#shiterequests

You didn’t even do anything but set him aside because you were late for practice, and never before has he been glad to be in an empty hallway. If that didn’t do it, then witnessing the absolute dumb fuckery that permeated your mind was enough to make Billy realize he may, in fact, have a thing for guys.

“But I’m not….am I?” Billy’s been staring at the hood of his car; his reflected image stared back at him, confused as he tried to work through his current turmoil. It was early Saturday morning, and he’d decided not to stay in the house any longer than he had to.

“Hey, Billy.”

He spins around to see you jog up to him - and he is very much appreciating the running clothes right now; he tries to reign back his ogling; thankfully, you don’t notice it.

Billy doesn't exactly have the greatest repertoire to refer back to on these new emotions, what with his mom being six feet underground and all; he’s certainly not going to his dad about this, either. So he chooses to suffer in ignorant bliss and silence.

Which is hard to do when you’re there. Barely five feet apart. Chin on his shoulder as you look over his notes for the stupid chemistry group project. “Do you mind?” he asks, lacing as much venom as he can.

“Oh, sorry,” he feels relieved you might move back, but you don’t. Instead, you plaster yourself to his back, arms holding your own notes - which he can see even better now, so thank you for that - and with both books side by side, you return to reading, muttering to yourself all the while, Billy feels seconds away from melting into the floor.

“I can’t believe I have to fuck him.”

“You do not have to fuck him, Billy; I am begging you —”

“I gotta fuck him,” Billy reiterated, ignoring whoever it was he’d been speaking to and all but running towards you. When you notice his approach, you wave him over, the hose in your hand dropping, as Billy tries very hard not to pay attention to how close your shirt is sticking to your skin.

“Why are you wet?” He knows why you’re wet; he watched you try and fill the bucket for the school fundraiser, stare down at it, and then get doused in water. You, of course, explain what happened, and he, of course, calls you a moron.

“Well, not all of us are pretty geniuses, Billy,” you retort, turning away to shrug off your shirt, utterly oblivious to how wide his eyes go. “You alright?” You ask him when you turn back, placing the back of your hand on his forehead, “Your face is all red; oh, god, you’re really warm. Should I get the nurse?”

“No —no, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look like you might faint,” you worry, “I can carry you there if —”

Billy should get a medal for the amount of speed he puts into his getaway run. He’s out of sight long before you can respond, jumping into his car and driving off to anywhere else; he stops somewhere - feet swinging a little, then screaming into his hand, then back to a blushing mess.

End Note:

I found the experience of falling in love or being in love was a death: a death of everything. You kind of watch yourself die in a wonderful way, and you experience for the briefest moment - if you see yourself for a moment through their eyes - everything you believed about yourself gone. In a death-and-rebirth sense.

- Hozier

Around Spencer, the kitchen felt like a world away as he took in the feeling he was experiencing; with light, frivolous laughter, he hid his face in your chest to stop himself from falling into giddy hysterics. You were equally as giddy, chuckling when Spencer met your eye, “So…what now?” he asked.

“Well, we’ve got a few more hours of work,” you respond, chuckling when his face scrunched up in mock irritation, “but after, we could go on a date,” you suggest.

“Date?”

“Hmm, you know,” you respond, “that thing people do when they want to pursue a romantic relationship.” He smiles; admittedly, he hadn’t thought past the kiss, now surprised to find you wanted to cultivate something along the lines of an actual romantic relationship with him. 

“Yeah, I know,” he responds, “what do you have in mind?”

“Well, the museum has a new Classics exhibit,” you reply, and Spencer is amazed that you’d genuinely been paying attention when he’d dumped his knowledge of 15th Century literature on you. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet. The hours left at work breeze through fast, and Spencer spends most of it with dancing hands, a wide smile on his face - your date is set to 9:30 AM, Saturday morning. He goes home with a prep in his step, and when the weekend comes around, his enthusiasm soars; Saturday morning sees few clouds in the sky and the promise of sun. Spencer kept to his usual attire of casualness; the streets were averagely busy, and he twists the strap of his satchel on his way there, quelling any anxieties that manage to break past the excitement. Said anxieties are set aside when he notes how well your leather jacket hugs your arms. 

“Hey, cookie,” you greet, hand reaching out to hold his.

“Hey,” he threads his fingers with yours, thumb rubbing circles on your skin as you make your way through the museum. The Classics exhibit displayed several kraters from c. 520-500 BCE, Etruscan figurines, Greek and Roman sculptures, and various other artifacts. Classics isn’t as interesting a topic it seems, as the crowd is relatively small, but Spencer is thankful for that - the overcrowded dinosaur exhibit you’d passed came to mind, and he shuddered at the thought of being caught up in that. 

“Etruscan tomb painting….” You read off one of the displays before turning to him with a knowing smile.

“Oh, the Etruscans were a civilization that flourished in Central Italy between the 8th and 3rd Century BCE, renowned in antiquity for their rich mineral resources and as a major Mediterranean trading power,” he speaks easily, basking in the fondness you directed towards his rambling. “Much of their history and culture was either destroyed or assimilated into the conquering Roman Empire. Tomb painting is considered one of the Etruscans' greatest legacies, with beautifully painted tombs in Tarquinia, Cerveteri, Chiusi, and Vulci.”

The exhibit didn’t have the actual paintings, instead displaying photographic copies with annotations and interactive maps; the sculptures are set up to mimic the inside of a temple, leading to the back where the kraters are set. The other sculptures are scattered about the room, and Spencer beams when you turn to him for information, having spoken more today than he has in a long time. He coughs in the middle of his tangent about pediments; he rubs the back of his neck and apologizes for the scratchy throat.

You chuckle, “Come on, let’s get something for that cough, eh?” The museum’s cafe is surprisingly empty, with a few people milling about here and there and the majority off at the shops. You both get iced teas and take a table away near one of the window walls. Spencer keeps hold of your hand and drums his fingers mindlessly. He is saddened when the date comes to an end. “C —can we do this again?”

You nod enthusiastically in response, and still riding on the coattails of joy, he asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

“As many times as you like, love.” 

He beams, leaning into your space to do just that, his thumb rubs across your skin, and even after you part for the day, Spencer is ecstatic - the joy persisting into tomorrow as he skips with every step. “Well, well, well, someone’s happy,” Derek remarks. “I hope this means you finally said something to loverboy.”

“Yup,” Spencer responds, “we, uh, had a date yesterday.”

Derek pats Spencer’s back with a proud smile, “You know what this means? I, Derek Morgan, was right.” Spencer shakes his head; any attempts to clarify to Derek that this wasn’t exactly an I told you so moment fell on deaf ears as the man smugly waltzed from the elevator with a cheer. Spencer follows after; when you arrive some moments later, it’s with two coffees as usual, and the day begins as the first of many days chasing an unsub through the Appalachian Mountains. 

“It’s almost like some twisted sightseeing event,” Derek mumbles. “The unsub’s earliest activities can be traced in Alabama; they kidnap two people, and from what the surviving witnesses have said, make both victims fight to the death, the winner gets to live.”

“Ties get both killed, and refusal to fight does the same,” you add. “They’re patient, willing to wait for months if need be to strike again. The murders between Kentucky and West Virginia had two years between them; if they are following the mountains, then there’s a chance they’ll cross over into Canada and most likely out of our hands.”

“Alright, then, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen,” Gideon says, “What else do we know?”

“They’re also meticulous, the locations, the methods, the choosing of victims. It’s all so careful, like some form of entertainment,” Spencer responds.

The facts are as follows:

The unsub has little regard for other people, seeing them as pawns for their own amusement.

The victims appear randomly selected, but on closer inspection, all seem to play into their disturbing amusement. Features vary, but all work in the retail industry - the unsub walks through retail stores for hours before picking. They’d do the same company for two states before switching to another, then another, and another.

Victims had a week; after that, survivors were left tied, with a sack over their heads at their place of work, and corpses were left in the same place as well.

The unsub didn’t care for publicity and seemed to want to keep it as something private. 

Pennsylvania is the next destination; the first victim is already chosen by the time of landing, which leaves one of hundreds if not thousands of other potential candidates. Spencer and Gideon stay with the local police department, you split off with Ellle, and Hotch goes off with Derek. Spencer bounces off theories and facts with Gideon; the profile becomes clearer but comes with a few more holes. The unsub seems well-red, familiar with police procedures, not intimately, more so like someone who’s read and heard extensively enough to understand.

“The space between murders suggests they must have traveling involved in their day-to-day life to be able to do so with such ease. Said life must offer them some satisfaction if they’re able to handle their urges so well.“ Gideon pointed to the mapped-out route of the unsub, “They could be in the tourism field, a flight attendant or a business consultant, something that lets them go from state to state easily enough.”

“Business consultants are sought after for their professional advice and services; they locate challenges in businesses and strategize plans to find solutions; they essentially come in and take over control, in the same way the unsub takes power over one’s life from their victims.” Spencer rambles, “but why target retails workers?”

Gideon sighs, “The higher up the chain you go, the less regard you have for your fellow man,” he states, “83% of retail workers report harassment from customers, the higher the social class, the worse the abuse can be. Our unsub’s disregard for human life may also be intrinsically linked to their social class as well as their occupation.”

“So everyone below a certain point is no better than cattle to them?” Gideon nods in response to Spencer’s question. 

“Can I help you folks out?”

The Goodwill of the first victim’s kidnapping was small, residential houses all around; the community around it wasn’t small per se, but close enough to take note when outsiders came about. The manager, Naomi Hughes, is a kind middle-aged woman of relative height, hair in a neat row of braids along her head.

You and Elle introduce yourselves and draw out your badges, “We’re here about Hayden Mullins.”

She nods, “Oh yes…uh…come with me.” She leads you to the back and into her office, “Hayden was working the closing shift when he was abducted, I told him not to work it alone, but he was determined. Home isn’t the happiest place for him,” she explains, “I’d let him sleep here when his dad was making a ruckus, get some food in him. He’s a good kid; I don’t know why anyone would go after him.”

“Did he have any hostile interactions with customers in the days before he was taken?” you ask.

“Who doesn’t? Folks get real snappy when you can’t get them what they want.” She rubs her temple, “I had a customer scream at me 'cause we didn’t carry non-salted water,” she exclaims with quotation marks, “what the hell is non-salted water?”

Elle huffs and shakes her head, “What about friendly customers? Did you notice anyone who didn’t act the way you’d expect? Anyone who stood out for a different reason?”

Naomi purses her lips, “Now that you mention it,” she opens her desk and pulls out a file, “There was this one woman; she was nice, like really nice. She said she’d just come off a four-hour road trip, so we was ready for all sorts of tantrums, but….”

“But what?” Elle asks.

“She was sweet. Smiled at me and said it was alright when we couldn’t get her what she needed,” Naomi’s face scrunched up a little, “I was a little spooked if I’m being honest; I mean, I’ve had nice customers, but she was something else.” She shuddered, passing over the file to you, “I was gonna forget all about her, but….when she looked at Hayden,” she shook her head, “I got a bad feeling.”

Inside the file was a woman’s side profile - hair clipped back into a bun, light makeup from what you can note in the black and white frame, a neatly kept suit - for all intents and purposes, a regular businesswoman. 

“Hayden was stocking the shelves, I think, and she got mad when he couldn’t man a checkout. Had to have her escorted from the premises, but she came back again —oh my god, do you think she—”

“We don’t know that yet, ma’am,” you interject, “this is still an ongoing investigation; we’re just looking into all the facts as of now.”

“Don’t blame yourself for anything that happened,” Elle tells her.

Naomi nods, “Promise me something, if…if anything happens, you’ll tell me before you tell the news, understand?” You both nod to her request and leave with the security footage and any receipts linked back to the woman.

“If this, April Walsh is our unsub,” Elle points to the picture, “it sounds like she doesn’t like to lose control, the ties, the refusal to fight, it was in the hands of the victims, it was anarchy….” 

“....she can’t let it thrive,” you finish. “The store is already out of her comfort zone and control; what if she assigns roles to the people around her, say Naomi? Managers are notorious for allowing bad behavior, but when Naomi didn’t….” You get behind the wheel and drive while throwing around more theories.

“....she got angry. April told Naomi she came off a four-hour drive; how far is the last crime scene?” She pulls out her phone, and minutes later, she cheers, “Four hours, and eighteen minutes, it’s not much, but….”

“It’s something; let’s get back to Spencer and Gideon with the info.” 

“Speaking of Spencer,” Elle chuckles, “a little birdy told me the two of you went out on a date.”

You groan and roll your eyes, “Seriously?”

“Come on, I mean, Derek’s been bragging that he got Mr. Lovebird and the Resident Genius together,” she quips, “plus, you two make a cute couple.”

You smile, “Thanks. At the very least, I know there’s another date somewhere in the future, so good things to come, I hope.”

“Oh, they’re definitely coming,” Elle remarks. You lightly smack her arm and laugh as you pull up to the local precinct. She raises her eyebrows when Spencer greets you laughing when you stick your tongue out at her.

“Hey, cookie.”

“Hey,” he responds, grinning at you, “did you bring me anything?” he quips.

“How does a potential name for our unsub sound?” You give him the file, “and also, a few more details to add to the profile?”

“I’d say it sounds good,” Gideon responds with a small smile. You and Spencer huff, amused and bashful - Elle relays the theories you’d bounced off each other in the car as Spencer pins April’s image on the board, while Gideon does the same to catch you up on what he and Spencer discussed while you were away. “We can brief the officers when Hotch and Derek get back.”

“It’s about two things,” Gideon begins, facing the  “control and entertainment. The unsub does not care for anyone but herself; at best, anyone outside of that is a form of entertainment and, at worst, an annoyance.” He points to April’s security image, “April Kennedy Walsh is a business consultant, highly sought after from what we’ve gathered, and meticulous with just about everything, from her schedule to her wardrobe.”

“Her method of murder calls back to the gladiatorial fights in the Colosseum; the emperor and the people of Rome would watch as gladiators fought with each other or animals,” Spencer adds, “she feels no remorse for her victims and rewards winners with their life. Refusing to fight for her amusement might insult her in some way, as though she were an actual Roman emperor.”

“She fits in easily with the crowd from a distance, but up close, her disregard peeks through during moments of loss of control. She’s not shown any violent behaviors during those times, but it can’t be ruled out,” Derek passes copies of April’s photos, “and judging by how she took little time to disguise herself in any way, she’s not afraid of being caught. In fact, this whole chase could be another form of entertainment for her, the same way you or I sit back and watch TV.”

“The potential want to be caught doesn’t mean she isn’t using an alias and could be a way to challenge us, so be on the lookout,” Gideon finished.

The officers split off after the debrief, and you gather back as a group, “There’s a few other Goodwills from the first and a bunch more in Pennsylvania; we can’t search them all,” Elle points out, “and even if we did, she’s patient, she could just as easily wait until the smoke blows over before coming back.”

“We don’t have much of a choice; handing out her photo to the media could cause her to abandon the hunt too, and then we’d have no easy way of finding Hayden,” you say, “there has to be some kind of pattern between the stores she chooses.”

“She chooses the same two stores for each pair of victims, always employees, never managers; after two pairs, she changes stores,” JJ reiterates, “what if she’s following the road? Picking whatever store she sees on her way?” She looks at the map, hand trailing over the red pins set on the previous stores, “The first incident was in Huntsville, Alabama, from there, and according to her schedule, she had been on a back-to-back business expose.”

You pick up blue pins and place them outside the border of the Appalachian Mountains, “In that two-year break period, she was in Lancaster, Ohio.” You put a pin there, “then Richmond, Virginia. Maybe, the two-year gap wasn’t by choice or lack of available victims.”

“Personal tragedy? But we couldn’t find anything like that,” JJ sighed, “then again, we could barely find anything about her personal life. Her parents are divorced, and when I called and asked about April, they hung up on me really quick.”

“What are you thinking?” You ask.

“Well, what if this disregard for people started early? Her mother was a judge, her father a surgeon; I’d say that’s enough money to cover up any accidents,” JJ theorizes, “both high-pressure jobs might have caused the divorce. But why not speak about their daughter?”

“One or both parents could have felt guilty, argued with the other about covering it up, then,” you shrug, “divorce?”

You dial Garcia’s number and wait as the tone rings, “Mistress of all knowledge, how may I enlighten you today?”

“Hey, gorgeous,” you greet, she scoffs on the other end, and you can imagine she’s rolling her eyes.

“Ah, my favorite work of art,” she greets back.

“We need to know if April has any juvenile records, sealed records, anything like that, and if her mother was involved in having them buried.”

“Okie dokie.” She types fast a few clicks later and, “Wow. I’ve found a couple of things, most of them cited as isolated incidents and common behavior among children, but one sticks out, November 23rd, 1999, the same year Judge Walsh resigned from her post.”

“She give any reason why?” You inquire.

“Nope.”

“Alright, thanks, Garcia.”

“Anytime.”

You relay the information, “The divorce happened the next year,” JJ mumbles, “let’s see if we can get those records open.”

November 23rd, 1999. April K. Walsh attended a camping trip near Lake Michigan; during a scavenger hunt, one of April’s buddies - Sam Goodwin - was found face down in the waters; the leading theory was Sam had gotten distracted and veered off the trail, with little experience swimming, Sam may have slipped into the water, panicked then subsequently drowned. The children had been paired into groups of three; the third child, Emma Chavez, had insisted that April had done it, and one detective had shot in the dark - months of investigation, and it looked like April would be facing time in a juvenile detention facility.

“What juvenile detention facility did she get sent to?” Gideon asks.

“None; close to the trial, the whole case fell apart; the next year, Judge Walsh resigned from her post and got a divorce.”

“Phone calls won’t cut it,” Hotch states, “we need her parents down here now.”

Joshua Walsh - now a retired surgeon- stayed close to Lake Michigan after the divorce and never remarried. Sofia Phillips - previously Sofia Walsh, post-divorce, she moved to Vermont, remarried, and had two more children before returning to work as a judge in a more minor position. Both refused to look each other in the eye; Joshua appeared more saddened, while Sofia was irritated. 

“I’m sure you have a good reason for dragging me all the way here,” Sofia grumbled.

You knew very little of Sofia Phillips, but from what you could gauge, she held herself higher than others and regarded the investigation with about as much regard as buying the wrong flavor of juice.

“Yes, ma’am, we wanted to ask about your daughter, April,” Hotch replied.

“April? Please, I don’t have a daughter called April anymore.”

Joshua scoffed, “Yes, you do, April Kennedy Walsh,” he turned to her, pulling out his wallet with shaky hands; he riffled through it before holding a picture in her face. “She had your eyes, remember?”

“Yes, I also remember her being dead to me, Joshua,” Sofia responds, glancing away. “She was always troubled. I tried to be a good mother, but sometimes you just can’t beat that attitude out of them.” She crosses one leg over the other, “I thank god I was blessed with two wonderful children after her, kind, obedient, nothing like April.”

“Hypocrite much? Where do you think she got it from, huh?”

Sofia rolls her eyes and glances at Hotch, “Are we finished now? My son has a recital in a few hours.” Hotch nods, and she leaves without a second glance; Joshua stays seated, shaking his head with a sigh.

“April…she’s not a bad kid…just lost. Sofia and I didn’t expect to have kids that early…I mean, we coped, but our jobs….” He looks at the photo again, “I tried as best as I could to be there, but Sofia…I wish I did better."

Joshua reluctantly recounts the event of November 23rd, 1999, alongside his divorce and any other moments before and after that point. The Appalachian Mountains had been Joshua’s dream destination, Sofia, to no surprise, had constantly been vocal about instilling the appropriate life goals in April - high grades, top careers, appropriate connections. The stores chosen all had qualities Sofia had cited as detestable, with Pennsylvania’s first Goodwill reminding her too much of her least favorite architecture - brutalist architecture. So going off that, the next Goodwill would have to be similar in style as well. This new detail leads to a few counties over.

April Walsh doesn’t fight when caught; appearing exhausted, the only other emotion she shows is a mix of relief and joy when she sees Mr. Walsh again, but it’s brief. She sits without prompting, crosses a leg over the other, and makes her only demand, “I’d like to speak to my father—”

“Give us Hayden,” Hotch counters.

“Who? Oh, the retail worker,” she scoffs, “he’s perfectly safe, tied and unconscious in room 345, Liberty Hotel. Now, can I please talk to my father?” Hotch nods, leaving for Hayden with everyone but Gideon and Reid. Hayden is unharmed, drowsy, and confused when he awakes.

You slump into your seat on the airplane, Spencer sits by you, and you lean your head against his shoulder. “No one wake me up for anything,” Derek mumbles across from you, lying across two seats to nap. 

“You look bored, cookie.” Spencer glances over at you; the others on the plane have either gone to sleep or relaxed in their seats.

“Maybe, but I’m not sure there’s much to do in an airplane.”

“We could play a game —not that kind,” you remark; he’d raised his eyebrows, and a light blush had dusted his cheeks, “we can do that at a later date, Dr. Reid. Right now, I was thinking of something like the ABC game.”

“ABC game?”

You sit up, “On long car rides, my grandma loved to play it; we choose a topic or theme and go through the alphabet. Say the theme was food, I’d say apricot; then you’d say bread; we can narrow down themes like food to fruits or vegetables.” 

“Ooh, that sounds interesting; ok, what’s the theme?” he asks, turning towards you.

“We can stick with food; it’s pretty easy and fun for a first-timer,” you reply, “We’ve got apricot and bread down, so, C, carrot cake.”

“Ok, donut.”

“Éclair.”

“French onion soup.”

You breeze through the first round, and Spencer picks the next theme - countries - which you manage through a quarter of before landing; you carry on while on the tarmac and finish just before leaving for home. It’s late afternoon in Quantico; Spencer bumps his hand against yours as you walk, smiling when you hold his hand in response. Paperwork is easy enough, and once done, you collectively sigh in relief when no other case comes up. It’s not night yet, and hearing everyone else make plans or detail what they have in mind when they leave has Spencer debating on whether to have that second date now.

“Thinking hard?” You ask, laughing when he comes out of his thoughts to find you standing close to him.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, “do you…uh…can we have that second date now? I know this great Indian restaurant, it’s a bit out of the way, but it has very good chicken tandoori.”

“Sure, lead the way.”

The restaurant is nice, getting there just half an hour after it opens at 5:00 PM; there’s plenty of space to choose from; Spencer leads you to his favorite seat by the fish tank. It’s a nice date; Spencer finds his legs close to yours after you split the bill, leaving just after seven. “Did you like it?”

“Loved it,” you respond. “You sure know how to treat a man, sweetheart.”

Spencer tugs at your arm, smiling into the kiss you give him. “Goodnight, love.”

Spencer is soft.

It’s what you repeatedly note - when he smiles, leans into your space for a kiss, or drums your fingers along your hands. When he snuffles in his sleep, a moment before waking up, “Morning….” he’d mumble before dozing off for a few odd minutes. 

“Good morning to you, too,” you kiss his forehead, and he mumbles something else, snuggling deeper into your arms. “What happened to the early bird catches the worm, hmm?”

“....not a bird…no worms please….” he mumbles.

“Hmm,” you respond, rubbing circles along his back, “How about pancakes? I think I might have some blueberries or chocolate chips,” you muse; Spencer peeks up at you. “Ah, I see I’ve piqued your interest.” You laugh as Spencer ponders between the comfort of the bed and the prospect of pancakes. You leave him to his decision-making; by the time you’ve made the batter, Spencer shuffles from the bedroom - donning one of your hoodies and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Spencer hugs you from the back and pecks the space between your shoulder blades, “Süss,” he says. 

You purse your lips and glance over your shoulder at him, “Süss? Come on; I thought you liked a challenge?” You switch off the stove and turn to face him, “German. Sweet.”

“I wasn’t looking for a challenge today,” he clarifies, “I was stating a fact.” He points at you as he repeats the word. “Mein süss.” 

You grin, “I’d say you’re the sweet one, cookie.” He scrunches his nose, “Mein süßer Keks.” You wink when he stares at you, “You’re not the only one with a knack for languages.” He sticks out his tongue, leaving the kitchen with the pancakes; you join him at the dining table - he sits with his back to the window, soaking in the sun like a cat.

“Fun fact, chocolate chips melt best at temperatures between 104 °F and 113 °F; the melting process starts at 90 °F when the chips’ cocoa butter starts to heat. For milk and white chocolate chips, the temperature shouldn’t exceed 115 °F; for dark chocolate, it’s 120 °F; otherwise, the chocolate will burn.”

You nod, “Which flavor’s your favorite?”

“The classic chips, made from small chunks of sweetened chocolate, I like to eat them in winter when there’s less chance for them to melt in the bag,” he answers. “What about you?”

“I don’t mind, but I suppose I prefer the classic ones too.” The pancakes were long gone by now, and coffees almost finished; Spencer had come previously to visit but never slept over before, “How’d you sleep?” You ask, placing your arm around his shoulders.

“Good,” he yawns, “you’re really comfortable.” You chuckle as Spencer snuggles closer, “Can we go back to bed?” He asks with another yawn.

“Hmm,” you stand, “you head on in; I’ll take care of the dishes.” He nods, shuffling back to the bedroom; you gather the dishes, rinse off the food, place them in the dishwasher, and leave them to clean. You find Spencer nestled comfortably under the blankets; when you slide in alongside him, he latches onto you, not fully asleep and not fully lucid. You comb your fingers through his hair, and when his breath evens out, you close your own eyes and doze off.

End Note:

It is said that the human anus can stretch seven inches before taking damage, and a raccoon can squeeze through holes as small as four inches; therefore, one could take two raccoons up one’s ass. What does this have to do with taking three dicks up your ass? Well, everything, considering said dicks could be categorized in the super department. 

You laugh to yourself at the thought as Bucky runs the oil down your body, your arms are outstretched in front of you, and his hands massage the oil around your torso. After the first time, it’s a lesson well learned.

Sam stands behind you as well; his hands are more focused on your ass, his chin on your shoulder, while Steve stands in front and massages your dick, pecking you every now and then. Your head’s slightly tilted back, and Bucky places his head on the other side of your neck, placing kisses on the skin there. Sam follows his lead and does the same, and you close your eyes, you hmm, shoulders scrunching up at the touch. Your legs aren’t buckling, but it’s getting harder to remain standing when the movements rack such sensations. 

A hand slides between your ass, delicately pulling one cheek away as a finger slides in, your leg goes up a bit, and Steve takes it in hand and lifts it slightly; a separate hand joins in behind, and the leg still standing shakes. Steve chuckles, and you balance yourself as best as you can. You hold Steve’s face, he tilts his head, slotting his lips against yours, your head gets directed away from his to Sam’s, his smile is ever present, and you grin alongside him. You move one of your hands to his face; Steve kisses the palm of the other and loops it behind his neck. His leg slots between your legs and his beard skirts over your skin as he kisses his way down your body; he kneels, then holds your cock up. Your eyes dart down, and he glances up at you, pumping it slowly; you gasp when more fingers are added. Head tilting away but then brought back, “I wasn’t done,” Sam mutters.

The fingers just seem to multiply, and your gasps give way to Sam’s tongue; Bucky’s metal fingers are cold, a contrast to Sam’s. The metal drags your insides and leaves faint scratching-like sensations, your back arches, and you hiss when he curls them and whimper when they twist; Steve manages to draw out precum, and you rut against his hands. He doesn’t go further after you do. Instead, he stands, and when you and Sam part for air, Steve holds your chin in his hands, admiring the swell of your lips. The room descends as you’re laid on your back; the floor doesn’t seem to meet with your skin as you slide away; it’s minor, almost unnoticeable, but Bucky, the bastard, points it out. He pushes your legs up as if to take a gander at your ass, but instead of that, you’re whisked away by his slight push. He laughs to himself, and Sam pushes you back, then Steve, and soon it’s a free for all.

“I’m glad you’re finding amusement from my suffering,” you say, and the three of them double down in laughter. You don’t say it with any anger behind it; your legs uncurl, and you lie on the floor, arm over your head laughing, a little lost in it; you almost don’t notice when their laughter dies down. Something smacks your arm, and you move it from your face to find a dick in your face and Bucky’s smug little grin. You’re pulled up by your arm and find yourself with a faceful of dicks. Your eyes widen, “He looks excited,” Sam comments.

“He’ll be crying soon enough,” Steve remarks. He smacks your face with his dick; you open your mouth and take it in, your hands coming up to service the other two. It takes some adjustments to get a good pace with all three dicks - hands are carding through your hair, and any delay in speed earns you a harsh tug - Steve’s precum lines your mouth when his dick moves out. They talk among themselves as you move to the next one; your tongue swirls around Sam's dick; when you catch a glimpse of them again, it’s to them groping each other. But you don’t pay mind to that; if you don’t lubricate enough, it’s going to be rough going in - not that you’re complaining. 

“What’s the smile for sweetheart?” Bucky asks, “Hope you’re not thinking we’ll go easy on you.”

You move back and swallow, “No, daddy.”

Sam pats your head, and you return to your work; you switch between them, and the precum goes down and is replaced by cum; your face is tilted up, thumbs parting your lips to garner at their handiwork. “Swallow.” It’s a command, not a question. You open your mouth after to prove you’ve done so, then you’re hoisted up and moved to the bed. Bucky lies back, and you’re shoved into his waiting crotch. You hold onto his thighs as you bob your head, a hand smacks down on your ass, and your lower half is hauled up onto your knees. There’s another smack, and you whimper around Bucky’s dick. Another smack lands on your ass. And another. And another. And another. And another. Until it’s a symphony of your cries accompanied by their cruel laughter.

Your legs feel like jelly; when they droop, there’s a sharp sting on your thighs; when you don’t correct your posture, you receive more until you pluck up the strength to do so. Bucky keeps a hand on your head, saliva pools around his dick as you choke on it. When you take too long for Bucky’s liking to readjust back to your pace, he takes it upon himself to do so, hands gripping your head as he uses your mouth to his heart’s content. Your skin stings where the hands land, “Aaw, does that hurt, sweetheart?” Bucky smugly sneers.

You hmm, around him, his second orgasm comes as you’re drawing back to respond, it trailers down your face, and you swallow what little got into your mouth. Bucky wipes the rest away with his tongue, “Say aah….”

You open your mouth, and he passes it in, tongue dancing with yours; his dick goes in easy, but he doesn’t move. He lies back, bringing him with you, two sets of hands part your ass further, there’s not that much room, but it doesn’t stop them. You gasp when you feel the prodding, squirming in place brings Bucky’s arms around you and hands on your back, pushing you back down. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart, ya scared?” Sam asks, leaning close; his nose grazes your neck. 

“Oh, doll…” it’s Steve’s faux sweet voice; there’s a tilt of condescension, “but you asked for it, didn’t you?” You nod, “Use your words, honey.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

You’re twisted around on Bucky’s dick, moaning as it happens, then you’re looking up to Steve and Sam; they sling your legs over their shoulders, “So why are you crying?” 

It’s the closest thing to a heads-up; they push forward, the tips go in together, and they have to adjust. You groan, head turning to the side and eyes closed, but Bucky forces your chin back, “Keep those eyes open,” he orders, “you know we like to see those tears.” 

When they push further, it’s not simultaneous, whereas Sam is patient, Steve is quick, Bucky hasn’t moved, and busies himself with jacking you off, holding your hips down as he does so. You whine when they settle in, panting, you’re full, more than full at this point, there’s static in your mind, and Sam laughs. “Haven’t even started, and the slut’s already brain dead.”

You huff, arms gripping the sheets. When they move, it’s far more coordinated; you’re not sure who starts; they slide in and out, holding your legs as they do so, moving you as they move. It hurts; they move relentlessly, skin slaps skin, and your moans echo in the room. Your nipples are twisted, bitten, and pulled, Bucky’s hand jacks you off, and the metal chafes at your skin. Your skin is on fire, your senses buzz, and when you try to open your eyes, they fall shut from the pleasure. Someone orgasms, you don’t know who, but that doesn’t stop them. They carry on, and the cum acts as a lubricant, your hole feels looser now, and with that, they move faster. The tears of pleasure are licked away and bring on more laughter.

Your orgasm comes, and you pass out, the sensations sending your body over the edge and leaving you a living fleshlight. When you come to, you’re tucked into Sam, Steve’s behind you, and Bucky lies on top, “Sorry, we went overboard,” Steve says, kissing your ear.

“No, I liked it,” you tell them. When you shift your legs, there’s a sharp pain, and you can feel the pronounced hand prints all over your body. “I liked it a lot.”

End Note:

You can practically hear the rest of the school cringe and pray for your survival as you flip off Billy Hargrove. The new kid rose to the top of the school hierarchy nearly overnight, he all but deposed Steve Harrington, and everyone bowed out of his way whenever he walked by. You must have missed the memo because, unlike the rest of your peers, your general instinct around Billy was to antagonize him - something many people have advised against. You remember the day you met Billy - he had rocked up to your locker; Mr. Hotshot slicked some of his hair back; the second he’d opened his mouth, you’d flicked his forehead and walked off laughing. Thus started you and Billy’s lengthy feud.

The classrooms were no sanctuary away from this; most of the teachers have effectively given up and instead elected to shift your seating arrangement as far from each other. Of course, gym has no seating arrangement, and coach has no qualms watching the two of you work out your anger. Today, you’d taken every opportunity to snatch the ball from Billy and be as uncooperative as possible whenever either of you was close, an angry Billy was an entertaining Billy.

With all that in mind, it explains why you’d flipped him off; what it didn’t explain is why Billy had stopped in his tracks, turned around, and asked, correction demanded, you repeat what you said to his face. Before all this, Billy already seemed slightly pissed, which encouraged you to try and push his buttons. You repeated your words, flipping him off with both hands; gladly satisfied with his angry expression, you turned to leave but found yourself pinned to the locker room wall, “Say that again.”

“What? Your hearing bail on you or something, Hargrove?” You rebutted, “I said what I said.”

Billy’s hand comes to your neck, gripping at it as his eyes bore into yours, “You think you can just go around saying whatever you want.”

You smirk, “It’s a free country, Billy boy,” you tell him, “I don’t know how it works back in California, but down here in Hawkins, running your mouth ain’t punishable.”

His hand squeezes tighter, face coming closer to yours, his face is drawn into an angry expression; you attempt to laugh, but it comes out as a slight wheeze, dragging on as Billy’s hand travels up, fingers edging at the corner of your mouth. His leg forces its way between your legs, and you feel your dick harden, but so does Billy. He starts chuckling, moving to press his knee against your growing erection; you wince, your wiggling growing frantic as you attempt to free yourself before anything else can happen. You cuss at him, but he silences you again with his knee digging into your pants. Your wiggling almost frees your hands, but Billy catches on, fixing that problem; his other hand travels from your neck to the inside of your pants as he now takes hold of your cock. 

His hand remains in place, face now closer to yours, “What’s that you said about running your mouth?”

“Fuck you.” Billy tugs harshly.

“That’s not what I want to hear,” he states, forehead against yours, “apologize for your words.”

“Fuc—” you don’t get the chance to cuss him out again as he tugs again; you groan, bucking your hips to get some form of relief and crying out when there is none. You go back and forth like this a few times before your resolve crumbles, “Alri-alright fine, I–I–sorry—”

He pumps you once, “For what?”

“For–for–” you can’t find the words. Surprisingly, Billy chuckles at this; he releases your cock, his hand coming to your chin, and he commands you to look at him.

“Repeat after me,” he instructs you, and you try your best, well as best as anyone could when they're pinned to the wall, dick hard. It takes three tries before Billy becomes irritated at your failure to follow his demands; you manage something acceptable enough for him on the sixth or seventh try; by then, you’re hopelessly whimpering. Billy scoffs, “What happened to the mouthy little slut?” He taunts.

“B-bi—please—” you whimper. 

He huffs, “You don’t get shit after what you did; you want something,” he tells you; moving back, he sits on one of the benches, legs spread and pants pulled down. He holds his dick, beckoning you to him with his fingers, “work for it.”

You walk up to him, crouching down, and you take his dick in your hand, pumping it a few times; Billy holds your head as your take it in. Once you have it all in, he keeps your head there, hand rubbing circles on your head as he admires the view, you reach down for your won dick, but Billy chastises you, “Did I say you could touch yourself?” 

You sound out a few words in response, “No, I didn’t. Put your hands on my thighs, and keep them there,” he demands. You do as your told; he pats your cheek, “Good boy.” He nods his head, and you start moving. Your pace is slow per Billy’s control, he doesn’t move much, an occasional thrust here and there, but otherwise, he leaves the work to you. Biting his lip, his hands hold your head, the corners of your mouth have bits of drool, and your eyes remain fixed on his. Your dick twitches, aching to be touched, but Billy’s glare dissuades you from doing so when your hand tries to move. His legs spread further as he drags you slightly higher, your elbows dig into his thighs, and he holds your head down when he comes. “Swallow,” he tells you, and you do.

Your obedience earns you a pat on the head. Bily pulls his pants back on again; he tells you to get presentable and meet him by his car. When you do, he’s leaning by it, cigar in hand; he squeezes your ass when you get there, “Why are we here, Billy? Are you too much of a coward to do it in school?”

He grimaces, the grip on your ass becoming taught, “What did I say about mouthy sluts?”

Your face pinches, “I don’t know, what did you say?” you reply impatiently; you shift on your feet, a small but ineffective method of soothing the hard-on. 

Billy shakes his head, “Get in the car.” He drives until the school is no longer visible, past houses and into the forest, and up to Skull Rock. The place is empty, and once the car engine switches off, Billy is situating himself in the back, demanding you follow suit. You find yourself straddling him, hands around his shoulder once more; you manage to roll your hips once before Billy grips them. You complain, but he smacks your ass, you complain again, and he repeats his actions; the pattern carries on, each slap more painful than the last until you’re whimpering out another apology.

He kneads your ass; he must deem this good enough since he finally goes to hold your dick, his other hand moves your shirt out of the way, and his mouth latches onto one of your nipples. He pumps your dick steadily while his mouth works on your chest - your back arches when he bites, hands tightening on his shoulders. Billy enjoys riling you up, and when you come, he doesn’t stop, his come-stained hand moving to your ass, his fingers working their way in; you moan, head falling forward and eyes shut tight. Billy’s other hand spreads your asscheek wide, and at some point, his dick is added to the mix, settling between both cheeks; he doesn't shove it in, only ever rubbing it between your cheeks. On the other hand, you are holding onto him, legs barely able to move without trembling as Billy’s fingers reach in. He comes once, shooting up along your back; after that, you reach back to shove it in yourself, but Billy takes your hand. 

You pleaded to him, “Billy—plea—fuck—”

“What did you say?” 

“Fu–fuck me, please, Billy,” you elaborated, “please…please….”

His hand leaves your ass and is replaced by his dick; the tip goes in, but nothing else. You fuss, body moving to get the rest of it in; you manage a little before Billy thrusts the whole thing into you. Your mouth falls open, a strangled sound coming from you as your head falls forward. He palms your skin, humming to himself; he grabs the back of your neck, “See what being impatient gets you?”

“Unngghh….mmmhhh….” Billy directed your face to him, kissing you as he started to move; his thrusts started out at a moderate pace, and the kiss stopped when his pace picked up. Arms slung around your lower back, your face in his neck now, as moans spilled from your mouth. He didn’t falter when he came, only slowed down in his pace, his grip becoming tense.

“Anything else to say?” He asked. You made some more incoherent sounds, another load went in your ass, Billy’s movements paused, but his dicks remained. You both panted; coming off the high, Billy brought you back into another kiss; you winced into his mouth when his dick slipped out., cum sliding out, leaving you empty. 

Billy tsked, “Damn, I’m gonna have to clean that later.”

End Note: