Girl pls pls write stripper reader and Spencer where she thinks he would never date her bc she’s a stripper and just a sprinkle of angst with lots of comforting fluff and Spencer reassuring
thank u for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.5k
cw mentioned past domestic/workplace abuse, unhealthy eating habits
Someone broke into my apartment. 9:14AM
Spencer reads the message under the table but forgoes discretion when he registers what it says and who it's from. He excuses himself from the round table, something he isn't even sure he's allowed to do, and hurries out onto the landing.
You answer on the second dial. "Hey, did you see my text?" you ask.
"Are you okay?" He squeezes his phone.
"I'm not sure. I'm fine, but my lock is busted and the door won't stay shut."
"Where are you?"
If you're surprised that he's steamrolling, you don't show it. Spencer leaves work to meet you at the coffee shop you've chosen for refuge, your eyes tired, a small bag of your most important possessions hanging on a slumped shoulder. He hugs you straight away.
"I'm fine," you say into his neck.
He hugs you tighter. "That's good," he says, feeling useless, fingers stroking little paths into your shoulders. He pictured the worst from your text, and seeing you in person is the only true mitigator. You'll talk down bruises and black eyes —you have in the past.
He pulls the story from you as you walk back to his apartment, shoulder to shoulder in the cold street. "It was open when I got home, the door, but I did what you asked me to."
"You didn't go in?" he confirms proudly.
"Not at first."
"You really won't call the police?"
"I texted you."
Spencer takes the strap of your bag from you and throws it over his own. "I'm not that kind of cop. I'm not really a cop at all."
"No, you're a fed, which is worse. The girls at work told me to stay away from you." You wipe under your eyes sluggishly. Sleep clings to you like a shadow trailing behind you, ever-present.
He puts his hand behind your back, worried you'll fall up the steps to his apartment building. "They think I'll what, extort you?"
You shake your head, something sad in the slow side to side. "Girls like me have no business around guys like you."
"You probably get too much business from guys like me."
You laugh, but you both know it's not what you meant. Spencers noticed it more and more lately, nothing so obvious until now, this dead set belief you hold that he's one type of person and you're another. He gets that your work isn't what you wanted for yourself when you were growing up. He knows it isn't easy, even on your 'good' nights. It takes a toll to be seen as you are, nothing left private. But you've always said you liked stripping as much as anyone should like their job. "It's a job," you'd said, having barely known him, tired and hungry, curled up on his couch with nowhere else to go. "Only the luckiest get to really enjoy work. S'why it's called work."
He'd hoped, perhaps in a self-absorbed way, that having more support might make you feel better about yourself; he wanted his friendship to give you some confidence, basically. Before you met Spencer there was no one else you could depend on. It's why you stayed working for a man who broke your wrist until Spencer weaselled his way into your life and made you a bed in his living room for the time it took to get you out. His credentials helped, of course, but you survived it because you're resilient. You're awesome. You've done everything you can with what you have and you don't think it's enough.
You and Spencer take the elevator to his floor, and for the twenty seconds it takes to get there, you let your cheek rest on his shoulder. He's just about to drop his head on top of yours when the doors open, and the slice of quiet you'd both savoured slips like sand between his fingers.
"I can go back and get some of your stuff," he offers, guiding you the short walk to his door. He passes you the key rather than struggle with the lock himself.
Your hand shakes as you push down the handle. "There's nothing worth going back for."
"Don't say that, you have all your clothes there, your couch. You have things. I'll take my car."
"You hate driving."
"I'd hate someone robbing you even more."
"Robbing me again," you correct, holding the door for him.
You didn't have anything worth the trouble, it seems. You keep your savings in a locked box hidden in the bathroom that they couldn't find, and though your apartment is clean and bigger than the one you lived in before Spencer met you, it's mostly empty. You don't have a TV, you're not a collector. They took the radio off of the refrigerator, your microwave oven, and a box of cosmetic jewellery worth chapel change.
"But it's your stuff. You deserve to have stuff." Spencer drops your bag gently and his with less care by the door.
"It's only until the locksmith can come tomorrow," you say with a yawn. "Let the junkies lavish in my stuff for the next twenty hours."
"That's not a problem for you?"
"I don't have the luxury of that being a problem for me, Spence. What am I supposed to do? The locksmith can't come–"
"There are a hundred locksmiths."
"Not that I can afford." You shrug out of your jacket. "Spence, listen to me. It's okay. I can't ask you to do that, anyways. You've done more than enough for me already," you say, sitting on the couch. You perch for a moment like you're trying to be polite until fatigue overtakes you, and you sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh.
Spencer crosses the space between you and kneels by your feet to untie your shoelaces.
"Don't do that," you mumble, hand over your mouth as a second yawn in as many minutes catches you.
"Why not?" He slips your shoes off, letting his hand rest on your ankle. "Wanna watch that weird cooking show–"
"Why aren't you at work?"
He climbs onto the couch next to you, unafraid to sit shoulder to shoulder. "You were having an emergency."
You rub your face with both hand. "I knew I shouldn't have called you. You can't just leave work because of me, Spencer, what if you get in trouble?"
"Someone I care about needed my help, and Hotch understands that." Spencer puts on his big boy pants with a wince. "Do you get that?"
"I don't really… I don't…" You falter. "We're never going to work. You'll never…"
"I'll never what?" he asks insistently, voice lilting up with a little incredulity. He can't help it.
You refuse to answer, turning your face from his.
Spencer knows what you're going to say. He's bad with girls but he's good at recognising human emotion; he sees the same insecurity in himself as he does in you. He knows the feeling.
You're not right, is the thing.
Spencer would kiss you if he thought that would change your mind. But tired as you are, angry with yourself, defeated, he knows it's not a good idea. He takes your hand instead, sewing your fingers together with a deliberate slowness. He brings his other hand to them and strokes the back of your index finger with his thumb, careful not to disrupt your press on nails. He knows they have a tendency to come off with too much pressure, and you're always losing your glue.
"If they really need me to go, they'll call me. But I'm staying here." His thumb moves down to your knuckle. You have little calluses and cuts and bruises everywhere from dancing. He's seen the contusions that line your thighs on a semi permanent basis. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"
"Spencer," you murmur.
"Let me take care of you, please," he says, hand curling around your wrist with extreme gentleness. "You need to eat. You need to sleep. Let me worry about everything else for once, I want to."
You still don't look at him, but you sink down an inch at a time until your cheek is on his shoulder again, like it had been in the elevator. Hesitant, you wrap your arm around his stomach.
"I'm so stupid," you say.
He wonders if that's a placeholder for what you really want to say. You think so little of yourself sometimes, but it's like you've told him before. Not everyone has the luxury of enjoying their job.
"You're amazing." Spencer feels like he's on fire everywhere that your skin touches him. Is he saying the right things? "You are. You're the only person who doesn't see that."
"The only person here, maybe."
"You should always be here, then. With me. That way I can remind you."
You sound more like yourself when you answer, though tiredness lines every word, "Thank you, Spencer. I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do."
Spencer rubs your hand until you fall asleep, and then he buys you a new toaster oven on his phone, and an industrial security lock. He doesn't know what it'll take to convince you that you deserve him, you deserve better, but he's gonna try.
He presses his cheek to your temple and focuses on the softness of your skin where it touches his.
i lowkey need to see stripper!reader and spencer again
for you gorgeous ♡ fem
cw adult themes
Hotch and Spencer draw attention at the strip club for the same reason but in varied fonts. They're both reminiscent of your regulars, Hotch the picture of a businessman with a wife to forget and steam to blow, and Spencer the silent sweetheart, pretty but too shy to talk to normal girls.
He doesn't need a normal girl when he has you.
You're glad for your cover up clothes as you lean against the dressing room door. One of the bouncers peers at you from the corner of his eye.
"Trouble?" he asks.
"Not sure. Probably not." You wave until Agent Hotchner notices you. To your delight, he raises his hand politely.
You step around the bouncer and bypass the stage to the lighter area of the club where they stand in wait. "Hello. I could've met you outside."
"Would you?" Agent Hotchner asks.
You don't need him to explain. It's not the most professional thing, loitering in a club like this. You follow them out of the club and onto the street, cold even in your sweatpants as the wind rails. Spencer lets you squeeze his fingers in greeting, but that's all.
"It's nice to see you again, Agent Hotchner," you say honestly, giving him a smile.
He doesn't return the pleasantry, but Spencer swears he's softer than he looks so you choose to run with it as Agent Hotchner says, "We need information on one of your patrons."
"Tennis Lawley," Spencer adds.
"Tennis," you repeat. "I thought my pseudonym was bad."
Spencer gives you a quick look. I'd laugh if I weren't at work, it says. "We think he's involved in a string of killings in Washington DC. What do you know about him?"
It's not an exaggeration to say you've played therapist for Tennis and a ton of guys just like him. Being a stripper, an exotic dancer, whatever anyone wants to call it (though Spencer usually just calls it your work) has pros and cons. You've felt it to be heavier on the con side, but this is a big plus, being able to assist someone you care about with something important. It makes you feel useful for once, like you're more than the froth of the city. "Ask me anything," you say, hiding your cheek from the cold with a deft hand.
Spencer and Agent Hotchner ask you all sorts of questions, personal to their suspect and less so, and for the most part you're able to answer them. You can tell from the look on Hotchner's face that he's both surprised and extremely satisfied by your knowing, and he emphasises his thankfulness with a touch to your upper arm before he says goodbye. "Your help is invaluable, Y/N, thank you."
Spencer, your sweetheart, stays for a more thorough farewell.
"Have you eaten yet today?" he asks, the hand you'd squeezed earlier leaping for yours. "You look tired."
"It's getting close to midnight, Spence. I'm alright. You and Agent Hotchner should head home and rest yourselves…" You bring your hand to his cheek but think better of yourself, pushing your arm over his shoulder instead for a hug. His own arms contract around you immediately. "I miss you lately, where have you been?"
"Everywhere. I miss you too," he says. Despite the months of knowing one another, and the many states he's seen you in, you know without looking that Spencer is blushing profusely.
You kiss his cheek as your heels return to safe ground. "Come and see me again soon, okay? And bring your rich friends. The older one, Rossi, is he really a millionaire? A divorced one?"
"Yes, he is," Spencer says with a laugh, his voice climbing higher, "but I don't think he's looking for another wife right now, sorry."
"Maybe Agent Hotchner–"
"Stop calling him that."
You look Spencer straight in the eye, nearly caught off guard by how sweet and soft they meld at your touch where your hands linger in his.
You often think that you and Spencer aren't meant to be. Your life, whether willing or unwilling, by choice or design, is entirely focused around your body, and Spencer's world revolves around his mind. You know that what you do for work isn't anything to be ashamed of, but you have the same doubts as anyone else. You know what people think of you. You wouldn't blame Spencer for thinking the same things. And you wouldn't expect him to want to be with you in any aspect that wasn't physical.
But when he holds your hands in his like this, as though they're made of something delicate, something he wants to map every detail or by fingertip alone, you wish things were different.
You clear your throat. "I really do miss you when you're away," you confess.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Your hands miss his the millisecond you pull them away. "I guess I shouldn't keep you. Your boss will be wondering where you are."
"Are you okay?"
You can't even pretend it's a strange question; you're acting strange. "I'm fine, Dr. Reid. My nice new boss knows I know the feds, and all the girls are jealous of me when you guys come to visit. They think I'm on your payroll."
Spencer quirks a puzzled frown, brows pulled together tightly. "You're harder to read than most people. Have I ever told you that?"
"I guess it's 'cos I spend so much time pretending I'm a different person," you say, smiling to prompt him into smiling back.
"Maybe." He pulls his bag from where it rests against his hip and opens it, rummaging through the contents with a confused murmur until he pulls out the shape he'd been looking for. "Here. Don't go to bed hungry, okay?"
Spencer puts a protein bar in your hand.
He steals a quick hug and leaves not long after that, crossing the dark parking lot to the mass of the dark SUV he arrives in. With one hand, you clutch the protein bar until it takes a new shape, and with the other you blow two sweet kisses, a cheesy, gaudy gesture that never fails to make your favourite special Agent blush.
I couldn’t determine whether it was human weird or just Human Jo’an weird. She was rushing around, tripping over her own feet, and having more injuries than normal.
“Human Jo’an, what is that in your hand?” I asked. The human did that thing where they freeze like a little ickchay. I couldn’t help that my wings bristled in amusement.
She looked over her shoulder, short hair covering of of her eyes as her arms shielded something behind her. My “feet” clicked against the floor of our spaceship, my wings folding in on each other. “Really?” She nodded, her lips pursing to the side to try and make an innocent expression.
It only made her look more guilty.
“Human Jo’an, I have known you since I hatched out of my egg. We have been together through a lot. I can tell when you are hiding something.” For good measure, I opened up my wings. A tactic usually for making predators intimidated, but Human Jo’an always said it made me look, and I quote, “devious”.
“Arth.” My name that Human Jo’an gave me since she could not pronounce my real name. “Would I ever lie to you? Or-“ I cut her off. “That time on the Planet Nerthimplf, you said you couldn’t speak the language of the predators there, yet you are now hailed as their surrogate queen.
“I just mimicked their sounds. The translator didn’t pick up their language correctly. So, technically, I did not lie to you.” Human Jo’an straightened up, keeping the item behind her back. Though from this angle, I could see cloth.
“My point is I would never lie to you in a way that would put you in danger. This behind my back? It’s nothing.” She tried to shrug her shoulders to show that it was in fact nothing, but from the way I could hear her heart speed up was different. My head cocked to the side, wings spreading more in amusement.
“If it is not a big issue, why can’t you show me?” Human Jo’an coughed, eyes looking to the side. “Human Jo’an.” She sighed, and then rolled her eyes, and then groaned. Her face changed into many different emotions, all ones I have seen before. Human Jo’an was embarrassed.
My wings closed in on themselves, the feathers puffing up in what Human Jo’an described as wing laughter. I felt like laughing. “I will not judge you on what you have. I am not that kind of species.” Human Jo’an nodded and then brought her hands to the front.
My foot tapped against the floor, wings flapping in uncontrollably excitement. It was what the humans called a sweater, however this one was a little ragged and had tiny holes in them. The words were in a messy text of my homeland language translating to “Yeah I survived a predator, so what?” I assume it was to reference many of our adventures where I had almost died to a predator.
Human Jo’an observed my expression, a smile making its way onto her face as I expressed with my body language rather than my words. I was elated and so was Human Jo’an.
I was now 13 earth years old, and received my first sweater crafted by the hands of my caretaker. I was elated.
The first time I saw a human scared was when I was only 6 years old.
The Irdbay species had adopted a human on board to get them used to children of different races. I was the more socialable one inside of my nest, and the human was very kind. Always got onto our level when we were learning and helped us when we were learning to fly.
The older Irdbay’s loved the human whose name was Jo’an. One day, they had to leave on important business. By then, human Jo’an had aquatinted with my entire nest and we were comfortable with being around her.
That’s when the Enahyay attacked.
The ship flashed red, alarms blared, blood of my fellow nest mates fell onto the group. The Enahyay was ruthless. They ripped apart younglings, smashed eggs that had yet hatched, and didn’t hesitate to rip into Human Jo’an’s leg. To this day, her scream has made its own nest in my mind.
I remember hiding with Human Jo’an, now the last of my nest.
Her hand covered her mouth, trapped in a closet as I tried to quiet down. Even with Human Jo’an right next to me, I couldn’t hear anything but her heartbeat. The loud thumping was quiet compared to the blaring alarms, however I could hear it.
If I could hear it, so could the Enahyay. Footsteps echoed from our hiding spot, the growls making Human Jo’an’s heart speed up even more. The pounding thumps made a rhythm that I could follow. The footsteps continued on, the growls slowly growing quiet.
I tried to shift to fix my wing and possibly squeak to Human Jo’an about her leg, but her gaze made me stop. A gaze of fear, worry, but also anger. Her eyes were that of a predator backed up into a corner and the gaze of a caretaker who lost all of her young. Her eyes were telling me not to move, even though I could not hear the predator anymore.
With my head, I barely motioned to her leg. Blood dripped down from her thigh. It stained her shorts, her socks, and even her shoes that she wore around the ship. She looked down only briefly before her entire body started to shake. The anger slowly dwindled down in her gaze until it was only fear. I didn’t understand what was wrong until I remember what my mother had told me.
‘Most predators can smell a range of things. Blood is one of them, myy atchlinghay. If you’re bleeding, fly as fast as you can as far as you can-‘
I could barely make out Human Jo’an’s slowly movements to grab the metal rod that was in the closet. She had a bone crushing grip on it.
‘If you get caught, it’s over. Just screech for me or Jo’an, and we’ll come over.’
The door ripped open and the bloodthirsty eyes of a Enahyay flashed through the dark lighting with the occasional flash of red. My wings bristled with fear. Before I could act, Human Jo’an let out a yell that rang throughout the ship. The metal rod in her arms swung towards the Enahyay, knocking him away from the closet.
I could only curl in fear, but I heard it. The Enahyay’s whimpers, Jo’an’s screams, and the sound of a metal rod connecting with skin. The whimpers eventually died down as the sound of metal against skin slowly sounded like metal hitting a liquid. Human Jo’an screams did not stop.
I heard more Enahyay coming, yet I could only hide and quiver in fear while Human Jo’an kept screaming. I could hear both her blood and tears drop onto the ground along with the bodies of Enahyay.
The rescue team and older Irdbay arrived only a mere 10 minutes later. By then, I was in Human Jo’an’s bloody arms. Black stained every part of us. Human Jo’an still had the tight grip of the metal rod, rocking me back and forth with tears streaming out of her dead eyes.
When I was just 6 earth years old, I learned the terror that humans feel and the actions that come with it. I learned what a scary existence scared human truly are.
Just a little thought that's been floating in my mind.
Soukoku relies on each other, yes? They put up walls and fronts and say big "I'm going to kill you" speeches, but they rely on each other. Where the anime is now touches on it a bit, but if you think about the amount of toxic or just unhealthy behavior the two possess for each other it could make such good fanfics. Human is a triggering term for the both of them and the only ones who could truly reassure each other that they're human (or aren't human) is themselves.
Their relationship was destined to be toxic and that's how I view their interactions. An unhealthy, toxic atmosphere where they hate each other (not really) but can't rely on anything BUT each other.
Just a little thought, feel free to share yours as well (or to just add onto it)
here’s the thing. you were a good warrior, and you like to think you know your way around a sword. so when Percy Jackson asks you to spar, you had to agree. You wouldn’t lose, you were one of the best fighters camp had to offer. You had to win, right?
wrong.
when people said children of the big three were strong, you knew they weren’t kidding. a part of you was hoping that Percy would want to fight you, to be able to prove that kids of minor gods could be powerful too. word got out that the most competitive person at camp would be fighting the son of poseidon, and suddenly you two had an audience. that was fine, you didn’t mind people watching you take yet another win.
but you lost
a child of nike, goddess of victory, and you lost
it was embarrassing for you, to say the least. you were confident in your abilities, but to be beaten in front of a crowd? gods, your self-esteem took a hit. all you wanted was to make your mom proud, for her to acknowledge your skill but there you were on the ground, beaten by the son of poseidon himself.
the cheers were deafening, but they faded into the background as you got up and brushed yourself off in an attempt to feign nonchalance. percy came up to hand you your weapon in good sportsmanship, but that wasn’t what bothered you. it was his smile.
gods that annoying smile. the smile you used to adore, it was suddenly so sour. it was like he knew the effect this loss would have on you.
“hey (y/n), your fighting was-“
“watch it jackson”
you snatched the sword from his hands and retreated towards your cabin, ignoring the confused murmurs from the crowd.
“-incredible” percy finished as he watched your retreating figure. he sighed, hands falling limply at his sides
I love those Percy fanfic's where Percy is in character, but at the same time they turn him into this out of character-but-in-character sort of person? I don't know how to explain it, but it's so great to read-
I'm more of a reader than anything on this app, but I genuinely want a good MC fic. Give me a story about MC adapting to the devildom for a week. They're not leaving their room, getting used to the fact that demons are real. Give me a story where MC addresses the issue where Mammon in the second oldest, yet he's treated like crap by his bother. Give MC tramua and let them have time to heal when they get threatened. Give me an MC that sticks next to Solomon because he's the only other human. Give me an MC that's uncomfortable with affections from the demon brothers at first because they're demons. Give me an MC that avoids Belphie for a while because he killed them. Everyone needs time to heal.
I really just want a good written story that talks about the shit MC goes through in the game- Like Beel having constant nightmares from his twin being taken away and his sister dying. Lucifer and MC not getting along during half a year because of the threats from Luci and MC scared to piss him off. Satan having an underlining issue of being compared to Lucifier that's not just brushed off. Levi slowly opening up and MC helping with the self loathing. Just a real human MC (even though they're a sheep). Idk this has been in my head for a while, and it's gotten way too long-
