wally receiving), anal sex

words — 4.7k

~~~

Only people who had nothing better to do skipped class, so that’s why Wally skipped lunch instead. At a time when he would be scarfing down the scarce protein found on the high school lunch menu and rushing to finish whatever homework he forgot to do the night before, he chose to negate all of his troubles for something more enticing. Smudges of graphite were smeared on the back of his left hand from writing an essay for your class all night and left his hand feeling sore, his head feeling too occupied to conjure up a fantasy before hauling into overdrive to stage each production required for his dreams. The underside of his hand complimented the rest as he stroked his dick, the bristling bundle of his dark pubes sprawling out over the undone flaps of his jeans pressed against his hand every time he reached the base and traveled back. It was done with the same fiery passion he had for you when you paired him with someone he openly disliked in class for a group project—for the times when you wouldn’t give him an extension because he had football or family matters. For the times when he thought that you were too stuck up and needed a hefty dose of dick to get the stick out of your ass. So now he was relieving himself in the men’s bathroom, it only seemed like a fair trade. If you got to fill his nights with readings, assignments, and studying for the next pop quiz, he got to let you take up the space in his head. He got to dampen the wad of toilet paper in his hand with the results of his endless thoughts about you.

The bathroom was expectantly dingy, painted in yellow from the incandescent bulbs buzzing out waves of it. Wally’s vibe proved to be combatant to the do-what-you-need-to-and-leave-as-fast-as-you-can mentality that this restroom evoked. It was the last one on the list for Split River’s renovations, and therefore the place that people went to the least. Cascades of shadows form a sloped line against the wall of the stall like the setting sun unevenly tilting through a set of blinds, the wall climbing higher than the black hair on Wally’s head as he leaned back against it.

He could still smell the pencil shavings on his hand, the woody scent hiding under his fingernails as he brought a hand up to his mouth, stifling a moan from releasing. He needed to tear his gaze away from his dick, his hand acting as a surrogate for either of your holes. Wally had worked himself up to the point that picturing your lecturing lips stretched wide around his dick or your hole taking all of his abuse. He became uncontrollable, ready to finish this as fast as possible. Like he was running a race on foot, only a few more steps until he was past the white and blue finish line. His feet shifted and his sneakers squeaked on the glossy finish of the floor. Another moan escaped his lips, going far beyond the white cement bricks of the bathroom and out into the hall, where you were passing by.

Hall sweeps were a common thing at Split River, and you were stuck with the west end of the building. It was already on the opposite side of the school from where your designated classroom was. You barely knew this side of the school, so you had no clue who’s classroom was supposed to be occupied and who’s wasn’t. Some people liked to duck into classes to hide from teachers, making noise that you had to assume was acceptable and just part of some class you weren’t familiar with. Thankfully, it seemed that everyone in the hall was at lunch, none of the classes offered were in session for the time being. There was no one to report on the walkie-talkie attached to your hip. At least you got to learn of bathroom locations, also known as the main hub for in-school skipping. The faculty bathroom was a few doors down and on the opposite side of the hall from the student bathrooms, the men and women’s entrances being separated by a thick brick wall but still in proximity to each other. But as you walked by them, taking your mental notes of where everything was in this corridor and which teachers resided in it, you heard a guttural moan. It was quick and quiet like a kid saying a swear word before cutting themselves off in fear of being heard, but you heard it. The moan had a tremble to it, a shakiness that sounded like desperation. You knew it was deep enough to come from the men’s bathroom, but you really didn’t want to confront a student for doing something of the sort. But it would be more awkward to let them finish and walk out, only to reveal yourself as having known about it for however long it would take them to walk out.

You had to go in, and you kept your steps light. Maybe you were wrong—you wanted to be wrong. Your eyes flew to the sinks on the left, then the urinals on the right. Nothing, no one was here and maybe you had just heard something. But then, you looked at the two stalls in the back with a sliver of space on the one side to swing open both doors and enter them. It was the space underneath showing their white and orange Nike’s that gave them away, making it clear that they had no intention of using the toilet for its intended purpose. They were backed away to the wall of the stall, and you knew that you had to beckon them out. You held your breath, thinking about what to say and if you even wanted to say anything. Would it just be better to turn around and leave? They weren’t hurting anyone but… 

Before the debate could come to a conclusion in your head, your walkie-talkie rung out, filling the bathroom with an echo of the grainy voice of another teacher. This bathroom must have been far off from the rest of the school, now that you thought about it. The kid in the stall probably wasn’t even skipping lunch, he was probably skipping a class on the other side of the school. Multiple periods for lunch overlayed with other classes to fit the entire student body into one cafeteria, you had to remind yourself, so it wasn’t a far cry from being reasonable. 

Something else that was expected was the teen in the stall finally accepting that he was caught hopefully clean-handed. You could hear fabric shifting and a soft plink ring out from something being thrown in the toilet. He flushed it and then there was the sound of a zipper being pulled back into itself. The lock on the stall was the next noise, the door swinging open after a beat. Out came Wally, a student in one of your later classes of the day after every lunch period is said and done. You considered him to be a decent student, most of his papers and in-class work earning him low B’s and high C’s. Maybe you were a harsh grader, but you really didn’t have a grasp on it yet due to this being your first year of teaching. Regardless, you didn’t expect him to be the one to walk out. You only had as much knowledge of him as he was willing to give you through fifty-four-minute classes, five days a week, for the past fifty-or-so days, but he would never do something like this. He would never be stupid enough to walk out with his boner so prominently forming a line in his jeans, either. But he kept walking towards you without letting it hinder his movement, the same swagger present in his step that he had walking into your class.

“Mr. Clark,” you sighed, taking the responsibility as it was your job to confront him. You tried to stay combobulated as he went for the sink, turning to the side to show the real size of his tent that the front couldn’t show. Crossing your arms, the pressure put on your chest exhumed the words stuck in your throat, “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

He didn’t look like he was worried about being caught, in fact, he was ready to lie his ass off. The faucet handle squeaked when he turned it off with one of his wet hands. He didn’t bother going for the paper towel dispenser less than a step away, instead, he turned to you and made the intentional choice to rub his palms over his denim to dry them. It was only for a moment, but he made sure to let his hands ghost his crotch in their proximity.

“I was just finishing up,” he decided to say, a slight shudder slipping out at the obvious satisfaction he got from his hand going over his covered shaft. Keeping it simple was the easiest way to skate by you, if you were willing to let him. Wally went to go around you, but your hand found his chest and stopped him in his tracks. His Nike’s scuffed the floor and let out a high-pitched squeak when he stopped, the dissonant symphony continuing as you used a little force to guide him back into the middle of the bathroom. He may have been on the football team, but he was in no position to fight you, not when you were closer than you had ever been to him. 

“Finishing up what? Come on, be honest and it’ll be easier for you,” you had to quote some late-night cop show for the coercive words you angled at him. You never had to do something like this—maybe you should have taken him in silence to the office. But even the quiet drawls of each breath reminded you of his visible frustration during the tests he took in your class, the consequences of his emotion you wanted to be the victim of. He had the right tools to jackhammer away at your stone-cold treatment of him, but that was mostly to act professional. You could never make it to the office.

“I think you know what it is. I don’t have to tell you.” He laughed. He leaned in closer, pushing against your hand that still hadn’t left his chest. The fabric of his plain white t-shirt underneath his staple letterman was thin and flimsy and let you feel the light definition of muscle underneath. He wasn’t a beast but he was still young, still had time to bulk up. At this moment, though, it was everything you needed it to be, “What are you gonna write me up for, Teach?”

You looked into his soft eyes, “Nothing. Just… get back to class.”

“No way, you’re staying to learn with me,” he was the one to pull away from you even if he was leaning into this absurd turn of the conversation, doing a quick turn on his heel in disbelief and gratification. He refused to leave even though you stepped aside to let him pass. “I’ll give you something to write me up for and help out my favorite teacher. Get on your knees.”

“Mr. Clark,” you protested. Speaking his name so pure and so isolated would probably make you forget about your position and that he was your student. You could get fired for this, but Wally continued regardless. It’s not like this would make him look bad. If either of you were caught like this—which was slim to none given how out of the way this bathroom was, but the mere sliver of a chance was enough to make you believe it was more than likely to happen—would boost his social credit and be spun into a sob story for him, making you look like the monster in this situation. You had power, the power to stop this and send him walking to the office and having him return to class with a lifetime’s worth of detention, but you could be Wally’s little mistake for the next twenty minutes.

“No talking while class is in session. Don’t you usually say that? It sounds so fucking stupid,” he laughed again. Wally pushed the sides of his letterman jacket behind him to open the gate for easy access to his jeans. The dark jeans had a golden button that he fooled with for a second before undoing it, and then the matching brass zipper followed in his haste. His hands were a little shaky as he did it like he needed release from working himself up beforehand. He parted the flaps of his jeans to show off a pair of solid white tights encasing his massive erection. It filled the front of his briefs to the point that it looked like it would flop out any second, and he had a dark shrub of curly pubes peeking over the waistband. There was precum leaking from the tip that caused the white fabric to become see-through and cling to the tip of his dick. It confirmed your long-forgotten suspicion that he was in the stall, masturbating. “I don’t listen to what you have to say because I want that mouth to be used for something else…”

If you hadn’t fallen to your knees by this point, the sight alone would have made you too weak to stand. You were eye-level with the tent he formed and it protruded much more than when it was hidden in the dark behind his jeans. His relaxed and casual clothing contrasted the more formal ones you had to wear, the cotton dress pants doing little against the hard linoleum. You could feel bruises already setting into your knees before the fun had even started, wondering if the purple would leak through the fabric of your pants like his precum.

“For our first lesson—we’ll be going over how to handle a big piece of meat.” His thumbs hooked into the elastic of his underwear, stretching out as he half-circled around his thighs to push down his underwear. Somehow, his dick looked bigger now that its shape wasn’t hidden by his tent. His girth matched his length to create something of a beast, something they should confiscate from him for being too dangerous. No wonder he struggled to hide it when he came out of the stall, there was no possible way to not show it when he was fully hard.

His steps toward you were a lot smoother, and a lot more coordinated now that the stiffness in his pants was finally free. It swayed from side to side with each step, drawing your attention like a teacher rounding up the class. Your entire school of thought was out the window at the hypnotic sight, all streams of consciousness flowing towards the idea of him—it was all you could think about. When he neared you, the length of his dick was the same as the distance between you. He took it into his hand, pointing it up towards the ceiling and moving closer before letting it fall down on your face and bob around.

“I know you’re new to this whole thing.” He smacked his dick over your face by holding the base. He pulled his shaft up and carelessly let it fall against your face. “But you need to learn what runs things around here, Teach.”

It was rare that Wally found himself at a loss for words, always having a remark that needed to be said—most likely in your class—but here, he had nothing to say when his dick was on the tip of your lips. The heat was pouring in and melded with your equally warm mouth, adding a wetness that could have made Wally cum then and there. His cheeks filled with air and he expelled it with disbelief. He didn’t expect your mouth to feel so good, or for you to be so good at taking him. Never would he have guessed that a teacher could be such a slut. 

He guided you slowly down his length, not to let you learn its curves and ridges and to let your mouth get used to it, no, he had to take it slow or else he would burst. He had spent a good ten minutes tugging on his dick without lotion, just the dry touch of his hand and a little spit that took him a long way and now he wanted to enjoy the massive step-up from his hand and vivid imagination to the very real feelings and sight of you sucking his dick. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he moaned and bit his lip, watching you finally bury your nose in his pubes. Looking away when you looked up at him with eyes that eagerly waited for his command, his hand slid into your hair to grab a fistful of it. He kept you at the base of his dick, softly grinding himself against your face. He needed to bury himself deeper but he was as deep as he could go. 

There was a still moment where his shaky breaths matched your quick ones ruminating over his crotch, warmth that matched what he radiated out. He reeled himself back, you could hear the imaginary tick, tick, tick in your head as every inch escaped your mouth before sliding back in faster than the first time he did it. The way his hips slowly backed away from you felt like the fleeting hope when you reached the top of a roller coaster with a steep drop, and it was plunging right into the pit forming in your stomach. He did it until a rhythm of hip swings and moans swelled. The cherry on top was the way your mouth started to fill with spit and spill out as his cock forcefully brought it out with it, only to slam some of it back in and leave the rest spilling over your chin and the sides of your mouth. You couldn’t help but get hard at the treatment, at the way he stretched out your mouth alone.

Wally heard your belt’s buckle clink against itself as you fiddled with it, being thrashed around a little too much by his fast thrusts to properly undo your belt. He stopped you just as you pulled the end of the strap out, the leather stiff and still wrapped around your waist even without it looping through the hole in the belt to tuck itself away in.

“Don’t touch yourself, dude.” He said plainly, there wasn’t a hint of teasing behind it. It was a command. His hand lightly tapped the side of your face as a reminder. It wasn’t a full-on slap, but it felt like the precursor to someone readying their aim before really committing to it—a warning.  You felt just like him, your dick straining against the looser fabric of your pants. It must have been painful to be so worked up and have to tuck it away in such an awkward position, and now he was returning the favor by not letting you find relief.

At a certain point, when your jaw started to ache and you could tell that your lips were fed up with the abuse, he pulled himself out of your mouth with a snicker and an “Oh, fuck.” He didn’t do it for you, though, he did it because one more slip into your throat and he would have coated your throat in cum like a parent trying to force cough medicine down. He knew you would’ve sputtered and probably sent him to the office regardless of this extracurricular going so well, so he had to be careful even if he wanted to defile you. Maybe if you looked more like a mess than you already do, that option would be out of the window. Your hair was ruffled by his hands raking through it and there were stains on the sides of your face—what exactly was spit caught in the crossfire of Wally’s throatfucking and what were tears at the occasional gag was unknown. 

“Now, for the next lesson.” He continued to assume power over you, letting his sloppy cock hit you in the same way as before. It left a line of your own spit across your face as if he was obsessed with waving it in front of you. He stopped fulfilling his addiction to making you a mess quickly when he turned around while keeping you in the same position, introducing you to his ass that you would also have to get acquainted with.

His jacket covered some of his butt, but he pulled it up with one hand so you could see the full thing. The thick trim at the bottom was the school colors, rounding off the curve from his ass to the small of his back and reminding you that this was an ass you would still have to see in the halls, one that you couldn’t look away from. You’d have to pay more attention at the football games, because Wally was sure to drag you to them from now on, and this was more of a sight than his front side had been. He was rather modest in size and mostly hairless around the back, a light tracing of hair revealing itself when you used your hands to part his cheeks. They filled out your hands, his ass being firm yet squishy enough to almost seep through the space between your fingers. There was more than enough to play with, but you were interested in his untouched hole.

Just like yours, Wally never had anything inserted into his hole. That is, from what you could tell. You were too busy rimming him to ask and he was too busy enjoying the feeling to give you a proper answer that wasn’t a hastily blurted-out profanity or half-slurred plea to keep going. Your jaw couldn’t seem to get a break from his torment, having to subtly move every time your tongue extended to lick around his hole. The sounds of him welling up spit in his mouth to make his dick extra slick could be heard from the other side, though you couldn’t see it happening. 

You noticed that one specific movement—particularly where you flicked your tongue up, stretching Wally’s hole and continuing to lick all the way up to the divot where his tailbone was—sent shivers down his spine. His head tilted back and his raven black hair bunched up at the collar of his jacket from above. You tried a few other tactics like licking in the opposite direction until you reached his balls, using his taint as a bridge between his hole and sack to travel down with your tongue, and laying your tongue flat over his hole to stimulate the ring of nerves in one go.

When Wally deemed his dick to be lubed up to his liking—and totally not because he could have cum from your amazing work—he pulled you away from his ass.

“Come on, I know you’re not done after that,” Wally sneered, turning around to see you, a bit breathless with sweat forming on your forehead. Your formal clothes were really doing you no favors with how your dick was trapped and you had to keep all this heat in without taking anything off. “Time for lesson number three, buddy: don’t fucking interrupt the teacher.” 

He hooked an arm under your elbow and brought you to your feet. The sudden rush was enough to make your head spin, or maybe it was the way he turned you towards the sink and was quick to lift you up onto its surface. He positioned you between the two sinks, your thighs making contact with their white porcelain as the space was barely enough for you to fit without some overlap. Finally, he let you have some freedom of movement down there. He was the one to undo your belt and pull down your pants and underwear while doing all the work for you. He sat you up against the sink, the counter having more than enough room to let you sit—and lean back—on it so that your back was touching the mirror. 

Your ass was scooted forward, allowing him to do all the lining up that was required to easily slide himself in. Given that it was your first time, the pain was very real, and the solid countertop and mirror made your writhing when his tip pierced your ass feel restrictive. He treated it the same as your mouth, slowly sinking in like he was inching himself into a pool with frigid water, the shock making him lose all composure in the best ways possible. And when he was buried as deep as he could be, he stood there, one hand on your hip and the other against the mirror. His face was impossibly close to yours, his soft eyes darkening in the shadow of the yellow light above. It cast a dark shadow to make what would usually be unassuming eyes look dark with intention. 

But then, his lips pressed to your puffy ones. They stung at the contact but the pain detracted from his gradual movements. While it started slow, it quickly became a rough fucking that rocked you back into the mirror. Wally could only take so much build-up before he could no longer hold himself back. There was another motivation too—your teaching style. Some of his thrusts were intentionally rough, and most of his actions had derived from when you paired him up with someone he found annoying and you refused to let him swap partners. For all the homework he had to begrudgingly sit down and finish instead of jerking off or doing anything he actually liked. This was his own lesson for you, and you had to sit back and take it.

This is when you were at your most vocal. He managed to stretch you out just like the syllables coming from your mouth, half-formed and incoherent and held longer than they needed to be. But they strung themselves together on the thin lines of ecstasy. He was so painful in the way that he fucked you against the mirror like you were trapped between a rock and a hard corner. Short strands of his hair separated from the rest as he bowed his head, looking at his work from above and finding pleasure in how he jackhammered into you. It was enough for you to finally shoot your load and hands-free at that. It primarily shot up at your stomach, missing your formal top by a minuscule gap. 

Wally didn’t last long after seeing you lose your composure and you found it to be adorable. He seemed like he was going to keep going—he had fended himself off long enough from cumming, but he pulled out and side-stepped over to one of the sinks on your side. You watched his hand just barely reach his dick in time to aim it into the sink and spray his load out in strands all over the shiny white surface. He kept pumping, drops of white dribbling over his dick and into his hand with each tug.

The bell rang and that let Wally know that his lunch period was finally at an end. Forty minutes had never gone by so fast for him. He fixed himself back up and left you weak on the counter, presumably to clean up his mess that was left in the sink.

“Your homework is to clean that up for me. And make sure you look good for later today.” Wally smirked and patted your thigh, “See ya in class, Teach.”

His squeaky shoes stopped once he reached the hall and you heard the pitter of his steps fade away. And you were left in the bathroom with a voice fighting through the grain on your walkie, announcing that the lunch period had ended and you were needed to supervise the next group of students having their meals. At least you were more than satisfied with the five-course meal you just got handed and your hall-sweeping duties were over.

#wally clark #wally clark x you #wally clark x reader #x male reader #x reader #wally clark x male reader #school spirits #school spirits x male reader #milo mannheim #milo manheim #milo manheim x reader #wally clark x male!reader #x male reader fanfic #gay #teacher x student #student x reader

[clarks-letterman]

I think I might've cracked the pajama pant code ™: it's around the holiday season & Wally invites his teammates for a ~guys only sleepover~ but because it's so close to Christmas (which Wally doesn't celebrate, to incorporate Milo being Jewish), nobody else but the reader shows up as a result of having a deep crush on Wally. When the reader arrives, Wally is already wearing those pants (school colors, of course) & the reader can clearly tell nothing else underneath them. The reader tries to brush that aside and the extremely intimate touches from Wally throughout the night while trying to distract him from how much of a bust the ~sleepover~ was, but one thing naturally leads to another when the night winds down & Wally asks the reader to sleep next to him.

the pj pants code™ | wally clark x male!reader

a/n — i want to preface this by saying i am not jewish, and while I did research and made sure to give what i thought was an accurate representation, please let me know if any of what i have depicted is innacurate or offensive. thanks! went light on the smut because i enjoyed writing the build up and having that as the focus more, anon!

summary — check the ask!

warnings — light smut at the end, angst and fluff

words — 7k (i yapped a lot in this one.)

~~~

Wally Clark couldn’t stand December. Sometimes, he literally couldn’t stand it. The snow and ice created a deadly walk to his car in the early mornings and he had his fair share of slips and slides down the path leading to it. Then he had to pray that his rear-wheel drive and manual stick shift didn’t create a nasty combination on the roads, and when he finally made it to school, he parked his car along a line of many others just like his—boxy, dynamically pointed. The same spot, always open, and always so far away from the school itself. Sure, it was right behind the building, but he hated stepping into the cold air after finding comfort in the heated enclosure of his black Chevrolet Bel-Air. The school air wasn’t much better once he was finally inside the building, feeling stale yet fresh with frustration and fatigue from everyone around him. It was a mood he actively contributed to during this time of the year.

He was able to blend in—in so many ways, but December was the one month where he felt anything but normal during it. He started the month feeling different. Everyone complained about the holiday jingles plaguing the radio, and subsequently, their boomboxes and home stereos housing more than half a dozen stations for it, but it didn’t pertain to Wally, so he never really gave an opinion on it. The only holiday songs he ever heard were sung dissonantly by his family for eight nights in a row—there was a reason he was the only Clark in the house to take choir. Then the first half of the month was a slog to get through, having to juggle school and football championships after endless classes and traditions upon returning home. Then, before he knew it, the cycle started all over again the next day. The second half of the month felt a bit better but worse at the same time. Winter break wasn’t filled with the hectic Christmas holiday like so many of his other peers had to endure, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something every year. Thankfully, at the end of the month, he got to slide right back into the crowd on New Year’s Eve. His friends could expect the same old pair of Nike’s falling into the same old spot he took up at their house, watching the ball drop on the television without anyone to kiss when the year reset. 

That’s why he tried to host a sleepover the first night of break—and, coincidentally for him, the last night of Hanukah. Little was left of the holiday, and his parents were out of town for work, so his plate seemed pretty light. “No girls,” his parents said. It was their only restriction besides the usual anti-partying and drugs lecture they gave before they left. Wally wasn’t complaining about that one bit. There was only one guy he wanted to actually see at his sleepover, but he had to be smart about it. He couldn’t invite just one guy, especially if he turned out to not show. He cared about his other teammates, so he decided to invite everyone on the team as they had made it through the entire football season with more wins than losses—that was his alibi. 

You were the last one to hear about his sleepover, mostly because you had one class with him in the morning and only saw him in after-school activities like the weight room and the athletics club. The morning class had a test right before the break, and the extracurriculars officially wrapped up last week in preparation for the week or so in which you wouldn’t see each other. That meant that he had to catch you in passing, and he always saw you on the way to his last class. 

He called your name along with a quick, stopping you in the hall, “Hey!”

You turned and smiled once you realized it was him who had pulled your attention. He continued as you got closer to each other, “I’m having a sleepover hangout type of thing. That makes it sound a lot lamer than it actually is. Trust me, it’ll be super fun. Exclusive, and you’re on the list.”

“And I’m invited because?” You asked, already knowing that you would eventually give him a “yes, I’ll be there.” Eventually. You wanted to get a rise out of him first, to know that he was inviting you for the reasons you thought he was.

“Because you…” Wally trailed, pursing his lips and looking off to your left as he searched for the words in passerby’s face. He couldn’t look at yours because he’d say something dumb. By looking anywhere else, he had a fighting chance to make it out of the conversation alive.  “…you’re part of the team, duh. Everyone will be there.”

“I’m the safety. I basically do nothing all match.” You continued, “The coach benches me during workouts, dude.”

“That’s not true, you’re good when we’re balls deep!” Wally heard himself and corrected it, fast. “Deep balls and goals—I mean. How many goals have you stopped?” 

“Like, two? One, probably.” You averted his gaze, knowing that it would break any semblance of doubt you expressed. He was always good at clearing the moody air, and this time was no different.

He reassured, “Just one time is enough.”

“Someone was listening at the ‘Just Say No’ assembly.” You laughed, remembering how you were caught up in staring at the boy a row down from you during the assembly. They had grouped all of the footballers together, touting you to the other students by showing that success can happen without drugs. But you definitely weren’t bothered enough to listen, hooked on the rush of the boy in front of you. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

He did a quick notion of victory, clenching his fist and pumping his towards himself. “I knew you’d say yes! Okay, my house, tonight. Don’t miss it.”

Wally walked away with a giddy gallop in his step, as if he was about to jump up and click his heels together. He didn’t, but in his mind, he was happily trotting down the hall to his last class. The bounce in his step was nonexistent yet entirely palpable as the soles of his worn-out Nike’s felt like a freshly puffed cloud. Unsalvageable, the night was not.

Only a few hours went by before you found yourself about to reunite with Wally for the second time today, You didn’t count second period because of the test, but this would make up for the lost time you would have gotten to spend goofing off with him in that class. Unfortunately, several teachers decided to rain hell on you and assign homework that would all be due the day you got back, so you had to clear that out of the way first. You hoped that it hadn’t sucked up too much of the night, since you pulled into Wally’s driveway around eight. It was a bad sign that his car was the only one there, a fact now untrue thanks to your hunk of junk coming to a halt next to his. You put it in park, grabbed your bag from the passenger seat, and started your ascent up the small path leading to his front door. 

You couldn’t help but notice the lack of decorations along his front lawn. His parents seemed well off, having a decently sized garage attached to their already big house. You couldn’t imagine the square footage without the garage, it must have been over a couple thousand. The bottom half of his house was covered in red brick, looking darker in the moonlight, and the second story was a calming shade of light blue. The windows were nothing special, ordinary but you were sure that they gave insight into something deeper within the house. All of them were empty and dark, except for the one next to his front door. It had a menorah inside that looked indiscernible from the road, that’s why you didn’t see it initially. Each of the branches had a candle in it and were illuminated. The curtain was pulled back to prevent a fire, but it gave you a brief glimpse into the Clark household. It looked empty, and no noise could be heard from your position outside of the house. Was anyone home?

If it was just you and Wally, maybe this would be the night. The night where everything would finally make sense. For the entirety of your senior year, Wally and you just felt different. There was no explanation for it, you had known him since the seventh grade, when you joined the football team, yet this year had been such a turning point for you and him. You hung out with him several times and went to drive-in movie theaters and found the fun in mundane gas stations, where life is supposed to feel boring. Wally made everything feel okay, at the very least. He made them tolerable, and he even had a force to pull you to his house on the twenty-first of December. The answer to a question burning in your mind could come tonight—did he like you back? You decided to stomach any reluctance and knock. A figure moved past the window, causing each flame to move with it. Then, the door opened.

“Ready to go to bed already?” You asked, looking him up and down. He was in a white tee shirt, blue and white pajama pants, and a pair of white socks. It was so lazy yet carefully reminded you of your history. The blue and white linens alluded to the school’s color scheme, probably something he bought as one of those athlete packages that bundle pairs of sweatpants and exercise gear together. They looked nice on him, loosely swinging from his legs and tightening to fit his narrow hips near the top. His shirt was crisp, unwrinkled, and a perfect blank canvas. Food and dirt had yet to splatter over it in his moments of action, yet it looked like it was small enough to make his movements more revealing. The hem of his shirt just barely covered the waistband of his pants. All of it was tied together with his golden necklace lying over his shirt.

“Being the life of the party by myself is tiring.” He said, acting as if no one else showing up was normal. He didn’t notice your prolonged stare, too happy that you actually showed up. “If only some other people were here to help me out.”

Wally moved to the side to let you in, and you really got to scope out the place. You two were the only beating hearts in there. Aside from the red blood keeping the both of you warm and present, his house was made of cool tones—blue curtains flowing down the length of his windows to block anyone out and a white shag rug filling most of his living room, from what you could immediately see. In front of the door were the stairs leading to the second floor, and to the right was his living room—the menorah finding itself tucked away in the windowsill of that room. On the left looked to be a dining room, but you couldn’t be completely sure, the obscured shape of a table leg and one chair led you to believe there was more to it. The back wall of the living room had a rectangular hole cut out of it, a white stove in view. Everything looked as it was, and Wally seemed to have spent the first night of holiday break lounging on his white couch with brown hairline stripes running along the upholstery and cushions. An Atari rested on the short brown coffee table in front of it alongside some cartridges, cables running to the television set, where more games were stacked inside of the surrounding cabinets. Yeah, he had definitely spent his afternoon alone.

“It’s the holiday. That’s why no one came.” You weren’t about to say something about his optimism. He planned this event with sincerity, so you treated it the same. Nothing about how he had planned a sleepover with only dudes, and how you could easily remark that “this was something only eighth-grade girls do.” Nope, you weren’t going to point that out, no matter how much you wanted to poke fun at him. But you did offer a bit of light to the situation, “Just one guest is enough for a sleepover, anyways.”

You turned to flash him a sign of sympathy, but you noticed that Wally had occupied himself with fixing the blue tinsel lining the inner side of the doorframe. With his hands up high and his shoulders carrying his shirt with them, it revealed his torso. You couldn't tell if the lack of a brief line, something indicated whether or not he wore anything under those loose linens, was because of how baggy they were or because he wasn't wearing anything underneath. He provided the answer to your question almost a second later by reaching higher than he should be in a shirt that small. His shirt rode up and nothing was there, no waistband leading to his boxers peeking out from underneath. Nothing. His pants clung tightly to his waist in the same way that your own eyes wouldn’t leave them.

“There.” Wally boasted. “Now we can get the party started.”

“Yeah, totally. Uh, what did you have in mind?”

He circled back around to you, “Video games, all-nighter, alone time?”

“So I packed pajamas for nothing?” Your bag started to feel heavy in your hand with the weight of pointlessness. Wally was quick to reassure you.

“No, no, no. They’re the entrance fee for this party. The bathroom’s right up the stairs and to the left.” He had placed his hand around your shoulders as he neared you, making sure that the directions he gave with his other hand were clear enough for you to follow. He couldn’t help but think about how he was already giving you directions to go deeper into his house. You didn’t want to leave, you actually made an effort to show up—and stuck with the theme! This was his chance to tip the first domino in his favor, closing in on the gap between his mouth and your ear. Whispering, he lets out, “And… my room’s right next door if you’d feel more comfortable in there.”

Wally didn’t make you say your choice out loud, so you shot him a quick “thanks” and parted ways from his closeness to get changed. Going up the carpeted stairs, you were greeted with the choice of two doors; both on the left side of the hall, the one closest to you was the bathroom door, shut but completely blank compared to the door a few feet past it—the door to Wally’s room, decorated with adorned with several posters about football and famous musicians you had seen the CDs for in his car. Your feet dragged themselves across the carpet, taking the extra steps to reach his bedroom and turning the handle of the door with care. It was less shiny, the gold finish rubbing off to reveal the copper handle underneath. Wally was prone to having his door shut more often, you figured. Pushing the door open slowly, you let yourself take in the room in quick glimpses as more of it was revealed to you. 

The color coordination was nonexistent as everything clashed with itself. It doesn’t feel like something curated, but lived in. It doesn’t have the smell of a department store, it has the smell of a week-old jock in the laundry basket and hastily sprayed cologne to cover the scent. It reminded you of a night where the same smell filled the air of a locker room at an away game. You were sitting on the same bench as him in the same locker dwelling, alone. He was in just his jersey because he needed a second to breathe. Something was tugging at him, making it impossible to finish the night off in his regular clothes. That’s where Wally admitted that he didn’t know where to apply to college to take advantage of his skills, mostly because he didn’t care enough. “My parents will figure it out,” he said. At the time, it sounded like a lazy excuse, but his room proved it to be a surrender in the pursuit of who he wanted to be. Posters plastered themselves on the wall in clusters just like on the outside of his bedroom door. The densest area of the room was right above his bed, filled with drawings to partially cover the posters of famous athletes. At least his bed was an escape from the mess he had to wake up to everyday, the linens on it likely made for the first time in weeks upon your arrival. Blue sheets, like he was caught in an ocean of thought with a grey comforter being his raft to shore. Next to the bed, on the floor, were several sleeping bags strewn out with less care than he had given to his bed. And by the time you got to the last sleeping bag arranged on the floor, your eyes landed on his dresser—painted white but made of brown wood as the paint had chipped around its stubby legs. There were a few windows filling the room, the curtains were closed to stop anyone from peering into the second-story room and getting a view of you changing. While you stripped down to the essentials, you looked around. The rest was all standard stuff you had, a desk with his letterman hanging off the back of the chair slid into it, a smaller television than the one downstairs, and some other random trinkets from vacations and whatnot.

Then, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the full-body mirror hanging on the back of his door. Exposed in Wally’s room without his watchful eye to catch all the things you wanted to show him, but never could. You wanted to give yourself to him, but what if it was a joke? What if he didn’t invite anyone else? The worst question you kept asking yourself was, what would happen if this was real? If it was all fake, you could forget about it—forget about him. But if it was real, you would have to come to terms that things would be different after this one night. After that one move that will finally seal everything inside a neat little letter, addressed to you either way but the contents remained uncertain. As far as you were concerned, the letter was still being written. Maybe you both had a hand in writing something on it, just like how you two drew on each other’s papers in class when you were bored or found the lecture to be unimportant.

Heading back downstairs with a new layer of comfy clothes on, Wally greeted you with a pen and paper in his hand. He was in the middle of scribbling down his order while holding the paper against the wall, pen haphazardly flying through each line on the small sheet. “Perfect timing, I figured that we could order pizza and then do stuff while we wait.”

“What about the others?” Your mind went back to the numerous silky sleeping bags contrasting against his carpet. No one would be filling them tonight, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of it.

“Let’s face it—they’re not coming!” He stated almost happily. Deep down, Wally hoped that others might stop by and show their faces for a few minutes at the very minimum. 

You conceded, “I mean if you’re fine with us having some alone time over pizza… then I’m not going to complain.”

Wally finished writing down his order and peeled the paper from the wall, handing it over to you along with the pen in one pass. You took it, filling out the lines neatly. His writing was scrambled, but if he could read the chicken scratch that was his own handwriting, he could surely read yours. You saved yourself the pain of reading his order, hoping that he didn’t go for something gross like sardines and pineapple. His mouth would have to be kept far, far away from you if that were the case.

To pass the time after he phoned in the order, Wally suggested that you return to his Atari, still paused on what looked to be an intense game of Space Invaders. The pizza place claimed that they would be over an hour, so this was the perfect time to just enjoy his presence and forget about everything else. He plopped himself down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the small table. While you were upstairs changing, he took the liberty of connecting a second controller to the gaming system, abandoning his current progress on a level he worked so hard to get to. The game booted up, flickering on the screen in a harsh quality, but the graphics were so advanced. Your character—the spaceship that looked identical to Wally’s aside from the tip of it having a different color than his—appeared on the screen. Both of you could move around on the bottom to shoot enemies at the top. Only a few matches in, and you were raking in more points than Wally had as he chose the ‘Endless Shooter’ mode to make it more competitive. When he felt like a sore loser, he dropped the occasional comment that you “know how to use a joystick so well because you’re always handling something so long and hard.” 

With his teasing and tense competition, the two of you almost missed the doorbell ringing. On what was probably followed by an annoyed sigh as the delivery guy rang his doorbell for the third time, Wally finally shot up to get the door. His exchange with the pizza guy was quick, the money disappearing from his hands in seconds and being replaced by two large pizza boxes. Each pizza was half-and-half, and it was intentionally done by him to make you have to share one box of pizza at a time. This was how he made his move. You didn’t know about his plan until he opened the boxes to reveal that both pies were evenly split down the middle with toppings on either side, apparently having the competition for grossest preferences. His half had cheese and green peppers, which you told him was the grossest thing ever, and you got the other half of the pizza decked out with your favorite toppings. He returned the compliment and moved his gaming system off to the side to make room for the two pizza boxes. 

“You know… they make movies like Space Invaders? There’s this fucking sick movie I watched called Invasion of the Body Snatchers… fucking wild, dude.” Wally moved over to his entertainment system, rearranging the cords behind the TV to connect to the VHS player sitting on the shelf beneath it. A few moments of silence and shuffling and watching him bend over in those pants, the seams running down the middle—right over his crack—threatening to rip as he forced so much of himself into that taut fabric. It was still a miracle that the pants highlighted everything they needed to while keeping the rest loose and free for him to move without much care. He got the movie playing and returned back to his seat on the couch, the same one he claimed to play video games in and the same one that was so close to you. He picked up a box of pizza and rested it on his lap, his feet finding rest on the table yet again. Thumbing open the box from the slightly protruding cardboard tab, he let the flat cover swing over onto his knees and shins. 

Wally went for a slice, stuffing his mouth carelessly. He looked over to you and gave you the sign that it was okay to start eating, if you had any doubt about it before. You reached over, damning the cardboard box, pizza, and layer of fabric keeping you from his dick to hell.

A few slices in, Wally faced his first predicament while watching the movie. A rogue pizza slice planned to sabotage him, dripping its cheesy and saucy remnants all over his shirt like he was being booed for his attempts to make a move on you by his own plan. “Ah, shit.”

He really didn’t want to miss a second with you, knowing that he was close to something finally happening. So, he pulled at the neck of his shirt and lifted it up and over his head, discarding it to the floor. He figured that he could deal with the stains later when they weren’t the only ones to clean that had a mess left on them. Something he was too afraid to do the night of a successful football game, he was still too nervous to do now—to be fully exposed in front of you. Even after his flat stomach would inevitably be bloated from the pizza, he still wanted you to see fully. Not in glimpses, not in pieces. Him, for all of his faults and worries and good and bad days. All it takes is one look to know if you like him like that, and it only takes one look at your face to know. But, he couldn’t bring himself to lose his pants, not yet.

Instead, he helped you embrace his upper body by moving the box of remaining pizza to the table with its twin’s arrival. Then, he just let his arm go above the couch and fall over both of your shoulders, slightly pulling you closer to him.

You noticed that he had taken his shirt off, but left it to be an unexplored subject of the night. At least, it would be unexplored in spoken words. Rather, you let your eyes do the looking and imagining what was under the rest of his clothes. His socks were a given, but his blue plaid pants held something that even your imagination couldn’t satisfy the image of. The way his legs were lifted up to the table, being pressed together meant that everything good that swung between them had to rest on top, giving you the perfect angle to see him. His length when he wasn’t hard was impressive, and his balls created a pocket in his soft pants that you wanted to see every curve of. But you tried to focus back on the movie, as it seemed that this might be the farthest Wally was willing to go with you. Friends cuddling, friends who are close to each other and care for one another more than anyone else on the team—that’s who you were. So, you kept on watching the movie, waiting for the hours to tick by.

But, a scene from the movie really got to you towards the end of the movie. Body horror was always a hit-or-miss for you, and the scene was graphic enough to make you turn your head. Wally had done the same, abandoning all hope of bravery and turning away from the screen and in your direction. The both of you made eye contact, your eyes staring into his rich brown ones. The warmth of them contrasted with the woman screaming on screen, and the shared silence between the two of you felt impossible to mistake as anything else but the right time. He started to lean towards you, and you moved closer to him, losing sight of him when you closed your eyes, waiting for a kiss that never came. The phone picked up on the woman’s scream on the television, blaring out its own final wishes as someone would have to put an end to its sole purpose by answering the call. Wally turned his head to the phone, then looked back to you with awkward eyes.

“That’s probably my mom.” He rose to his feet and swept across the room in quick motions, leaving you to sit upright without his presence. 

You patted his seat, playing nice with him, “Gotcha, I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Wally went to pick up the phone, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey!” She cheered over the line. Wally could hear the smile forming through her voice on the other end. “How’s everything going? Did you light the last candle?”

“Yeah, I did when I got home. Look, I can’t stay on the phone long, I have company, Mom.” He sighed out in one breath.

“How many of your friends showed up?” She asked, trying to figure out if she should be worried about nine or ten rowdy boys messing up her house. He looked back to you and then turned his head back to the phone, mouth near the receiver like saying the words any closer would make it true, “A lot.”

“Okay, sweetie. I won’t keep you long then, don’t break anything! Love you.” Her voice got progressively louder as if she really wanted him to know about her affection.

“Love you too, mom. Bye.” He placed the phone back on its holder, returning back to the couch just as the end credits started to roll. 

With the movie no longer keeping your attention, you asked him, “Does she know that I’m the only one who showed up?”

“Totally, and she said that you’re a total loser for coming over.” He replied, adding, “How about we move this upstairs? It’s getting kind of late, yeah?”

You agreed, yawning before and after you spoke. “Yeah, maybe a sleepover isn’t good after having school all day.” 

“But now we know for next time,” he finished off with a yawn, infected by your set pair of them.

“Will there be a next time?” Your question sounded eager, not dreadful like you never wanted to do this again. This was probably the best time you had hanging out with someone. A "next time” would be necessary to finish where you left off, unless you happened to be misreading the situation. Though, there was almost no doubt about it as your teasing seemed to amp itself up.

“Maybe, if you don’t snore in your sleep,” Wally bargained, turning back to you as he took charge up the stairs. “But yeah, I’d love for there to be a next time.”

Wally led you up to his bedroom, taking careful time on the stairs to talk about the few family photos he had framed that you must have missed, so eager to listen to his directions and not break anything in his house by simply wandering into the wrong room.

Eventually, he opened his bedroom door for you, stepping over the sleeping bags strewn across the floor, “I’m sure you saw that earlier, that’s when I planned to have more people over. Can’t be too prepared. But since it’s just you and me, we can go halfsies on the bed? Sleeping on the floor is bad for your body and all…”

“And getting crushed by you is so much better?” You crossed your arms and sat on the end of his bed. It was soft yet firm like Wally’s touch—better yet, Wally’s skin. The way he made you feel like you were clinging on to something that was priceless yet easily available for your every whim was magical.

He insisted, “Some say it’s very therapeutic.”

Once you were all said and done with getting ready for bed, taking turns finishing up for the night. Wally shut his door, and you two were left alone to figure out the bed situation. You knew you were going to be sleeping next to him, but you had no idea if that would entail a wall being built out of pillows between you, if clothes would provide an extra barrier, or if something much more tantalizing would happen. But, you didn’t expect Wally to be the one to go first.

“Hope you’re good with me sleeping naked. Guess I should have said that before I suggested the bed…” He was in the middle of toeing off his socks, using his biggest toe to peel each off from the top-down while standing at the foot of his bed. Naturally, the next step to take would be to remove his pants. He left any idea of wearing a shirt at the door to his bedroom, the opportunity to have some restraint between the two of you ready to take the same exit.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll stay in my pajamas but you get comfortable, it’s your house, your bed.” You insisted on him, ensuring that he would feel find in his own skin. Plus, the view you would fall asleep and wake up to just sounded a hell of a lot better.

“If you say so.” He complied, his thumbs tucking into the waistband of his pants. The string keeping them up had been undone since he got back from the bathroom, and he was able to easily stretch out the band with just his thumbs alone. He pushed them down, the fabric fighting a bit as they slid over his thick ass and his dick and meaty thighs. His knees bent as he kept lowering himself down, pushing the pants down to his ankles then returning to his normal height to step out of them. Now, he was only wearing his gold necklace and nothing else. Just one thing remained on him, and you wanted to rip it off with your teeth.

The action never came and the thought went from a boiling idea at the forefront of your mind to a simmer on the back burner of the white stove downstairs. Distant, yet so close. That’s how you felt about Wally when you were both next to each other in his Queen-sized bed, cast in the soft light of his desk lamp on the other side of the room. He took up much of the bed in height, head laid back against a pillow that almost brought his feet over the edge of the mattress, so it was hard to not feel his presence from his radiant body heat to his soft breaths. 

It felt like hours had passed, yet you could feel the moonlight leaning on you as a burning reminder that it had only been minutes since you took up the mantle with your crush. He seemed to be having the same problem, turning and twisting in some desperation to find comfort. That was hard to miss, too. The only direction he didn’t turn was to face you, going from his back to his side so that his pale skin glimmered in the fraction of moonlight peeking through the curtain. The small brown moles and blemishes were visible on him from the years of being kissed by the sun. He tossed himself around again, landing on his back and ruffling his hair just a little more each time.

You spoke to him but didn’t look over, “Can’t sleep?”

“No, I just…” He paused. “Have a lot on my mind with… college and stuff. And I can’t do everything before hitting the hay…” It all came out it half-whines and slowly said statements like he was trying to avoid the instincts of a tyrannosaur, moving ever so carefully under the sheets.

His shoulder lifted slightly, a light bump forming in the waves of gray made by your two bodies under the comforter. It circled down to where his crotch was. There was a light shift on the bed as well as the noise of skin hitting lightly against itself. You could hear it in the silence, breaking with his shuddered breath. He had been so busy, and now, he was next to you. Nothing stood in the way of thinking of you in ways that he could only do when you—or when any of his responsibilities—weren’t paying attention. This was a break for him, so he should be able to indulge in what he wants. 

You, next to him. The thought alone was enough to make blood flow to his dick in seconds. His hand that had traveled down to his inner thigh slowly started to play with his growing length. Fingers wrapped around his shaft and started tugging, ones that he knew all too well from the time he had spent milking himself of every sexual desire almost every night. Only recently had that changed, and maybe for the better this time.

You could feel the light motions of whatever he was doing rocking the bed, it was enough to pull your attention to his side. Turning your head, you saw it—the lifted part of his big blanket shifting as the line went from his dick and all the way up to where his pale shoulders stuck out. You could pretty quickly piece together what he was doing. The way his face fell impossibly further back into his soft pillow, eyes half-lidded as he slipped in and out of fantasy and the reality next to him.

“Help me out with this…” Wally huffed, taking an entire breath to say those words. 

You were breathless just moments later, crawling under the sheets and being trapped in the intoxicating warmth surrounding you. The air was stale in seconds, filled by his musk as the endless sky of grey went over your head and created just enough to see Wally. You found yourself on the edge of the bed, between his legs, your own legs feeling the chill air on the outside of your confines. Heat radiated from him more now that you were pressed against him, and you could feel your face heating up at the intimacy. You were about to blow him… this night really wasn’t a bust.

Your lips met his tip, which was already leaking precum, and used that to guide yourself down him given the darkness that has formed around you. You could see him, but sight can distract from the taste, and he tasted so good. He tasted a bit salty from being in thick winter fleece for most of the night, presumably showering once he got home from school because there was the faint scent of the damp woods and sweet flowers. The spiciness in his taste—and smell—was all him, though.

He arched his back from the bed, parting from its comforting coddle and moaning out into the quiet room. It was willing to curve for him but his bends were sharp, jagged as he fought to keep himself from releasing instantly. He was so worked up that he would have loved to keep your lips sealed to him, taking all of his cum then and there. You had managed to take him down to the base, gagging only once and feeling the heat get to you. Though they were practically invisible, your nose was buried in his dark pubes, the texture of stubble rubbing against your nose. The smell of his had gotten much stronger now that your nose was pressed against him. 

It was another thing taking away your already-shortened breath and you had to pull off within seconds of throating his cock. You kept repeating the motion, taking him into your mouth until you felt like you needed to come up for the stuffy air you were trapped in. Then, you were back on to blowing him until he couldn’t take it anymore. After minutes of work, Wally had enough of fighting his urge to ruin your face and his bed sheets.

“Get on top of me,” he wanted to see you, to hold you. He continued by saying your name and a desperate “please” flew out of his lips. “I need this.”

Fresh air hit your lungs the second you crawled up to him, appearing from under sheets as he helped you get free and gave you matching bedhead. He continued to lay down, watching you kneel just above his hard cock, stripping off your top and pushing down your bottoms so that he could have easy access to the place he planned to dump his load in. Shuffling back, Wally reached around to help stick his dick in. With his so-called “help,” he teased your crack for a second, feeling the way your skin felt against his tip. He put it in after a second of teasing and, suddenly, you felt like a cowboy riding such a big horse. 

You were able to lean back, taking more of him into you and dealing yourself a great amount of pain from the way he stretched you out. The other option was to fall into his arms, chest to chest. Heart to heart. Knowing that he could rock you to sleep like this, you chose to sit yourself upright, letting him push all of his length into you. The inches went in fast but came out slow as Wally’s hands came around to your hips to lift you up with the strength he had to let you bounce on his dick. He did his best to thrust while under your weight, but it was only when you did fall over against him did he really pick up his pace. He rocked his hips back and forth, fucking you tenderly as you used his neck and chest as your own pillow. 

You humped against his lower torso, your hole pulled against his cock as the tight ring worked over most of his shaft with how much you could pull yourselves away from each other, then sink right back into place. You ended up finding release from the friction alone and ruining your own pajama pants and anything else you had on. Wally came shortly after, too pent up to really make a lasting effort. Much to your chagrin, you ended up falling asleep on him, not bothering to clean up the mess until the next day. Wally insisted on holding you close as the only member to show up to his sleepover.

#wally clark #wally clark x you #wally clark x reader #x male reader #x reader #wally clark x male reader #fanfic #milo manheim #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim x male reader #school spirits #school spirits x reader #school spirits x male reader #gay #gay fanfiction

[clarks-letterman]

jump in the line | wally clark x male!reader

a/n — i know i said this was coming ‘soon’ but it was longer than anticipated- reader is AMAB but i don’t believe pronouns are used to address them

words — 5.4k

summary — With summer break in motion, the school feels empty and painfully boring. Luckily, there is a jock in the gym with a good distraction from the boredom.

warnings — smut, 18+ as usual, fingering, top!Wally Clark, bottom!reader, anal sex, ghosts wrapping before tapping

~~~

Wally had two problems—the rain and his loneliness. The rain kept everyone indoors as they didn’t want to come back inside, soaked and inconvenienced by the limited appealing clothing around the school. So a day was made out of it to give everyone a new challenge: find something fun to do inside. The limit was the sky, if you counted that as being the fiberglass tiles on the ceiling. His loneliness came from what he decided to do: shoot hoops in the gymnasium. The other spirits bided their time with more sedentary activities like watching the summer production crew work to cobble together a half-decent school musical for the fall or revisit the library to read the one new book added to the ancient collection, but Wally just couldn’t keep himself still and isolated himself to shoot baskets.

Today was your first rainy day at Split River High in your new life as a ghost. Only a mere seventeen days in and you already felt perfectly capable of being a ghost for the rest of your death because of one fun sentiment—being bored at high school, something that came naturally in a place like this. Charlie claimed that it was better than feeling regretful or upset about it since those feelings only reinforced the fact that you were bound to your roots forever. There was no way to put the school in the past or leave home, no risks to take or life to fail at pursuing. He talked you through the whole spiel, and you had no choice but to listen or fight against the laws of the afterlife. One seemed impossible.

After sitting through everything he had gathered from his time as a ghost, you told him your story. You died in the agricultural room, checking up on the baby chicks during a free period between classes when the wire powering their heat lamp caught fire. The door became blocked by the flames and the windows in the room only opened so far enough to get the chicks out, but they were far too slim of an opening to fit yourself through. It worked well to air out the smoke, but the heat is what caused you to collapse. You never saw your body in the aftermath, only hearing talk of how gruesome it looked as a few cops assessed the scene.

With the Ag-Room shut down until further notice, you were left to wander the hallways without any direction. Though, one sound rang in your ear—the sound of a basketball and squeaking shoes. Now Wally had three problems when he heard the door to the gymnasium open.

As you entered, you looked around at a place you hadn’t seen since before you died. The bleachers stayed inanimate and lacked the community’s spirit for that final game of the season, not being used by anything alive to warrant them looking less depressingly empty. It looked like the same gym you had taken classes in for the past nearly four years, but the jock made it feel new and different. He was a hidden detail among the same people, chalkboards, and desks you spent your entire school life staring at. You approached him, watching the gymnasium become a chamber for his skill to bounce off of. Every time the basketball struck the floor he added just a little more to his established skill set.

“Hey,” you spoke. He caught the ball as it bounced off of the backboard and towards him. The echo in the spacious room sounded the same, but his voice was in your ear.

“Hey, I was practicing my free-throw, but I’ll make room for another person,” he offered. He turned to face you, “And you’re the Fire-Kid, right?”

“Guilty,” you admitted. “I didn’t know I had a nick-name already.”

“It’s unofficial, we can totally change it. There’s a few I thought about—hottie, maybe? Actually, never—never mind. That made more sense when I was thinking it over.” He took a deep breath and extended his hand that wasn’t holding the ball. “Wally.”

“I know,” you said, taking him up on the handshake and giving him your name. His combination of impossibly short athletic shorts, a tank top with the same material as a sweatshirt, and Nike’s paired with socks reaching far up along his shins was almost a dead giveaway that he was from another time, but the name didn’t help much either as you knew it from the stadium outside. Wally pulled his hand back and moved the ball around in his hands like it was an extension of himself—he knew exactly how to hold and manipulate it for his own desire.

“You like animals, huh? Well, I know a little game called ‘horse,’ unless you’re too chicken,” he smirked.

You two approached one of the nets hanging at one end of the gym, “It’s not like I’m doing anything, just remind me of the rules?”

“Okay, so basically, one person shoots from wherever they want, and the other person has to replicate it. If the first person misses the shot, then the second guy can shoot wherever they want. Then, it flips until one person wins.”

“How do you win?”

“Shit, right. If you miss a shot, whether you're the first or second person, you get a letter, usually it goes until it spells out ‘horse.’”

“Okay, I think I get it,” you affirmed.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll teach you as we go.”

It all made sense, given that your last gym class was only months ago at the end of the semester and you had played it then. There was one, and only one, thing that burned in your mind: “What about the loser? Is a letter the only penalty?”

“Let’s make it a little fun,” Wally proposed. You nodded. “Okay, so, every letter earned means the other dude gets to ask a question. It’ll help me come up with a better nick-name, so, the more embarrassing stories you share, the better. I’ll go first.”

“That’s unfair, I’m new to this and pretty much everything else.”

“You’re just mad that I won’t miss,” Wally dribbled the ball as he went some ways away from the net, a distance that you knew you couldn’t match.

“Wally,” you hissed. He kept backing away from the net. “Wally, that’s too far!”

“Nah, I’m just kidding.” He ran up closer to the net and made a shot. As expected by his almost professional and clean form, it sank past the net and smacked against the floor. He retrieved it and passed the ball to you, “Your turn.”

Taking the ball from him, you stood in the same spot he was at—at about the two-point line, judging by the markings on the floor—and hit the ball a few times against the floor to refresh yourself with its feel. The bumps on the ball felt the same as when you had a basketball unit and had acquainted your fingertips with the same rough edge for a whole week. Wasting no more time, you took a leap of faith into the air. Expectedly, the ball hit the rim of the net and bounced off toward Wally. That’s just how your luck had been recently, so you weren’t phased by almost making it in. He caught the ball as it ricocheted toward him.

He clapped at your failure, “And that’s H. Four more to go and I win.”

“Five more to go, and I win.”

“Okay, I like your optimism. But question-time! What did you do… after school?“ It sounded weird for him to talk about it in the past, since only seventeen days ago you would have been talking about future plans.

“The usual: sleep, a lot, and bury myself in homework,” you said as if you would be able to do either again. Could ghosts even sleep? Or was it all feigned for a twinge of normalcy? You would have to ask Wally if you managed to score anything against him.

He still had the ball in his hands, tossing it to you. “Cool, cool. What subject was your favorite?”

“Hey, one question only,” you reminded him.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? Sorry, I meant—you know. Since I doubt we can go to the ag-room, and because I didn’t mean—yeah.” He looked nervous at his slip-up. It felt like he was overcompensating to hide something else, something with a little more weight than simply a poor choice of words.

“It’s fine,” you assured. Passing the ball to each hand as the conversation went on, your mind wandered until it came up with the most obvious choice. “Let me guess, gym?”

“Nah, history. But I liked all of them,” Wally crossed his arms now that the ball was no longer in his possession.

“Really? You weren’t laser-focused on football?”

He patted your shoulder, “Save that for when you make it in.”

As it would turn out, you did not make a single attempted shot for the next two turns and had to suffer through two more of Wally’s questions. The first time you missed, he asked: “What’s your favorite food?”

“That’s tough. I think I’m gonna say all of the above. Anything that isn’t cafeteria food sounds great right about now. What about you? Got any I-could-live-off-this-forever go-to?”

“Hotdogs, for sure.”

“Why?” This was the first time he didn’t protest a follow-up question and gave you a completely serious answer.

“Uh, well, me and my parents used to go up to my uncle’s apartment near the Camp Randall Stadium. The building was so tall that you didn’t even need seats to watch the game, so we would all sit up on the roof and look down into the stadium whenever the Badgers were playing. They usually had a grill set up so we didn’t have to walk down so many stairs, and that’s where it started.”

“What? Your love for football?”

Wally’s tone leveled out. He wasn’t telling a story anymore, he was recalling a memory, “No, it wasn’t about the field or the game, it was about the people around me. I didn’t really like watching the game, but it was something for us to do as a family. Plus the hotdogs were pretty great.”

After that, Wally seemed to be distracted by something but still managed to make another shot. You, however, couldn’t say the same. It pitifully bounced off the backboard and towards the stacked bleachers.

He snarkily asked while heading to retrieve the ball, “What do you think your chances are of winning?”

This time, you were the one to cross your arms, “That’s what you’re going to waste your question on?”

“I still have two more,” he stated. On his way towards you, he ran a hand through his hair, “We could always play pig, if you’re ready to see the hog.”

“Go for it, unleash the beast,” you encouraged and then, feigned, “I’m so scared.”

“You would’ve lost that one already, so maybe it’s good that we didn’t.”

After accruing three letters in a row without ending Wally’s streak, you finally made a shot from his determined distance. He gained a letter to his name, and you got a ticket to pick at his brain.

“Yeah, finally!” He cheered, coming up behind you and lightly smacking your ass. He sounded sincere, “Good job.”

“I got a good one!”

“Shoot.”

“What do you miss most from your house? If you had to pick anything for them to bring here so that you could use it, what would it be?”

“My homemade fleshlight and maybe my porno mags,” he vacillated. “I got all the quality material right here, though.”

“I’m serious!” You reacted before you could even process his comment. Even if he really thought of you like that, it would have had to be a joke.

“Fine, uh. My medals for all of this stupid shit.” He waved his one arm around to the various sports banners with the graduating classes' athletes front and center, along with several other banners and pennants hanging around that showcased the victories of the Devils and Bandits. Besides his name on the stadium, Wally’s name had been embroidered in a deep blue pennant hanging on the wall he stood facing away from. “It would make it feel like it was worth it a little more, you know?”

You sighed and looked at him with a certain understanding that some of the other students didn’t get. He could see it, and you could see him listening intently as you spoke as if he truly cared, “I do. I have a few F-F-A related things at home that I wish I could see now. My medals, my jacket for being in the after-school club, pictures of me and my friends, all of it. I wish it was here.”

“You can always borrow mine. Think of it as the honorary symbol for being stuck here with me and all of the others.” At that moment, an image popped into Wally’s mind that he could have captured in crystal-clear quality with a Polaroid. If only he had brought that to school on his last day. It was of you, with his jacket on and nothing else, grinding up against his leg—maybe rocking back and forth on the toe of his Nike’s or better yet, on his thigh. He would take that picture without hesitation and make it your first official memory at Split River. Now, his fourth problem had arrived in his blue shorts.

“Thanks.” You saw his eyes flick up from the ground to you. The effect of his gratitude lasted mere seconds as the ball came your way and vie sensations of winning reminded you as to who the jock was: your competitor. By some stroke of luck—or maybe a twinge of skill had finally come over you—you were able to make the ball into the basket twice and upstage the jock for a few moments. You got to ask your questions, but he was too busy congratulating you.

“Holy shit,” he marveled. “I know they said you went out hot, but damn! I didn’t think you had that fire in you!”

“Good to know I’m more than detritus.” You tried not to brag or even smile at the fact, just accept that you had him beat with a tied competition.

“Sorry, bad joke?”

“No, I just realized that we both have two letters left.”

“It won’t be that way for long.” Plopping himself onto the floor, he sat with the ball in his lap and his legs crossed to keep it from rolling away. “Quiz me!”

Mirroring him, you sat in the same style with your knees almost touching, “Okay, ever date anyone in high school—uh, here?”

“Nope, but it did allow me and my right hand to get to know each other pretty well. We even introduced lotion later on into the relationship.”

You let out a quick laugh, “Classy, Wally.”

“There was one chick, actually.” He didn’t look away when he said it, locking his soft brown eyes on yours.

You looked back at him, engaged, “Who?”

“That’s your fourth question.”

“Why didn’t you say it when I asked?”

He started to trace patterns over his thighs, breaking the contact your eyes held while he talked about the mysterious girl, “We never really dated or even touched each-other—it was right before the game that we even kissed.”

“Oh.” Oh, it was all you could say.

“I tried to move on from her, and it kind of worked. It took a while, but you’re here.” Wally looked back up again, lifting his whole head to do so.

You stood, “I think it’s my turn.”

“Right, sorry. Too T-M-I?” He tossed the ball up to you. You shook your head and walked over to take your shot.

Standing a decent distance away from the net, you tried to make it attainable for you to make a shot, and a little difficult for the athlete to replicate it. Since your skill was unmatched by his, it didn’t seem like there was a good place that would be hard for him to make it in.

Wally followed and pressed himself into you from behind, and went so far as to make himself level with your ear, “Don’t miss.”

He backed away from you to offer a fighting chance against him, and you took your final shot of the game. The ball veered off to the right with your throw, and he ran to intercept the shot before it hit the ground. He sweeps it up from the floor and jumps in the air to pass it under his leg and make a shot around the basket. It swished effortlessly into the net, and Wally let the victory get to his head.

“And in the match point. . . Clark makes the score!” He jumped around the court with sanguine behavior, everything else—mostly, his necklace—following with him up and down. The ball bounced off to some corner of the room since he didn’t bother to fetch it. “That tie had me worried.”

You approached him once he started to calm down, “Question?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna give it to me?”

“I can, if you want,” he smirked.

“I do.”

“Uh, well.” He placed his hands on his hips, raising one almost immediately after to toy with and twist his necklace, “What’s something you’ve never tried before?”

“I never tried you.” What does he taste like? What does he smell like? “Or sex as a ghost.” What does he feel like? “Or any kind of sex in general.”

“Me neither.” Those two short words filled the small space between your lips. There was still a longing inside of Wally that competition couldn’t beat, as even now, he felt almost no difference towards it. He pulled you in for a kiss, and suddenly, it was gone. He had the confidence—the will—to lead you up to the heightened set of wooden bleachers. Wally guided you by hand, the texture still being rough and imperfect from his blazing glory night, and insisted that you close your eyes.

“I’ve been up here a million times, there’s no need for the show,” you protested.

He sat you down on a random line of benches and continued his antics, ignoring your complaints since he didn’t have anything smart to say back. The wooden planks creating the jagged pattern to form the bleachers were hard and unforgiving with little leeway for a task as delicately chaotic as fucking. Wally somehow made the imperfections surrounding your work, by keeping you spread across one bench while laying on your back. His necklace dangled so close to you that it almost turned to sandalwood oil from the heat. He smelled similarly of the same scent, rich in a tangled aromatic scent of sweat and sweet sandalwood.

All of the new things he got to try were a silver lining along the dark clouds outside. His hands roamed unclaimed places on your body, cupping things that deserved to be fondled and handling things with extra care that didn’t excite your body as much as you expected. Chills from his work never came, and you remained the same cold soul as before. The same could be said for his lip prints, marking your own pair, then moving to the side of your cheek and down your jaw with a softness only seen in the blurry images of a fantasy. Wally kissed like he was kissing for someone else, and not for himself, giving more than he took. He didn’t take skin between his teeth for a hickey but left it impacted with a feeling soaring straight up from his heart. It’s not like a hickey would have lasted long as a ghost, anyways.

“You’re cold,” he said as he leaned down to kiss your neck again.

Wally finished kissing your body seconds later and sat up at the foot-end of where you laid. You tried to spread your legs, letting one dangle off to the next row and bringing the other one closer to give him room between you, but he kept himself situated. He fished for something in the pocket of his insanely small athletic shorts, finding it hard to search through bunched-up fabric that exposed most of his thighs.

You waited for instructions, and as if he could immediately tell, Wally spoke. “Just. . . lay back and finger yourself.”

“Is mind-reading part of the ghost-experience?” You teased.

“Just do it.”

“Okay,” you listen, pulling down the bottoms you died in and the underwear that went with it. Wally tried not to steal a glance as he occupied himself, but couldn’t help it. His jaw goes slack for a moment as he sees you—natural and perfect. He assumed that he would have to put himself on the same playing field, and suspended his search for a little bit to stand up. He shimmied down the deep blue and vibrant white of the school colors to just reveal a combination of pasty skin and dark hair surrounding his cock. He reached down to continue his search. Finally, he pulled a condom from his pocket. “I’m going to try putting this on, if it fits.”

“Where did you even get those?” You hadn’t started preparing yourself for the dead jock, letting his interesting train of thought make you invested in his issues.

“Nurse’s office.” He holds out the packaging for you to look over—it’s a neon purple with different shapes in yellow, reminiscent of the eighties and perfect for the man before you. The size on the wrapper read that it was a bland XL on the cover in white. ”Can you believe they didn’t start handing these out until the nineties?”

Wally stuck the corner between his teeth and pulled, causing the wrapper to tear in two and the condom landed in his hand. He pinched the stuck-out tip of the latex in the center of the disk and pinched the rubber ring. The head of his cock passed the loop successfully but failed to actually get it down his length. In an attempt to make it slide down his cock, he tugged on the rubber band around the opening.

“That’s not how you—here.” You sat upright and your hands fly down to help him. Taking him into your hand, you hold him near the base and wrap your thumb and index finger around a part of his head over the condom’s band. Keeping your fingers around his girth, you slid them down, jerked them back up, and repeated the motion until a thin layer of latex covered most of his dick, reaching just shy of his base. “You keep rolling it down like that until it gets to the bottom. It should be tight with a little bit of give so you can slip it off after.”

Wally wraps his hand around the new layer of latex and marvels at the feeling. “Thanks for the sex-ed lesson, coach.”

“Didn’t they ever teach you that?” You asked, reflecting back on how even now, the school never really prioritized giving kids safe sex lessons. Most of the lessons were about getting any diseases, and what to do when you know you have it. It was all focused on the if’s and never the when’s.

“Nah, it was basically ‘don’t have sex or die.’ Glad I got to do the second one first and the first one now,” he smiled.

His explanation left you puzzled. Safe sex was such a priority during life but became meaningless after death. “Why even bother wearing a condom?”

“I don’t know. Why do we still eat?” He leaned in closer to you, hesitant to loudly state the actions taking place, “Why are we about to. . .”

Normalcy, that must have been what he was trying to get at. “Fair point.”

“I guess I should return the favor?” His hand finds your shoulder at a higher level than preferred and pushed it back until you are entirely laid into the unforgiving benches. They don’t quite capture your width, your shoulders peeking over the edges with legs spread out and dangling over either side, but Wally doesn’t let it stop him from motioning closer to you. Thigh cupped, he lifts a single leg to access your hole easier.

The width of his hand not holding your thigh is felt running along your crack, something that had him hooked as he searched for an opening. His longest finger found it in seconds, and quickly, he lowered the hand wrapped around your thigh to claw at your cheek, tearing it to the side for a deeper presence. Wally sunk a three-pointer’s worth of his finger into your hole, his middle finger up to his knuckle as the rest of his hand held him back. His finger beckoned a moan by raking it up and towards your prostate, then by pulling it in and out and twisting his whole arm to feel the game-night roughened texture of his finger carry on a longing from the night he died. Wally followed the string of motions a few more times until your reactions faded.

“Does that feel good?” He asked, looking for a satisfied answer.

“First time trying it, should. . .” You exhale, “. . . should it feel like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like, just do it again.”

Wally pushed his lengthy digit back in, raising it to the sensitive area, and pressing the pad of his finger to it. He kept it there for a few moments before pulling his hand away, taking his finger with it, and motioning back in less than a second later. His thumb brushes over the valley between your cheeks periodically, and you can’t help but shudder at his touch.

“Are you. . . ready?” The pause his question took made him come off as unsure, and the look he gave you—a quick glance from your eyes back to your ass, where he continued his maneuvers—reinforced it. He thought that he may have done too much, or not done enough, or even found himself on a mediocre middle ground, painfully stuck between the end zones of backing out and finishing the job. To his surprise, he managed to run the one-hundred and twenty yards, because you said yes.

Almost immediately, two hands wrapped around your ankles, and raised your legs with them, exposing your ass without the need for his help. Eventually, they found themselves dangling over his shoulders instead of either side of the bench, and he occupied the space that they restricted him from.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the protective latex coating around his tip greeted you with the feeling of a smooth, somewhat slick surface. Further up, he caught a glimpse of your hesitant demeanor. You couldn’t lie to yourself, or try to hide and play pretend. In the years when he could age, he was given some stunning accolades in categories other than sports. On the surface, a winning smile and eyes that cast a special spotlight on anyone lucky enough to find themselves under him, and down below, a horse cock. Tamed for the moment, but waiting for the paddock to open.

“Just try, uh, try to take it all.” He winced at his own words and let a sarcastic “sorry” slip from his lips.

A sudden pain rapidly stemmed from his entry—one from the depths of your subconscious knowing that the feeling is new and likely dangerously addictive, and the other coming from the actual source as his size stretches you out much more than a finger’s width. His skin is rough on yours when he settled in, but there was one thing that surprised you as he bottoms out with little left to give. With his hips pressed against yours, you took a sharp breath in.

“You good?” He asked, drawing his touch back. Wally fights to place a hand on you, keeping them hovered over your figure for a sense of distanced reassurance.

“You’re cold,” you spat out.

“I’m used to hearing the opposite.”

“And you’re big.” It came out sounding like a single word.

Wally looked relieved, using the opportunity to get into the rhythm of making jokes, “Yeah, I’m used to hearing that.”

You try to laugh through some of the pain. “No you’re not.”

“I’m not,” he admitted with a stupid smile on his face. His voice was hoarse once his hands started to creep over you.

His hands held on to your figure, those words of his distracting you from the pain of his first movement. Just as his charm had worked its way back into the atmosphere surrounding you, his desire to fuck had also found its way in. And that’s exactly what he did. His stance stayed relatively the same—Nike blazers stuck in place and used them to pivot forward, thrusting himself more into you than he already was. His hips melded to supple ass-fat. As he slipped into a tempo with swaying hips, he heard the smacking that came from the quick collision of your ass and him. It sounded like the percussion beat supporting the ensemble of moans falling from his mouth.

Wally’s motions caused you to rock back and forth along the bench, shifting on the smooth plank. His routine shortens to quick plap, plap, plaps against you, unlike the longer blows he had given you moments prior. His breathing stepped up into larger huffs and draws of breath that pierced the air.

There was one thing you noticed about Wally while the room was only filled with those noises. He acts like he’s almost at a loss for words—unusually quiet when the notions of sex finally kick in, feelings and all. Wally’s communication during it centered around noises and acts over his verbal personality. He grunts and barely speaks, crying words and praises with abandon midway through. He took a hand from your love handles to run it through his hair, and then it fell on your leg. His hand was warm—almost slick—from the heat building around the both of you.

Your gaze floated from his hand falling on the leg going over his shoulder to his face; he looked like he was breaking a sweat. He noticed you looking at him directly, and his soft eyes looked animalistic as he doubled over you. He brought your legs closer to your chest, curling you in on yourself. He got so close that you could feel his breath ruminating against your skin.

“Am I—” he breathes, “—still cold?”

His breath isn’t and his skin almost looked like it was glowing, like he could be alive. You shake your head in response, the bundles and knots of pleasure in your stomach making it hard for a few words to come out.

With his new leverage, he fucked you harder, pressing as deep as he could go. His face contorted and stretched without the worry of wrinkles when he became overcome with pleasure.

Wally came, pressing himself into you one final time as his release sprayed all over the inside of his condom. Drops of release splatter over your torso in brief, irregular spurts. They seem to disappear seconds later, leaving no trace of anything that had happened. When Wally pulled himself out of you, you could feel the friction and intimacy quickly vanish. His dick still looked hard, but there was no aftermath. No trace of anything that had happened. His condom wasn’t filled or stretched out at the tip with a pool of come; it was as if he never fucked you. But you still retained the memory and the experience.

Even your own fatigue from being on the receiving end of his pounding lasted mere minutes. Still, you leaned your head back and turned to peer around the gym, taking a breather. The balls hanging around in nooks and corners of the room returned to the carts that they had never left, and everything was back in its original place on the unaltered, metaphysical level. The other spirits could never know, and they would never know, thanks to the universe's ways.

Wally took note of you looking around the gym, “You know, I think that next time, we should be a lot messier. Wouldn’t be our problem to clean, would it?”

#school spirits #wally clark x you #wally clark #wally clark x reader #wally clark x male reader #milo manheim #milo manheim x male reader #can milo manheim get some recognition puh lease #school spirits x reader #school spirits x male reader #gay #fanfic #x male reader #x reader

[clarks-letterman]

Wally anon new request 2: This is pretty self-explanatory. A full expansion on the reader hearing/spotting Wally jerking off in the middle of the school. I imagine it'd be more than just using his hand(s), either being that he's found a toy in somebody's gym locker or has made a makeshift fuck toy (like taking one of the field equipment dummies, cutting a hole in it, & using lube he found in the nurse's office) that he's going to town on just to add to the reader's embarrassment/attraction to him.

dummy | wally clark x male!reader

a/n — yes, I know there's a plothole LMAO uhhhh because this isn't as serious as my other fics I kind of kept it in for the sillies.. (it's just ghost physics and all) + added wally railing us at the end causee he needs the relief

words — 3.3k

summary — check the ask!

warning ��� smut (anal, reader receiving), cheesy dialogue, joke fic first smut second

~~~

The pitter-patter of steps with varying intensities filled the open air, along with heaving breaths and an almost pack mentality as a whistle echoed out from the opposite side of the field. You thrust your legs forward, your feet slowly sticking more and more to the ground with each step as they got harder to lift up and keep kicking. They felt heavy and warm thanks to your heart pumping blood throughout your entire body, each thump, thump, thump ringing in your ears for you to heart amidst everything else. The shortness of your own breath was entailed with everyone else’s, your steps growing slow until you were discernible from the rest of the herd as you came to a slow down. The dissonance of second-period gym class, a sound you knew all too well. 

Being in the middle of this pack was like being at the core of the Earth, so you let yourself fall behind until you were sundered from fatigue. Your legs felt like they could explode with one wrong step. The eight-lane mob in front of you kept chugging, and you watched them move away from you and further down the track. You found yourself taking up two lanes of the track, both legs in a different lane. Your hands fell on your thighs, and you hunched over, feeling the gut-wrenching exasperation work its way into a stomach-twisting nightmare. A thin veil of sweat covered you in more places than one—your face, neck, the back of your shirt. It was like some giant middle finger to you from whatever fate had decided that you deserve such a demanding class this early in the morning. Although, it could be worse. It could be math, and you didn’t have that until after lunch. Bowing your head, you took a second to catch your breath and just enjoy the outdoors, which felt impossible thanks to your gym coach being the fittest yet unhealthy person you knew. Overweight, balding, and painfully short, all of the things that would keep you from playing basketball, or any sport, for that matter. These things wouldn’t bother you if he wasn’t singlehandedly responsible for your grade in this class and he didn’t hand out the participation points for cheap. No, you had to show that you were actively engaged.

Lifting your head, you prayed that he hadn’t spotted you like the way a predator spots a weak link in a group. He seemed to be watching the oncoming stampede, but your eyes drifted to something else. Off to the left of where the coach stood, on one end of the football field was a guy messing with one of the three tackle dummies attached and propped up by curved metal bars. He was too far in the distance to let your eyes register what he was doing, only that it made the three dummies shake with his movements. He towered over them, you could tell that at least, the dummies only covering up to his torso. You figured that he was just transporting them around for the football team’s afternoon practice. But, his attire seemed awfully out of place. The school dress code would never allow shorts that short—yours were down to your mid-thigh when running and almost reached your knee when you stood up straight—and a sleeveless sweat-tank was an odd choice for a day that seemed fitting for jackets. Of course, students could wear one during gym but you were working out. Whatever he was trying to do felt like a walk in the park.

Just as you were about to question it, you heard the dreaded whistle along with your name following the disruption in the air. Some could argue that the way he hollered your name was a disruption, too. The coach called you over, and you did a half-jog, half-walk over to him with a twinge of nervousness creeping into your expression when you closed the gap between him and you. He was quick to give a pop quiz with just one question written on it, “Why did you stop running laps?”

“Well, why doesn’t he have to do it?” You asked the coach in a loud voice, pointing over to the guy. He was wearing gym attire, albeit a little out of style for the decade.

Your coach turned to look in the direction you gave him. “Who?”

“That guy over there,” You said, ready to walk over or give him a clearer insight as to who you were talking about. But, there was no one there, nothing rocking the football dummies back and forth like the man had been doing. You told him defeatedly, “The one by the… blocking guys…” 

He still wasn’t visible from where you were, yet you knew he was there. You knew it. The coach didn’t buy it for one second, though. “Kid, you sound like you need to go to the nurse.”

“What? She’s just gonna give me ice. That’s her solution for everything.” Crossing your arms, you mentally made a refusal of his suggestion. You weren’t about to just say no to a strict teacher, or any teacher at all, but he insisted.

“Tell her to put it in a cup of water, you’re dehydrated.”

The walk to the nurse was painful. You passed the navy blue training dummies on your way over and found no trace of him, which only made the walk until you got into the building even more embarrassing. Each step taken to get to the nurse’s office felt like pure fire rubbing against your joints and inflaming your leg muscles. 

It took a minute for her to get to you since she was helping a kid who got his hand stuck in a stage prop during a theater rehearsal and needed to get it off as soon as possible. Apparently, she lost the lube she kept for emergencies like this, and resorted to breaking the prop to set him free. The main reason it took so long was that it took a week to sculpt and decorate the “cornerstone of the play,” the theater kid called it. At least the time spent dealing with that allowed you to sit back and regain some of the energy you had just spent the past half an hour in class losing. When the nurse finally could see you, she gave you some water and ice to cool you down, since you were obviously having some level of delirium from overexerting yourself. She offered some Tylenol to help with a possible headache but said to tell the coach that you had to sit out for the rest of class. For embarrassing as it was, you would do anything to be safe from the scrutiny of performing your best for one out of five classes this week.

However, she must have not been paying close attention to the time, because your walk back soaked up the rest of class and no one was there by the time you got to the track. No one that you knew, at least. Once you stepped on the track, standing right about where you were when you saw him initially, he was back on the football dummies. He hadn’t moved them an inch yet they were still teetering from whatever force he was pile-driving into them. You figured that the best thing to do would be to ask if he was okay since he must have been scared of other people. It was the only logical explanation coming to fruition in your head.

Crossing the field, your legs felt heavy. You were slow with your approach, “Uh, dude, are you okay?”

You couldn’t tell if using dude or sir would be too relaxed or too informal, so you went with the safer bet because he seems to be around your age. His hair seems to be slicked back and cut short, looking reminiscent of the same decade that his attire was from. That’s what sparked the dilemma in your mind about his age. Was he younger—older? You couldn’t tell. The gym shorts you had identified from a distance were pulled down, exposing the top part of his ass crack and lower back, and clearly wrapped around and dipped in the front as they angled down on his sides, folding in on itself. 

The noises clued you in as to what he was doing. Wet, sloppy plaps fill the air as the football dummy makes almost no noise yet the sound of him smacking against it does. Specifically, his hips rocked back and forth as he gave himself distance, then pressed his body back into the dummy. Getting a better look from the side, he seemed to be fucking it about halfway up from where the navy blue leather encasing started. A hole was cut in the middle of the dummy—right between the two sixes printed on its chest. You got a better view of how long he was, and how far he had to reel himself back before slamming into the dummy.

You reached out and grabbed one of his arms holding the helmet-like shape forming the top of the dummy, “Dude, I was talking to you.”

Wally looked like he had seen a ghost. He jumped back and his cock sprung free from the poor dummy he had been using as a fucktoy. It was wet with a thick layer of lube and red from the agitation of the foam inside and stood up perfectly, the erection never softening as you talked with him. “What the hell? I’ve seen you before.”

“Well, I haven’t and you’re, uh, doing that.” You were heavy on your emphasis. “I talked about you pretty loudly and you didn’t hear me.”

“I guess it’s kind of easy to ignore people when they’re usually never talking about you. I was more than a little occupied.” He could say that again. Even if you couldn’t make out his motions, he was plowing these things so hard it would make the football team tackling them look like a sign of affection. 

“Right… am I interrupting?” 

“Nope, I got all the time in the world,” he said happily, placing his hands on his hips. His dick was still proudly standing and you were both confused and intrigued that he had yet to attempt to hide it in his little shorts.

“Aren’t you worried that people will see this happening?” You had to remind yourself of the fact that both you and your coach couldn’t see him. There was some kind of chicanery going on and it was impossible to just let it go, “You went into hiding earlier when I saw you do it, so what’s different now?”

“Oh,” he held the word for a few seconds, “I wasn’t hiding, I’ve been at this all morning. And I’d like to continue if you want to watch?”

You were almost too astonished to say no. Almost. But the word “no” never left your lips, you just kind of gave a partially verbal agreement and took a step back, letting him get back to doing his thing. He approached the dummy, jutting out his hips and using it as a way to let his cock stick out even farther. With one hand on the dummy’s head and another on his shaft, he pushed his way back into the slit he carved out. “So—haah—what’s your name?”

You reluctantly gave it out, and he nodded like he knew your face and name. The free hand he was using to guide his cock in was now reaching out to you, offering a handshake as he introduced himself. “Wally Clark.”

“Wait, like, the guy who died back in eighty-three?” You asked him with sudden intrigue, losing focus on his rhythmic thrusting. 

He moaned out, “That’s me.”

“Holy shit, I must be going crazy. I pass by your picture in the trophy case every day.” The mental image flooded your brain. You had spent just a little too long staring at it on some days when all efforts in finding love felt hopeless, and you wished you could just Frankenstein the stunning guy in the photo back to life. Little did you know, he had also spent a fair amount of time sitting in classes you were in, watching you from afar, and learning your name through roll call. He had spent himself dry with about a million dirty thoughts about you, because what else did he have to do? No one smuggled in porn for a distraction because it had all gone digital. Maybe it was that sense of wanting between the both of you that opened something up between worlds, some kind of connection neither of you had seen before.

“Hey, woah. You’re not going crazy, but I am definitely making you red in the face.” 

“Could you stop doing that?” You asked, watching him lose himself even more to the pleasure he found from fucking dense foam that doubled as a great substitute for the real thing. He would even argue that it was just as good.

“Why? It’s not like anyone will see. Unless you’re worried about getting spotted.”

“No, it’s just weird to have a conversation like this.” You had literally been talking with a ghost who was putting himself out there in ways you could never imagine doing without getting some kind of cease-and-desist letter. Of course, it was going to be weird, and even as you ventured into the realm of understanding—and the paranormal realm—you walked back so many times because he felt unreal. An ephemeral image in your mind, it had to be that. You almost expected him to disappear any moment now, to wake up from this dream in the nurse’s office just when things were getting good. Were the plastic waiting chairs really that comfy? Or were you that tired that you happened to find solace in the slightest bit of comfort?

Either way, his next actions proved to you that this wasn’t a dream. “I was gonna take turns on all three, but I can add you to the lineup?” He offered, “There’s a lot less talking involved.”

“If you want, coach.” You agreed, and in seconds, he let the dummy free from his hold. He slid his cock out—still, never going down or finding satisfaction.

“I do.” He bent down to pick up the bottle of lube lying between the metal bars that supported the three dummies. You hadn’t noticed it before, but then again, this wasn’t your reality to mess with—it was his. And, for the moment, you were crossing over into it to get fucked by a ghost.

“Lean against that one,” he pointed to the dummy on the right, yet to be graced by his cock. “He’s not worn out from me… not yet, at least.”

You did as he said, spreading your legs as if it was instinctual to do so. Just as he had left the dummy on your left, he came up behind you with the same speed. “I always knew you would listen to me…”

Wally’s hands made quick work with your shorts, pulling the elastic strings in opposite directions to undo the knot and shimmied them down until the waistband stretched around your thighs. The cheap fabric the school used to make them felt scratchy, but his hands were smooth against your ass. You could feel one or two callouses subtly forming at the ends of his fingertips from being mid-game during his death, but it only added to the sensation. You knew exactly where he was while he discovered a world of new territory to claim. He gave it a quick smack, letting you feel confident that this wasn’t a dream. On Wally’s end, he saw the red handprint quickly leave the surface of your skin because he couldn’t do much to you in his current apparitional state.

He didn’t care, though. The inability to leave any mark on you didn’t change the fact that he would be forever ingrained in your head after this. How he filled you up—how his fingers were slowly creeping to your hole in a way that only he could ever call his own—all of that is his. The next sensation to rock your world was his fingers slipping in, cold, even without the lube at the tips of his fingers. He was stretching you with no help, just the ends of his fingers. After he felt you on the inside, feeling the warmth that he knew made you human, alive, he started drizzling the lube like it was his the final topping needed to complete his favorite meal. To make sure that every bite of this meal was perfect, he slid his fingers in and out of you until he thought that it was time to dig in.

His cock, hungry for a hole that wasn’t made from inanimate objects, was raised to meet your hole. The resonating noise of a hollow bottle filled the air as he tapped out the last of the lube onto his cock, having wasted some earlier with his fist and now the dummies that came before you. Then there was a soft squelching heard as he spread it over his thick length, making sure to keep a majority of it near the top for a slicker, smoother entrance. 

Wally did as he had done with the dummies, lining himself up with precision and spearheading through your tight hole. He let out a loud moan that you would have worried about if anyone else could have heard it, it was that loud. He was even louder when he bottomed out, claiming that he “almost came” in a fleeting moment of desperation. Then, his lean frame and tall figure proved to be a force to be reckoned with once he started moving. 

Thankfully, these things are meant to withstand two-hundred and fifty-pound meatheads charging at them, so they wouldn’t give to this, no matter how hard Wally fucked you. The front of his hips smacked against you, making the thudding noise from hitting against the leather of the dummies sound like nothing compared to the skin-on-skin clapping. Wally only worked up his thrusts, never losing his speed once he started fucking faster than your damn heartbeat.

Eventually, you needed release, but Wally’s colder, bigger hands intervened by taking yours into his, “Don’t touch yourself, too much of a mess, dude.”

You wanted to respond, to say that you’ll do whatever he wants, even depriving yourself of relief. But you couldn’t; the words didn’t form and you could barely keep your general composure against the dummy. You had gone cockdumb, unable to speak with how delirious he made you with his massive dick. You felt exhausted as if you had run a million laps, which you did on the regular in Wally’s head. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, even now that you were in the palm of his hand. In his neediness, he came, spraying himself inside you and watching it leak down the inches he hadn’t packed inside you. He pulled out and watched it disappear seconds after, but his desires felt at bay for once.

The pain and confusion quickly wore off and you were back to your good old wits, shaking your head to try and re-orient yourself with the world. It was like he had knocked you off balance, pounding into you so hard that he made you go cross-eyed. Wally finally tucked himself away and pulled up his shorts, coming to your side to help you stand. “You good?”

In combination with running for as long as you did and getting fucked, you could barely stand. All of that pain felt real. “I don’t think I can walk.”

#wally clark x reader #wally clark x you #wally clark #wally clark x male reader #milo manheim x male reader #milo mannheim #milo manheim #milo manheim x reader #x reader #x male reader #fanfic #gay #milo manheim x you #x you

[clarks-letterman]

could you do a wally clark nsfw list? its alright if not, thank you!

i can and will deliver! … i wasn’t sure if you wanted abc’s or headcanons, so i just went with the latter with some alive and ghost headcanons😅

Forgive me if these are bad—never done ‘em before! Kinda short since I didn’t want to go overboard,

Warning(s) — nsfw, mentions of sex

Friendly Competition

Wally likes to let little things start big moments. He’s a casual and very confident speaker, so he’s always dropping comments in the hallway as he passes his partner. He let them fly more freely as a ghost, when other’s couldn’t hear him, but he likes to let it build up until his partner—or him, he’s only ex-human—caves and makes a move.

It’s usually how you end up in positions such as on each other’s laps, doing the face-off or stairway to Heaven on the stadium bleachers. He likes ways to compete, even during sex.

L isn’t just for Love, it’s for dat third leg!

Figured I may as well include his general size on here. He’s thick and long enough to make it hurt in all the right ways, and reach where it needs to without straying too far into place it doesn’t belong.

A reluctant player, but a great coach.

Regardless, no matter the pain, he isn’t pulling out. He may not have loved football, but a winner doesn’t stop at the half-point line, they take it to the end-zone. Or, in this case, it would be the based of his dick. But that’s when it comes to his pep-talks. “You’re gonna take it, like a good one.”

There isn’t just people to kill at Split River High.

There’s time, too. Lots and lots of time. Being as multi-faceted as he is in the afterlife, Wally takes his time to explore and try out ideas to his fullest extent. From positions to kinks, he’s done it all with you. Cowgirl/boy, the captain, doggy style, and the previously named ones as well. He’s also tried foodplay in the kitchen, many things in the gym—including bondage with the climbing ropes, different sports-related role plays, impact play with his hands and sports equipment, and many, many more things, dress-up, and countless things in the many rooms around the school. He has an unabashed eagerness to figure out what he likes in bed just as much as in his death. Not only that, but the list of places he’s taken someone to cloud nine and back would be so long, that every notebook in the school couldn’t name them all. He looks forward to figuring out more about himself, his partner, and the many things they can do together.

#wally clark x reader #wally clark x gender neutral reader #wally clark x male reader #wally clark #milo mannheim #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim x male reader #school spirits #school spirits x reader

[clarks-letterman]

… if i said they were in the same era at different stages of their life?? then what??

#let me be delusional #milo manheim x reader #milo mannheim #milo manheim #chris evans #chris evans x male reader #chris evans x reader

[clarks-letterman]

I saw your post about zeds “package” and I totally agree he is packing, not only that but I also agree on the whole he underplays it. He’s the type of guy to say “it’s not that big” but when he wild it out you’re scared you’re gonna get ripped in half. And when he zombies out, DAMN, I can see that thing getting to 18 inches (at least 😉) and his balls are definitely giant…

18 inches is CRAZYYYY but i’m here for it😩 When he zombies out, he’s meant to destroy, and what’s more destructive than a thing like that swinging off of him😮‍💨 (but i would loveeee for it to be bigger. unrealistic/hyper dick kinda eats)

Glad we agree on him not being confident about his gifts🤭 because he’d definitely be like “It’s not that big” and then BAM. Jaw dropped (and sore) after seeing the girth and the length of what he whips out. He’s gonna need several hands to cover the length, and good thing he’s got a lot of friends

And we’re on the same page with his balls too😛 They shoulda just used those at the demolition site in Z2 because fym they wouldn’t get the job done? I’m just playing but they’re definitely big enough to compliment his dick size🤭

#zed necrodopolis #zed necrodopolis x reader #zed necrodopolis x male reader #x reader #x male reader #milo manheim x reader #milo mannheim #milo manheim

[supercap2319]

"So, can you really do magic like David Copperfield?" Wally asked. He was dressed in a gray cut-off shirt and blue shorts. He wore arm sweat bands.

"Well, all witches can do magic. Depends on what you want. I mean, can David Copperfield do this..." Y/N flicked his wrists, and the football field exploded in dirty and grass stains.

Wally looks impressed. "Wow. Explosion powers. Cool."

"Are you sure this is okay for you? Since you died on a football field after all." Y/N said.

"Nope. I'm good. Just gonna work up a sweat, and probably hit the pool if you'd like to join me?" Wally said.

"Is that a date you're offering?"

"Maybe."

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #wally clark #Wally Clark x male reader #milo manheim #Milo Manheim x male #school spirits #School Spirits x male reader

[clarks-letterman]

just found out that zombies 4 will be a roadtrip that takes place over the summer and not about Zed and Addison going to mount college... there goes my fic plans about fratboy!zed

#zed necrodopolis #zed necrodopolis x reader #zed necrodopolis x male reader #milo manheim #x reader #x male reader #milo manheim x reader