potatipejr

[potatipejr]

would you ever write like a prequel to heart department? i think you could definitely do something super cute with the christmas party mentioned. like maybe we see some of the pining in the weeks/days before the party, the soft notion of smoshcast knowing their feelings and encouraging them, and then like the finale is obvi the party

Heyy i got multiple requests for a prequel and I started writing it!! However, it feels a bit weird to write a Christmas party fic during the summer lol so it might take a while.

[potatipejr]

“Romancing at 8:25 PM”

Spencer Agnew x Reader Summary: “The other night I got mad at Spencer and he said ‘stop i was planning on romancing you later’ and I've never laughed so hard in my life.” Word count:  2.1k words A/N: I can so imagine him saying this

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You were already halfway through putting the groceries away when Spencer started being Spencer again.

“Are we out of oat milk, or is this a tragic oversight?” he asked from behind the fridge door, tone dramatic, eyebrows slightly raised.

You sighed, not even looking at him. “I told you yesterday we ran out. You said, and I quote, ‘That’s a problem for Future Spencer.’”

He shut the fridge. “Well, Future Spencer is present and feeling abandoned.”

You paused with a box of cereal in your hands. “Then Future Spencer should go to the store.”

Spencer leaned against the counter with the practiced elegance of someone who knew exactly how to turn loafing into a performance; elbows perched just so, head tilted, his expression caught somewhere between amused and wounded.

“Is this how we talk to the love of our life now?” he said, clutching his imaginary pearls. “Harsh. Cold. Unfeeling. Where’s the warmth? The affection?”

You gave him a flat stare.

He raised his hands like you were holding him at emotional gunpoint. “Okay, okay. Cease fire. I come in peace.”

You turned to him slowly, eyebrow arched like a warning sign. “You come with dramatics and no oat milk.”

He blinked, visibly wounded. “Wow. The attitude.”

You dropped the box of cereal onto the counter with a hollow thud, pressing your palms to the cool surface like it might ground you. “I’m just—” You cut yourself off, exhaling hard through your nose, your voice dropping to something tired and fraying at the edges. “I don’t have it in me today. The dishes are still in the sink. You left laundry in the basket after promising you’d fold it ‘in five’. Five what? Five hours? Days? Lifetimes? I’m not sure anymore. I’ve been doing things all day. I’ve had maybe ten seconds to myself today and eight of them were in the bathroom. And now you’re here, empty-handed and confused why I’m not in the mood for banter.”

Spencer stayed quiet for a moment, the goofy glint in his eye dimming into something more thoughtful. He pushed off the counter, arms dropping to his sides, and crossed the kitchen in a few slow steps. He tilted his head.

Then he said it:

“Stop– I was planning on romancing you later.”

You blinked.

“...What?”

He shrugged with a sheepish half-smile, stepping slightly closer. “I had a whole plan for this evening. Mood lighting. Back rub. Maybe shit poetry.”

You stared at him, deadpan. No movement. No blink. Just silence thick enough to stir a hint of panic in his expression.

And then like someone cut a wire, you broke. Something between a bark and a wheeze burst out of you that echoed off the kitchen tile. It startled even you. You doubled over, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing entirely.

“Romancing me?” you wheezed. “Later?”

Spencer was grinning now, delighted. He took another step forward, amused as you braced yourself against the counter. “Yeah! I mean, I figured I’d let you decompress, then swoop in with some charm and a playlist that subtly includes three songs I pretend aren’t about you.”

You shook with a fresh wave of mirth, your stomach already aching. “You were going to schedule seduction like it’s a meeting on Slack?”

“Oh, excuse me for respecting your time,” he said with mock offense. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You left the dishwasher half-loaded and were still planning to hit me with Shakespeare?”

“More like Keats. Or Neruda. Lots of yearning,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You practically slid down the cabinets, heels kicking against the floor, lungs burning from how hard you were laughing.

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“I was going to say something like ‘soak me into your skin and carry me around you for eternity’ while holding a candle. Maybe light some sandalwood. Romantic things like that.”

You snorted. “That sounds like a séance.”

“Only if you’re summoning feelings,” he said, winking.

You pushed his shoulder, still smiling. “You're the most absurd person I've ever loved.”

“Keyword love. So I win.”

You shook your head and turned back to the groceries, the tension that had built up in your chest now dissolving under the weight of laughter and his stupid, sincere grin.

You groaned, letting him wrap his arms around you. “You’re stupid.”

He kissed you. “Stupidly into you.”

Spencer moved beside you, wordlessly helping you unpack the rest of the bags.

He never tried to fix things with some over-the-top gesture or dramatic apology. Instead, it was always something smaller. A single line dropped at just the right moment, so casually it almost didn’t register until it hit you. But this time, like so many before, it landed. Cracked straight through your irritation like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. You hadn’t meant to laugh. You were still annoyed, still tense in that coiled, brittle way that came after a long day.

But there he was yet again, tipping the moment off its axis just enough to shift your perspective. And the worst part? It worked. It always worked. Because he never used it to avoid the hard stuff— just to remind you it didn’t have to swallow you whole.

A few minutes later, as you closed the cabinet and leaned against the counter, he sidled up next to you and nudged your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently.

You looked at him.

“I’m sorry I left the dishes and the laundry. I got distracted, and I forgot. I’ll do better.”

There it was: the part that mattered. Not just the laughter, but the accountability.

“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “I just needed you to meet me halfway.”

“I will,” he said, and you believed him.

He reached for your hand. “And for the record, the back rub offer still stands. I may not have a candle, but I do have very average upper body strength for a man and a playlist that includes a suspicious amount of Hozier.”

You tilted your head. “Romancing me now instead of later?”

He grinned. “Why wait?”

You let him pull you into his arms, your forehead against his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing circles into your back. The groceries were put away, the sink was still full, but for a moment, everything felt right, perfectly you and him; the chaos and the humour, the short fuses and the deep affection underneath it all.

You exhaled into his hoodie and mumbled, “You are lucky I find you funny.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he whispered. “It’s a finely honed survival instinct.”

And when your chest shook with another soft, involuntary chuckle, he kissed the top of your head.

x

Later, after dinner and a half-hearted promise to finish the dishes, Spencer disappeared for a suspiciously long time….

You were curled on the couch, phone in hand, mostly scrolling but not really reading. The apartment was quiet — too quiet for Spencer to still be in it without causing mild chaos. No off-key humming from the kitchen. No dramatic sighs from the hallway. No clattering of something being dropped followed by a muttered, “Totally meant to do that.” Not even one of his signature “Where’s my—oh, never mind, it was in my hand” moments.

Then the lights dimmed. Like, not flickered. Not a normal bulb-going-out dim. They lowered. Intentionally. Soft and gradual, like someone was trying to set the mood at a dinner theater or seduce a Victorian ghost.

You started to rise, squinting at the hallway.

You sat up a little straighter. “Spencer?”

There was a soft clink. Then the unmistakable flick of a lighter.

“No sudden movements,” his voice came from the kitchen. “Romance is a delicate process and I only bought two tealights.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously-?”

“Shhh,” he said. “You’ll scare the ambiance.”

From somewhere out of view, his voice floated in, way too casual. “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

Which, historically, meant everything was absolutely not under control.

Soft shuffles announced his return before you even saw him. When he stepped into view, you were graced by a man with your oversized sweater hanging off his frame like it belonged there, mismatched socks sliding across the floor, a plate of.. something in one hand and a mug cradled carefully in the other. He looked smug like he’d just invented comfort.

“I bring offerings,” he announced solemnly.

You couldn’t help it– your face cracked into a grin.

He set the mug and plate on the coffee table like he was presenting a feast to royalty.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “As previously scheduled: sweeping the love of my life off their feet.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “So what’s the plan, Romeo?”

He turned toward you, crossing his legs. “Well, first: compliments. I’ve heard those are romantic. So here we go.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I like your face,” he said without irony..

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Be still, my beating heart.”

“I’m not done.” He cleared his throat again, now fully performing. “I also like how you get irrationally annoyed at me but still feed me. I like how your socks never match and how you clearly think no one notices, but I do, and I think it’s kind of art.”

You looked away, trying not to smile, but he noticed.

“I like how you pretend not to cry during commercials, but I hear you sniffle,” he continued, voice softening a little as he reached the end. “Especially that one with the dog who finds his way home after, like, five winters and a snowstorm. You act tough, but you’re not. Not with me.”

He paused, like the weight of that last line landed even more than he meant it to. Then, with a teasing grin to cut the tension, he added, “I also like that you’re kind even when you’re tired. And that you let me be weird. And that you still laugh at me even when I’m testing your last nerve.”

You looked back at him. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

“Something about you makes me feel like there’s something about me worth sticking around for, and I think that’s all I need.”

He just stared at you, steady and unhurried, like whatever else the night held could wait. Like sitting here with you, in this exact moment, was the whole point. Like you were the plan.

“Spencer,” you said softly, your voice catching a little.

He reached for the mug and held it out. “And now, hot chocolate.”

You took it from him with both hands, and he watched you for a moment before leaning in, not too close, just enough that his voice lowered.

“You looked like you were carrying the whole world earlier,” he said. “I wanted to be the reason you could set it down.”

Your throat tightened, the words hitting with more weight than you expected like he’d peeled something back and touched the exact part of you that had been aching all day. There were crumbs on the coffee table from whatever attempt he’d made at dessert, and one of the candles was sputtering like it regretted being involved. The romantic plan hadn’t gone entirely smoothly, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he’d tried. This was Spencer. Trying. Loving you in a language all his own.

But it was his effort that made it beautiful.

He was sitting close, legs folded, one hand resting near yours but not pushing. Like he knew you needed a second to breathe. Like he was willing to let the silence speak for a while.

You smiled, tears threatening but not falling.  “You are so weird.”

“I know,” he said, nudging his knee against yours. “But so are you.”

You held up the mug in a small toast. “To being weird and to being romanced.”

He clinked the spoon against the side of it. “Romance level: chaotic good.”

You laughed, leaning into his side. The music played softly in the background, the candle flickered bravely, and you thought: yeah.

This might not be what romance looks like in the movies.

But it was yours and you were more than happy.

[potatipejr]

Close enough, welcome back Dipper and Mabel

[potatipejr]

I’d love a one-shot where Spencer is the reader’s first boyfriend and first kiss. She’s plus-size and in her mid to late twenties, and maybe she feels a little self-conscious or insecure about being a late bloomer. Thank you ♡

Hi sorry it took so long, i was struggling with every aspect in my life but i hope you like it :) 

Link: Beginner’s Kiss

[potatipejr]

Beginner's Kiss?

Spencer Agnew x plus size! f?reader Summary: Request! Spencer is your first boyfriend/kiss; it was the first time you felt like you were allowed to be wanted, fully and without apology. Word count: 2.7k words A/N: for anyone who always felt left behind in the race of love

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You never expected it to happen in a kitchen.

Not even your kitchen, his. A narrow little space covered partly with tiles that curled at the corners and mismatched mugs stacked beside the sink. There was a string of fairy lights slung half-heartedly over the cabinets, only half of them still working, casting a sleepy yellow glow over everything. The fridge hummed like it was trying to fill in the pauses between words, and the soft tick of the wall clock kept time like a nervous heartbeat.

You were both barefoot. Spencer always kicked his shoes off the moment he walked through the door, as if leaving the outside world behind required immediate comfort. You had kicked yours off too, mostly out of habit now, but you were still down one sock— you’d lost it somewhere between the couch and the hallway, probably when you curled your legs under you during a movie you hadn’t paid attention to. Now you were perched on the counter, legs dangling over the edge, a giant mug of peppermint tea cradled in your hands.

It wasn’t romantic. Not in the glossy, cinematic way you’d always imagined your first big moment might look. No swelling music, no conveniently falling snow outside the window or a dramatic thunderstorm and a gut wrenching confession of true love. Just the soft flicker of dying kitchen lights, and a hoodie you were pretending not to be sweating in because it technically wasn’t yours. Spencer had tossed it at you earlier when you mentioned being cold. 

Across from you, Spencer leaned against the opposite counter. His arms were folded, his posture relaxed, but his gaze wasn’t casual. He wasn’t looking through you or around you or anywhere else to make things easier. He was looking at you. Like you were the most compelling thing in the room, even with nothing to say.

He did that a lot. Look at you like you were worth listening to, even in silence. There was no need to perform to be worth his attention.

You should’ve been used to it by now. You’d been hanging out with him for months— slowly, gently, like orbiting closer to a sun you hadn’t realized you needed warmth from until you felt it. He was funny without trying too hard, soft without apologizing for it, and for some reason you hadn’t figured out yet, he liked you. He texted you first. He always remembered your coffee order. He laughed at your dumbest jokes like they were actually funny.

And he looked at you like this.

It made your skin buzz; not of excitement nor nerves, but something harder to pin down. A slow, crawling awareness under your skin as if your body had suddenly realised you were being seen. The attention felt too tender, too direct, as if you were standing too close to a heat source without knowing if you were supposed to warm your hands or back away.

You tugged at the edge of your sleeve, fingers finding the loose seam you always picked at when you were trying to seem smaller than you felt. Crossed your ankles, uncrossed them, crossed again like maybe your limbs could distract your brain. The rim of your mug gave your thumbnail something to do, tap-tap-tap, like a metronome measuring how long you could hold this stillness without breaking.

You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you like that. You hoped it was something good or maybe warm. But there was still that tiny voice in the back of your mind, the one warning you that he might see too much. That if he kept looking long enough, he’d notice the uneven edges — all the awkwardness, the lateness, the parts of you that always felt like too much.

And still… you didn’t look away.

So you sat there, buzzing, and let yourself be looked at. Just long enough to wonder what it might feel like to believe it.

Spencer didn’t say anything. He just kept watching like he was giving you space and time to get there on your own.

He was patient like that. Part of you wondered if he’d been waiting for you to make the first move all along. Part of you worried he was only still here because he was too polite to leave.

But then he'd glance at you like now and all of that noise faded.

The silence stretched between you, and underneath it all— beneath the hum of the fridge, the faint clatter of a distant neighbor’s TV, the warm press of the mug in your palms— was the quiet, inescapable truth that something was about to shift.

You just weren’t sure who was going to speak first.

You took a sip of your tea, mostly just to do something with your hands. “I think I’ve hit a new record for number of times I’ve said ‘cool’ in a single conversation.”

Spencer smiled. “You only said it four times.”

“That’s three too many.”

“Eh.” He shrugged, pushing off the counter and walking toward the sink. “I say ‘unfortunately’ like it’s a comma. You’re fine.”

You let the silence settle again, watching him rinse out a glass. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Not lazy, just… unbothered. It gave you the impression that nothing about this moment needed to be rushed. That part always made you a little nervous too. Because he made space so easily, and you never quite knew what to do with it.

You set the mug down.

“Hey,” you said, a little too quickly. “Can I tell you something weird?”

Spencer didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Always.”

You swung your foot slightly, trying to summon some kind of courage. “You’re… my first boyfriend.”

He paused, for exactly two milliseconds, before answering. “Okay.”

Okay?

You blinked. “Okay?”

He gave you a soft look, a smile still in the corners of his mouth. “I mean, yeah. Cool. You’re my girlfriend. That’s how that works.”

You huffed, not quite a laugh. “I just thought— I don’t know, maybe you’d think it’s weird.”

“Why would I think that?”

“I’m in my mid-twenties,” you said, gesturing vaguely like the number itself was some kind of punchline. “Most people figured this stuff out years ago.”

He leaned back against the counter again, casual and easy, like that settled everything. 

“Still not hearing a problem.”

You had no idea how to explain it to him. The feeling you’d carried for years that was heavy and embarrassing in a way you never quite knew how to put into words. It had been there like a clock set a few beats slow, always a step behind the rhythm of everyone else at sleepovers and birthday parties and crowded bars, ticking on its own time while you pretended not to notice.

For as long as you could remember, there had been this nameless entity inside of you that raked its nails across your organs. You had always wished for someone to choose you on purpose. Not by chance, not out of comfort, but because when they looked at you, they saw something worth holding on to. You wanted someone who would choose you publicly, freely, and not just when the lights were off and no one else was looking. You wanted to be the reason, not the regret. 

The fridge let out a mechanical groan, a quiet reminder that the real world was still here.

It made you remember sitting in the corner of some basement in high school while everyone else passed around bottles and secrets, laughing too loud, spinning stories about first kisses — soft, clumsy, breathless things — and how you’d laughed along, nodding like you knew. Like you weren’t lying, like you weren’t completely outside the joke.

There was always a moment, in those stories, where there was like a window between you and everyone else — clear, thin, but unbreakable. You could see them, you could hear them, but no one could really see you.

And how well you knew that crushing weight, the one that settled over you whenever your friends got approached by men while you stood awkwardly beside them, invisible. Not just to the guys, but sometimes, painfully, to your friends too. Always the one on the sidelines, listening to their boy drama and the highs of their happy relationships, while you sat there, silently unraveling. “What’s wrong with me?” you’d wonder. “If everyone else is in a relationship or at least talking to someone… am I not lovable?”

Too big. Too noticeable. Too easy to joke about and too hard to love, or so you’d been led to believe.

So you taught yourself to shrink in other ways. Bigger clothes, smaller dreams. You learned how to pull focus away from your body; be funny, be smart, be chill. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t hope too loudly. Don’t want. It felt embarrassing to even want a relationship in a world that had shown you time and time again: it just wasn’t in the cards for you. 

And that feeling had followed you well into adulthood like a shadow you avoided talking about. You kept waiting for the moment it would disappear; that you’d catch up somehow, outgrow the ache of being behind.

But it didn’t.

“I just…” you started, then stopped, your fingers tightening around the chipped rim of your mug. “I feel like I missed a whole phase of life everyone else got.”

The words stuck in your throat for a second.

“Like I showed up late,” you said, finally, “and the party’s already winding down. Everyone’s already danced, and spilled drinks, and had their messy moments. And I just got here, trying to catch up with no compass.”

Spencer moved across the kitchen slowly, like he was approaching something fragile. He knew not to startle the moment. 

When he stopped, he was standing between your knees. His hands came to rest on the edge of the counter, one on each side of your legs. Just near enough that you could feel his warmth radiating through the space between.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he said, voice low, almost like he didn’t want to scare the thought away. “You just took your time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You looked at him, eyes stinging a little more than you expected.

He didn’t look at you with pity. Not with amusement. Just that same steady kind of interest he always had like you were a story worth reading slowly. 

“Besides,” he added, a little softer, “the party’s better now that you’re here.”

You couldn’t look at him. Instead, you kept playing with your hair. “You don’t think it’s… I don’t know. Weird? Sad?”

“I think it’s yours,” he said. “Your timing. Your pace. Yours to give when you’re ready. And I’m really lucky you chose me to give it to.”

That was enough to send you spiraling.

You’d had dates before. Sort of. There had been a few flirty conversations that never quite turned into plans, a couple of almosts that fizzled before they ever had the chance to become something real. You had late-night texts that felt promising until they didn’t, compliments that came with caveats, or worse: jokes you were expected to laugh at, as if your body was to be apologized for in advance.

You were used to being the big girl. The bigger friend. The one with the big laugh and the quick wit. People liked you. They just didn’t look at you the way you wanted to be looked at. And when they did, it always seemed to come with hesitation, like they were weighing some equation in their head. Maybe they were working up the courage to cross some invisible line.

It left you feeling like you were always too something. Too soft. Too much. Too visible in a world that preferred you smaller, quieter, easier to overlook. Too hopeful, too late. Like wanting to be chosen without being treated like a compromise was already asking too much.

And Spencer, he didn’t look at you like that. He never had. His gaze never lingered in pity or calculation. He looked at you like you were a moment he didn’t want to miss, that being here, with you, was the whole point.

And that terrified you, because part of you still wondered if love was a language written in sizes you weren’t allowed to speak. But maybe you didn’t have to shrink to fit.

You finally met his eyes.

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you said.

The air shifted like the room had paused to listen.

Spencer’s gaze flicked over your face. Soft like the warmth of a lamp turned on in winter.

“Okay,” he said again, and then: “Do you want to?”

You felt your breath catch. How do you just ask someone that so casually? God, you hated how easily he could make things seem so simple. You nodded, tiny and unsure.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, lower this time.

You nodded again.

And then— he kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t polished. It unfolded slowly, with a kind of care that caught you off guard. His mouth met yours like a question. It was warm, real, and just the slightest bit hesitant, like he was letting you set the pace without saying a word. His hand rose to your cheek, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw, steady and featherlight, like he was afraid to press too hard. Like you were delacate— not in a breakable way, but in the way someone cradles a brand-new thing they’re afraid to mishandle. 

The soft pressure of his lips was unfamiliar but grounding, not perfect or practiced, but honest. And in that closeness, in that still, tentative offering of himself, something in you shifted. Something you’d kept buried under layers of self-doubt and years of wondering. It stirred, stretched, and then slowly unfurled. You didn’t feel like an afterthought or a backup plan. In that moment, wrapped in the hush of the kitchen and the warmth of his hands, you felt chosen. Not despite anything. But with everything.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes stinging a little with the kind of emotion that didn’t have a clean name. “Yes. Just… didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Spencer smiled, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t do it late. Just… right.”

His face softened even more, if that was possible. “You didn’t do it late. You did it when it meant something.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, resting your forehead lightly against his. You stayed like that for a moment, both of you quiet, both of you holding the weight of something that wasn’t fear anymore. Just possibility.

“You’re still my first everything,” you said.

He nodded, not moving away. “Then I’ll be really gentle with all of it.”

And that— God, that— settled deep in your chest, a tenderness so precise it almost hurt.

Not the kind of ache that comes from being unseen, or left out, or made to feel like a detour in someone else’s story. This was different. This was warm and unfurling in your ribs, something sacred being met without hesitation. For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like you were catching up to some invisible timeline or trying to disguise the parts of yourself that took longer to bloom. You finally felt like you— exactly where you were supposed to be. Held in a kind of hushed reverence that had nothing to do with experience, and everything to do with the way he saw you. Not as someone missing pieces, but as someone whole. Someone who mattered. 

And with him standing there, steady and open, you let yourself truly believe that this was the beginning of something good.

[potatipejr]

CUTIES

[potatipejr]

I'M HYPERVENTILATING..

[potatipejr]

Right Through The Door

Spencer Agnew x reader Summary: Spencer comes home and his partner practically attacks him. (“Can I at least shut the door before you pounce on me?” scenario) Word count: 1.2k words A/N: gonna bounce on something else, am i right

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Your apartment door creaked open with a familiar groan, followed by the thud of Spencer’s bag hitting the floor.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched at him.

Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your momentum nearly knocked him back into the doorframe. You could feel the startled laugh vibrate through his chest as he caught you, steadying both of you with ease.

“Okay, hi,” he chuckled, his voice still hoarse from a long day of filming. “Can I at least shut the door before you decide to pounce on me the moment I come home?”

You grinned into his shirt, still clinging to him like a koala, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Nope. I’ve been waiting all day for this. Door can wait.”

His laugh was soft, a little strained around the edges. He leaned back just enough to see your face, his eyes tired but warm, crinkling at the corners as he looked at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am aware, but you like me anyway.” 

“I tolerate you.” 

“Ouch.” you clutch at your chest, where your heart was. “That hurt.” 

“Ridiculous.” He repeated, as though he needed to say it again.

“The foolery I have to deal with.” he muttered, but the way his fingers curled at your waist told a different story entirely.

The door remained half-open behind him, letting in the cold air of the night and the distant hum of traffic below. A few floorboards creaked behind you, those of quiet house noise that usually bothered him, but tonight he didn’t even bother. You could feel his shoulders dropping, inch by inch, the tension of the day bleeding out now that he was finally home.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to. He didn’t want you to.

He had left this morning before the sun came up. One of those days where he kissed your forehead while you were still half-asleep, whispering a promise to be back “before it gets too late,” which was always a beautiful lie. Then came the texts throughout the day; quick check-ins at odd times, photos of broken prop pieces, a blurry shot of Amanda mid-sneeze captioned “send help,” and finally, as the sky darkened, the tired voice memo: “Still alive. Don’t wait up.”

But you had waited up. You had to. For him.

You lifted your head just slightly, nose brushing the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath layers of worn cotton. “Long day?”

He didn’t answer at first— just nodded slowly, forehead dipping to rest against yours.

“Too long,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking about this. About getting home. You.”

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and curled there, like a tether. “I don’t care if you’re sweaty or cranky or smell like cold coffee and anxiety. I just wanted you back.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I do smell like cold coffee and anxiety.”

“And yet, I remain wildly in love with you,” you whispered with a smirk.

Spencer’s hands slid up your back, one settling between your shoulder blades, the other resting in your hair, fingers curling gently into it. He held you there for a beat longer, but not to kiss you, not to talk, just to be with you. There was a stillness that only comes when someone knows you to your bones and doesn’t need you to perform or smile or explain a thing.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said finally, voice low. “You reset everything in me by doing absolutely nothing except being here.”

You chuckled gently against him. “Witchery.”

He kissed your forehead then, soft and slow, as a thank-you.

Outside, a car honked down the block. Inside, the world stayed paused with the door still ajar, air still cool, your bodies swaying just slightly in the space between welcome and relief.

You buried your face back into the crook of his neck, his skin warm, smelling faintly of the cologne you had to buy for him. “You always say you're too tired to be smothered, and then you melt into it anyway.”

“I do not melt.”

“You’re melting.”

“I’m enduring,” he argued weakly, his arms tightening around you.

You sighed, letting yourself lean into his warmth. “You really weren’t going to kiss me until the door shut?”

“I was trying to make a dramatic entrance,” Spencer said, pulling back just enough to give you an exaggerated look of wounded pride. “You know, drop my keys with a heavy sigh, maybe run a hand through my hair all tormented and broody, mutter something like, ‘I’ve had the worst day ever,’ and then dramatically collapse onto the couch like some exhausted protagonist. Then you’d come to me.”

He made a sweeping gesture with one arm, as if picturing the entire scene playing out in cinematic slow motion.

You blinked up at him, fighting a grin. “So what I’m hearing is… you had a whole sad boy fantasy ready to go, and I ruined it by actually being happy to see you?”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing at you as if you finally understood his burden. “You completely derailed my tortured character arc.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’re still very dramatic. Just slightly less sad.”

You pulled back just enough to give him a look — playful, teasing.

“Well, now I’m insulted. Here I was, being an affectionate, caring partner, and you’re accusing me of ruining your melodramatic moment.” 

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Affectionate partner? You nearly tackled me. I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled a muscle.”

He smiled, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to let the affection show too obviously. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled.

“And you’re lucky I didn’t actually tackle you. I did hold back.”

“Wait, that was you holding back?”

“Of course,” you said, all innocence. “You should’ve seen the version in my head.”

He let out a soft laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Maybe we’re both a little dramatic.”

That cracked something a little inside you — the honesty in his voice, the way his exhaustion didn’t dull the way he looked at you.

Your hand reached up to cup his cheek gently. “You okay?”

He nodded, slower this time. “Just… fried. Brain-dead. We ran three videos back-to-back and then I had to redo the script notes because someone forgot to include the new segment for the ad, and—”

“Shhh,” you said, coming closer to him to press a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re home now.”

He kissed you back slower, his hands sliding to your back as if your gravity was the only law he still believed in.

And then finally he nudged the door shut behind him with a backward kick.

“There,” he murmured against your lips. “Now you can pounce all you want.”

“You’ve got great timing,” you said. “I was actually sitting here waiting to absorb someone else’s emotional labour.”

“Perfect.” He exhaled, a tired smile forming. “You’re hired. Full-time.”

You leaned in and whispered, “Benefits better be good.”

“Oh,” he said, guiding you toward the bedroom with a mischievous look despite his exhaustion, “they’re excellent.”

[potatipejr]

Class of ‘05 💛

[potatipejr]

I have been silent for too long. I need to speak to someone about a man named George Primavera. It's starting to be a problem. Him and his singing voice omg don't get me started girl

[potatipejr]

you know i love you, right? 

Spencer Agnew x reader Summary: the title says it all. Word count: 2.0k words A/N: this is very me coded. Also send me requests !!

————————————————————————

He’d been up since 6:10AM. Not because his alarm was set then, but because his brain, in its infinite cruelty, decided that sleep was a luxury he didn’t deserve.

He stared at his ceiling for fifteen straight minutes, debating if five more minutes would change anything, if maybe just lying there would rest him enough to not feel like a glitching hologram by noon. Then his phone pinged. Two unread emails. One meeting confirmation. One “Hey, can you be in a last-minute Pit video? Ian cancelled.”

He turned his head toward the other side of the bed, half-shielded in the early morning haze. You were still asleep— curled up beneath the blanket, one hand loosely fisted near your cheek, the other stretched toward where he'd been lying before. The soft rise and fall of your breath, the way your brow smoothed out in sleep, the faint crease of pillow lines on your skin. It quieted something in him.

Spencer didn’t move for a long moment. Just watched you, some part of him aching with how gentle it all felt. He wanted to memorize it, the stillness and warmth of you, unbothered by the chaos waiting for him in his inbox. It made the idea of getting up feel borderline tragic. You looked so... safe. And for a second, he let himself pretend that staying— pressing a kiss to your shoulder, crawling back under the covers, ignoring every responsibility— was a real option.

The phone buzzed again.

He groaned, dragging himself out of bed like a man being pulled from a cliff, every step away from you a little harder than the last.

By 9AM, he was already in the studio, hands full of cables and mind full of static. At 11:30, he got caught in a five-person brainstorm meeting that quickly devolved into whiteboard warfare. By 2PM, he realized he’d forgotten to eat, and by four, caffeine had fully replaced the blood in his veins.

No one really expected Spencer to be “on” all the time, and he wasn’t. He didn’t radiate chaos so much as orbit around it, laid back in a way that made people underestimate how much he actually noticed. He didn’t try to steal the spotlight, didn’t chase the joke or fill silences just to hear his own voice. But when he did speak— a perfectly timed line, a half-lazy grin, a wild idea that actually worked— people listened. That was the trick. He didn’t need to be loud to take up space. He just had to show up in that steady, unshakable way that made everything feel a little less like it was falling apart.

But by 6:45PM, after another round of notes and a too-long of a call with Alex who seemed to be talking in circles, the exhaustion finally caught up with him like a delayed crash.

And that’s when he thought of you.

You'd probably be home by now. Wrapped up in that giant blanket you pretended you didn’t need but always used. Probably sipping something warm, eyes flicking over your phone or half-watching something dumb on TV. 

He wanted to be near you so bad. Not to talk, not to fill the space with anything, just being next to you made it easier to breathe, to stop pretending he had to be anything other than himself.

Spencer stared down at his phone. No new texts. He hadn’t updated you. Again.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t know what to say; “Sorry I suck?” “Be home soon?” “Please don’t stop waiting for me?”

Instead, he sent: Running late again. Sorry.

He stared at the message longer than he meant to, thumb hovering like there might still be time to take it back. It didn’t say what he really wanted it to.

It didn’t say that he missed you in that aching, bone-deep way that snuck up on him in quiet moments. It didn’t say how drained he was, how the tiredness he carried wasn’t something sleep could fix. And it definitely didn’t say how badly he craved the quiet of you, how just laying his head on your shoulder, breathing in your presence, made everything else feel like it could wait.

Instead, it was short. Just enough to count as showing up, not enough to unravel him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and opened the laptop again. The deadline hadn’t moved just because he wanted to.

x

The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the rain tapping gently against the windows. You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath you, a half-finished mug of tea growing cold on the coffee table and a ginormous blanket wrapped around you. The TV played something aimless — some rerun of Bob’s Burgers you’d put on just to fill the space — but you hadn’t really been watching. Not since you’d gotten Spencer’s text.

Running late again. Sorry.

You didn’t blame him. Truly. Work was demanding. His schedule was unforgiving. And yet… you still missed him. You missed the version of evenings that included him. His hoodie still damp from the rain, the sound of him humming softly while he kicked off his shoes, that first moment when his arms wrapped around you like he was finally home.

So when the lock finally clicked just past nine, you didn’t move. Just listened as he stepped inside, kicked his shoes off lazily, and let out a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.

Then his quiet and exhausted voice floated through the room.

“Hey.”

You turned your head, offering him a tired smile.

“Hey.”

He walked in, shirt wrinkled, hair slightly scrambled, the bags under his eyes a little darker than usual.

He didn’t speak right away. He just crossed the room, sat beside you on the couch, and leaned in until his head found your shoulder like it always did.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Your arm was around him. Your fingers brushed lightly through his hair, your other hand resting over his where it curled in your lap. You normally found silence comfortable, however this one had a certain air about it that lingered. You wanted to say something, anything really, perhaps even a simple “How was your day?”

After a while, Spencer spoke. His voice was muffled against your shoulder, like it took effort of a dozen men just to shape the words.

“You know I love you, right?”

The question wasn’t loud or dramatic; it didn’t break the silence so much as slip into it, soft and unguarded, the kind of thing said only when the weight of the day has worn every other part of you down. It lingered in the air between you, honest in the way only exhaustion can be, stripped of pretense or expectation, spoken not to provoke an answer but simply because the feeling had been sitting in his chest for too long, quietly growing heavier with each hour until it finally asked to be released. It wasn’t performative or seeking reassurance. It was just the raw, quiet truth of someone too tired to hold his walls up any longer, hoping, maybe, that you’d hear it and understand without him needing to explain the thousand unsaid things underneath.

Your hand, which had been idly running through his hair, stilled.

You turned your head slowly, shifting just enough to look at him.

His eyes were closed, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. But his brows were drawn together in a way that gave him away. There was a tension in his face, subtle but unmistakable like he was bracing for something. Not rejection, but something softer and sadder; the possibility that you hadn’t heard him or worse, that you didn’t believe him.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you let your hand drift from his hair to his jaw, fingers lightly brushing along the stubble that had grown in over the long day. He leaned into the touch, like it reminded him you were real.

“Spencer,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”

His eyes opened slowly, hesitant, and you felt the smallest ache in your chest at the way he looked at you. He looked like an abandoned puppy that wasn’t sure they deserved to be met with kindness, even now. Like love was something that had always come with strings or puzzles or the slow dread of being left behind.

“You don’t have to keep wondering,” you whispered, your thumb brushing over his cheek. 

“I love you,” you said softly. “I do.”

He blinked, and something in his expression cracked just a little like the first real exhale after holding your breath too long.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “You don’t have to say it all the time, or worry about proving it. I feel it. In everything you do. Even on days when you’re quiet. Specifically on those days.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, one hand tightening around your waist.

He nodded slowly, breathing out like that answer let him exhale something he hadn’t even realized he was holding in.

“I know I’m not good at expressing how I feel,” he murmured. “I certainly don’t tell you that I love you often enough, but you being in my life has altered everything, and though at times I may be a coward, I would never change a single thing that’s happened with us.”

You leaned your head against his, fingers brushing gently along the back of his neck. “Spencer, I know your heart. I see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. In the dumb voice memos you send when you're too tired to text. How you remember how I take my tea and make it even when you’re running late.”

His eyes opened at that, glassy and tired but soft.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “Not just... in the big ways. In the tiny, stupid, quiet ways too.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Those are my favorite ones.”

He leaned in then, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles. “You are so patient with me. More than I deserve.”

“You’re doing your best,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

That got a small smile out of him. “You are too kind a woman,” he sighed dramatically, the smile now creeping to both corners of his mouth. He pulled you closer, your legs now tangled together on the couch, his head pressed to your chest as the rain continued to fall outside.

“You realize I’m going to keep milking this pity until you make me popcorn, right?”

You laughed softly, lacing your fingers through his hair again. “You’re already halfway into my lap and emotionally vulnerable. Don’t push your luck.”

He tilted his head up, eyes sparkling with that boyish mischievous glint. “So... no popcorn?”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Popcorn after you let me pick the movie.”

He groaned. “Please don’t say it’s the 2019 Little Women again—”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s two hours of Timothée Chalamet fumbling two wildly talented, gorgeous sisters, and making wistful eye contact ”

“Exactly,” you said, already reaching for the remote. “Romance, tension, Florence Pugh. You should take notes.”

He huffed in defeat, moving closer, a hand slipping beneath the blanket. “Fine. But only if you share your blanket and don’t judge me when I cry during that scene.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

And just like that, the heaviness of the day began to melt and got replaced by warmth, laughter, and the steady promise of comfort found in the tiny, stupid, quiet things.

[potatipejr]

Me when somebody says meatloaf

[potatipejr]

I LOVED Hopeless but happy and i crave more of that love between spencer an reader. Mabey when you have time you could do one where reader also works at smosh in the Art Departement or somwehre quiet and he sonetimes has his big days where he is just all over he kissing cuddeling maybe even making out/ hickeys???.... >_<

I sincerely apologise for taking so long. Hope you like it !

Link: Heart Department

[potatipejr]

Heart Department

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x Reader

Summary: You’re trying to focus. He’s trying to kiss you into distraction. Somewhere in between, it stops being casual.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: I'm so sorry about the pun. A littler request, enjoy !

————————————————————————

There are two distinct Spencer Agnew modes.

The first one is Focus Mode™— quiet, intense, wired in like he’s doing a TED Talk in his head. You’ll pass him in the hallway and get a polite little wave and maybe a soft “Hey,” if you’re lucky. Those days, he’s a blur of scripts, caffeine, and mild chaos.

Then there are days like today.

Days where he acts like he hasn’t seen you in three weeks, even though you sat across from him in the morning meeting. Where his hands seem magnetized to you— fingers brushing against yours in the kitchen, arm slung around your waist when you’re standing still for more than five seconds. Like your neck is in serious danger if no one’s looking.

And today… yeah. It’s definitely that kind of day.

x

You’re tucked in the far corner of the studio, bent over your tablet, sketching out some merch ideas for Smosh vs. Dread. Hoodie designs, retro horror fonts, a mascot that resembled a blonde Santa with a grenade. It’s the type of creative work that lets your brain hum just beneath the surface — engaged but not overwhelmed. The soft scratch of your stylus is the only real sound in the room, aside from the muffled laughter from the sound stage down the hall.

The space feels like its own little bubble. The lighting is low and soft, casting everything in a muted calm. Behind you, half-finished ideas linger on the whiteboard, their outlines smudged by dry-erase markers but still faintly visible like ghosts of a brainstorming session that never wrapped up. Two mugs sit abandoned on the windowsill, quiet relics from a production meeting you don’t really remember finishing. The air carries the familiar scent of tea and markers, with just the faintest trace of Spencer’s cologne still clinging to the fabric chair he likes to steal from you when he’s feeling nosy.

It’s peaceful here. Quiet in the way that makes people forget the space even exists — hidden behind camera storage racks and half-unpacked boxes of foam props no one’s bothered to deal with. You like it that way. Tucked behind the scenes, the quiet brain in the background rather than part of the front-of-camera chaos. This is your zone: sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowed, face scrunched in that particular kind of concentration Spencer always teases you about. He says it makes you look like you’re trying to win an argument with the art itself.

You shift in your seat, pulling your legs up underneath you, stylus dancing across the screen as you shade in the subtle blood splatter behind the logo. You’re mid-brainstorm, lip caught between your teeth, when you hear the creak of the door-

And just like that, peace becomes very temporary.

Spencer appears in the doorway without warning, a shadow with too much charm and a slightly crooked smile.

“Hey,” he whispers, like it’s a secret.

You look up, eyebrows raised. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?”

He shrugs, stepping into the room with fake casualness. “I missed you.”

You blink. “You saw me forty minutes ago.”

“I know,” he says, already circling behind your chair, hands slipping over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “But that was Work You. I missed Art Goblin You.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hard to hide the smile tugging at your mouth. He nuzzles into the side of your head like an overgrown cat, his beard tickling your cheek.

“Spencer,” you murmur, glancing toward the half-open door.

“Someone’s gonna walk in.”

“So?” he mumbles into the slope of your neck, entirely unbothered. He’s pressed against your back like a weighted blanket with a conscience and a mind— cloying and smug and far too comfortable for someone who allegedly has things to do.

You groan, shifting slightly in his grip, your hands half-heartedly trying to straighten your now-wrinkled shirt. “Spencer, I’m trying to look like a professional. Not like I’m getting mauled by someone who gives off ‘first-day-of-school excitement’ in human form.”

He grins against your neck, his breath warm on your skin. “Too late. I’ve already emotionally cling-wrapped myself to you. No returns, no exchanges. You're stuck with me.”

You snort, trying not to smile but already failing. “That’s not how relationships work.”

“Sure it is,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, but still holding you close like he’s magnetized. “You show up, I latch on, and now I’m basically your very affectionate barnacle.”

You blink slowly at him. “Did you just call yourself a barnacle?”

“A loving barnacle,” he amends proudly. “The kind that brings you caffeine and sends you memes at 2 a.m.”

You laugh despite yourself, tilting your head back to look at the ceiling as if that will help you regain composure. “God, you’re so weird.”

“And yet,” he says, dipping his head slightly, brushing his nose against your cheek, “here you are, letting me maul you in the office.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s because if I let go now, you’ll just keep talking. And someone will definitely overhear you calling yourself a barnacle.”

He chuckles, then presses a light, almost reverent kiss just below your ear, the kind that sends a warm flutter down your spine. “Fine. I’ll be quiet. For now.”

You twist in his arms to glare, but he’s close. So close. Close enough that your brain short-circuits a little when you meet those big brown doe eyes and the amused curve of his lips. “You’re the worst,” you whisper, trying to inject venom into it and failing miserably.

“Still showing up anyway,” he replies softly, arms winding tighter around your waist, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

The stupid grin you try to smother curls up anyway. You lean back into him before you can convince yourself not to, and that’s all the invitation he needs. His nose nuzzles just behind your ear, featherlight and warm. You feel his breath first. Then the brush of his lips. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

It’s the kind of moment that shifts things slightly off-kilter. Still sweet, still him, but there’s a charge beneath it now — that makes your skin feel a little too aware of itself.

“Spencer,” you warn again, though this time it comes out softer, shakier. Like your resolve is hanging on by a thread made of glass and wishful thinking.

He hums low in his throat, entirely unfazed. “You smell like markers and secrets,” he murmurs. “It’s hot.”

You scoff. “You say the weirdest things sometimes.”

“I say them for you,” he counters immediately, and then.. yep. There it is.

He kisses you.

It starts as a quick press to your neck, like he’s testing the waters. Then another, closer to your jaw, slower this time. You can feel his grin growing with your silence — because he knows he’s winning. Knows you’re folding like cheap origami in the heat of it.

“Spence-” you say again, but it sounds a lot like don’t stop.

“Mm?” he murmurs, dragging the tip of his nose up to your cheek. “Just brainstorming new merch concepts. ‘Smosh: Kiss Your Coworker Edition.’ Think it’ll sell?”

“You need to stop.”

“And yet,” he says, now grazing your skin with his lips, “you’re still here.”

You turn just enough to meet his mouth, catching him mid-smirk. The kiss is deeper now, slow and stupidly tender — like he’s taking his time memorizing the taste of your lips and the way your breath hitches.

Somewhere behind you, your tablet gives a quiet notification chime. Work is still happening. The world is still spinning. But in this corner of the studio, it’s just you two.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whisper when you finally pull away, cheeks flushed.

He grins like it’s his life’s purpose. “Might be worth it.”

It might be.

He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just under your jaw, right in that spot that makes you shiver. His fingers tighten slightly on your hips. Another kiss. And another. Warm and unhurried.

“I’m working,” you whisper, but your voice has already gone breathy.

“I know,” he says, lowering his voice with faux sincerity. “I’ll be very quiet. Like a polite raccoon.”

You snort. “That’s not even a real thing—”

Then gasp, startled, when his lips find the base of your neck and linger, just long enough to drag heat up your spine. He sucks gently, mischievously, and you feel the exact second he decides to cross the line.

“Hey!” you hiss, swatting at his shoulder. “That’s gonna leave a mark!”

He pulls back with a hum of absolute smugness, looking far too pleased with himself. “Oops,” he says, completely unconvincing.

You spin around in your chair to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. “I’m not explaining a hickey in the prop meeting tomorrow. I’ve already got a reputation for being too passionate about set dressing.”

Spencer tilts his head like he’s considering a viable workaround. “Can’t we just say you were attacked by a vampire? It’s Smosh. They’d believe it. Hell, they'd probably write a sketch about it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You are so lucky I like you.”

He grins, leaning in. “No, you’re lucky. I could’ve gone full trash raccoon. You got the premium affectionate model.”

You shove his shoulder gently, but he just laughs, catching your hand mid-motion and pulling it to his lips.

“I don’t get like this all the time,” he says suddenly, voice dipping into something earnest. It makes you pause. 

“But sometimes, I just— I don’t know. I look at you and I forget how to chill.”

Your heart stumbles. The sentence lands with quiet weight, thickening the space between you with something too close to hope.

You look up at him, and there it is— the same goofy, open face you know so well, but stripped of the mischief. It’s wide-eyed affection. Raw vulnerability. Like he’s handing you something fragile and hoping you’ll be careful.

You reach down, fingers tucking into the hem of his hoodie, grounding him. Grounding yourself. “I like when you forget,” you say softly. “Even if it means I have to wear scarves in July.”

That gets a smile. A real one. It’s slow and bright and a little crooked at the edges. “We could also just let everyone know we’re dating,” he says after a beat, like the thought’s been sitting in his mouth all day, waiting for permission.

“I thought we were,” you say, brow furrowing.

“I mean publicly.” His thumbs rub gently against your sides now, nervous energy bleeding through. “Official. No more secret hallway kisses. the full soft launch.”

You blink. “Soft launch?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You know. Instagram story with no tag. Mutual posts from the same place. You wearing my hoodie in the background of a Smosh video and the comments going crazy.”

You tilt your head. “This is you being soft?”

He grins, something wicked flickering back into his gaze. “Give me five minutes and a locked door. I’ll redefine the term.”

Your jaw drops. “Spencer Agnew!”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic, the smugness practically dripping off him. “You inspire me.”

You shove at his chest with a disbelieving laugh, but his arms don’t budge. If anything, they tighten slightly, pulling you closer like he’s afraid the moment might end before he’s ready.

The teasing vanishes, replaced by something gentler. His smile drops, but the warmth remains.

“But seriously,”  he murmurs, voice low, threaded with something deeper. “I don’t just do this with people. I don’t get like this. I mean, I flirt, yeah. But I don’t stay.”

His eyes meet yours then, wide open. Honest.

“Except with you.”

Your breath catches.

It’s terrifying how casually he says things that split your ribcage open in the gentlest way. Like he doesn’t realize he’s handing you his whole heart in pieces, and trusting you to catch every one.

“I stay,” he says, a little quieter now. “I want to stay. And I want people to know I’m yours.”

You blink hard, trying to push back the sudden sting in your eyes. But the tears are good ones; the ones you get when you’re lucky enough to be loved like this. You smile up at him, soft and wobbly and helplessly in love. 

“Well,” you say, fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie, “if this thing’s going public, I’m controlling the image rights.”

He huffs out a laugh, the sound loosening something in his chest: something that had been knotted tight for too long. “Deal,” he says, grinning. “So long as it’s the cursed frog hat one. You know, where I look hopelessly smitten and mildly unwell.”

You shake your head, laughing into his chest. “You're an idiot.”

“Nah,” he whispers. His arms wrap around you tighter, anchoring himself to the moment like it’s the only one that matters. “Just really, really into you.”

Before you can reply, footsteps echo down the hallway.

Without warning, he bolts. Like a cartoon villain mid-heist, he flattens himself against the wall behind the office door, limbs splayed out like he’s auditioning for a live-action Scooby-Doo remake. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing, your whole body shaking with the effort. Through the frosted glass, you can still see the vague outline of his hoodie, like a shadow who thinks he’s become one with the wall. He even holds his breath dramatically, you can hear it from here.

The footsteps pass.

A beat of silence.

And Spencer reemerges with all the flair of a Broadway understudy finally getting his moment. He clutches his chest like he just barely survived a near-death experience. “That was way too close. We almost had to act normal.”

You wheeze, covering your face. “Oh no, not normal behavior,” you gasp. “The horror.”

He nods, very solemn. “I’m allergic to it.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a nearby sticky note. With a grin, you scrawl STOP TRYING TO GET ME FIRED in all caps and smack it against his chest.

Spencer reads it, nods solemnly, and whispers, “I will treasure this forever,” before tucking it in his back pocket. 

Then, with a gentleness that somehow always sneaks up on you, he leans in and presses one last kiss to your temple. it's soft and lingering, like it’s a promise sealed in skin. You close your eyes briefly, trying not to melt.

He heads for the door, hoodie slightly askew, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s pretending this is just another casual Tuesday and not a major turning point in your entire emotional life.

But just before he slips out, he glances back over his shoulder, his smile easy and warm — and a little mischievous. “Later tonight, though? We can plan our strategy.”

You blink. “Our strategy?”

His eyes twinkle. “Yeah. You know. The totally official, definitely professional plan for how we’re going to pretend this whole thing didn’t start with me kissing you like a man possessed during the Christmas party.”

Your cheeks burn. “You truly are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he grins, already vanishing around the corner, “but I’m yours.”

You’re left standing in the quiet, face flushed, heart pounding, hopelessly gone for maybe the most ridiculous barnacle alive.

[potatipejr]

ALEX 🎉

[potatipejr]

Masterlist

Send me a request! I will not write smut lol

Spencer Agnew (sorted by first posted)

"So I have this cat" 2.2k words

You accidently give Spencer a hickey and your secret relationship may not be so secret anymore....

A Forced Sweet Tooth 3.4k words

You work at a bakery and a frequent customer with a not-so-subtle crush, Spencer, keeps finding excuses to visit the bakery.. until friendly visits turn into something more, and he finally asks you out.

Hopeless, but Happy 3.0k words

Spencer is out at a bar, not drinking, clearly pining for his girlfriend, and not even trying to hide it despite all the teasing.

White Horse part 1, part 2 ~2k words

Spencer and you get in a big argument and honestly, you don’t have it in you anymore. (angst) part 2: spencer begging you to take him back lol

The Bit I Would Ruin 4.1k words

You and Spencer go on Courtney’s new podcast URL separately, but you might just end up together…

Heart Department 1.9k words

You’re trying to focus. He’s trying to kiss you into distraction. Somewhere in between, it stops being casual.

you know i love you, right? 2.0k words

Right Through The Door 1.2k words

Spencer comes home and his partner practically attacks him. (“Can I at least shut the door before you pounce on me?”scenario)

Beginner’s Kiss 2.7k words

Spencer is your first boyfriend/kiss; it was the first time you felt like you were allowed to be wanted, fully and without apology.

"Romancing at 8PM" 2.1k words

“The other night I got irritated with Spencer and he goes "stop i was planning on romancing you later" and I've never laughed so hard in my life.”

[potatipejr]

whoever you are i love your writing and i wish you great health and love that lasts a million lightyears (may this love find me AS SOON AS FUCKING POSSIBLE)

thank you soo much that's so nice of you to say!! I really appreciate it and honey, i'm manifesting that love for you <3 it's coming bitch