#FBI

[noneofyrbz]

Actually... the original was, Carrie A Nation. Whose husband would beat her after visiting the saloon... created the 'prohibition' and with it the FBI.

[followingthebutterflies7]

Sweeter Than Honey | Part Two: Mistakes

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2

--------------------------------------------------------

Part Two: Mistakes

Every step you take toward him should feel like progress. So why does it feel like falling?

You were in.

Officially.

On paper, you were an independent contractor overseeing “transport solutions” for Agnew Holdings LLC, one of Spencer’s polished, legitimate fronts. A boutique logistics consultancy based in Manhattan, the kind of place Fortune 500 executives smiled at in boardrooms, unaware that a criminal empire thrived under the polished glass.

In practice, you were stepping deeper into a world where everything glittered, but nothing was clean.

The office was a minimalist dream: brushed steel, matte glass, and expensive silence. Modern art hung from the walls, but it was the kind you forgot the moment you looked away. Every surface gleamed like a mirror, daring you to find a fingerprint.

You sat at a sleek desk near the operations floor, pretending to focus on mock manifests for overseas shipments. Most employees worked silently, hunched over laptops and quarterly reports, but you could feel the tension that undercut the place, a quiet hum of watchfulness, as if the walls themselves were wired for sound.

You worked hard to look busy. You already knew every file by heart, the FBI had given them to you.

Now, you just had to act like you’d built them yourself. The routes, the customs paperwork, and the legal loopholes. All of it a polished lie.

Every twenty minutes or so, a man in a discreet black suit would walk past your door. They never spoke. They didn’t have to.

Security at Agnew Holdings wasn't there to make anyone feel safe. They were there to remind you that you weren’t.

--------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since your meeting with Spencer. You hadn’t seen him since.

You told yourself that was a good thing. You told yourself that meant you were doing your job.

But every day he stayed silent, some part of you wound tighter.

You weren’t foolish enough to think he’d forgotten you. Spencer Agnew wasn’t the kind of man who forgot.

He was the kind of man who waited.

And Alex Tran made sure you didn’t forget that either.

He didn’t speak to you after that first brutal vetting. Not the second day. Not the third. Or the fourth. Not even after a week.

But you felt him.

Watching.

Every call you answered. Every file you adjusted. Every key you pressed.

It was a ghostly pressure between your shoulder blades, an invisible thread pulled taut and trembling.

You gathered information carefully, methodically. Files you shouldn’t have had access to. Internal codes slipped between meeting minutes. Logistics anomalies disguised as clerical errors.

Every night, you loaded new scraps of intel onto an encrypted flash drive hidden inside the seam of your briefcase. Every night, you debated whether you'd be caught the next morning.

Because Alex Tran wasn't watching you like he suspected something. He was watching you like he was waiting for you to prove it.

By the start of your third week the tension broke.

You were reviewing a set of international cargo routes at your desk when the shadows shifted.

You didn’t hear him approach. You just felt him standing behind you, silent as a blade being drawn.

"Come with me," Alex said, his voice low and unreadable.

You stood smoothly, careful not to show hesitation, and followed him down the gleaming corridor. The deeper into the building he led you, the more polished glass gave way to raw, blackened steel. Security keypads replaced doorknobs. Cameras blinked like patient red eyes.

The door he opened wasn’t marked, there was no window. Inside there was a private conference room, empty except for one chair.

You sat.

Alex stood.

“You’re under review,” he said flatly.

You crossed one leg over the other, casual. “By you?”

A flicker of something, maybe amusement, crossed his face.

"No."

A pause, deliberate.

"By him."

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show.

“Should I be nervous?” you asked, voice light.

Alex stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint scars along his knuckles.

“You should be perfect.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The review wasn’t a conversation.

It was a trap.

That afternoon you received a shipment file routed directly to your terminal.

Urgent. Sensitive. High-value electronics scheduled for midnight pickup at a secondary dock.

At first glance, it looked routine. Until it didn’t.

The truck manifests were incomplete. The shipping codes were off by a single digit. One container had an internal flag you didn’t recognize.

It was too messy to be accidental. It wasn’t an oversight. It was bait.

You didn’t call attention to it. You had a choice to make.

If you flagged it for review, you’d look paranoid, or worse, incompetent. If you ignored it, you risked walking into a fabricated "mistake" that could get people killed.

Either way, you’d lose. Unless you rewrote the game.

You stayed late into the night, creating a new transit schedule.

You rerouted the trucks to avoid compromised areas, sending them to much quieter and safer zones. You created new manifests with a digital footprint that looked weeks old. You spoofed confirmation calls from fake dispatchers.

You covered the holes they had left like a seamstress repairing a perfect counterfeit suit. You wrapped the whole thing in so much plausible deniability, it looked like it had always been right.

By the time dawn broke over Manhattan’s skyline, the shipment was clean, intact, and impossible to trace back to you.

No alarms. No deaths. No failures.

Exactly the outcome you were trained to deliver.

But you didn’t celebrate. You knew better.

Because Alex Tran was already watching from the shadows of the operations floor, arms crossed, face unreadable.

And somewhere, maybe even already reading your file, Spencer Agnew knew too.

You survived the test. But survival wasn't victory. It was just the next move on a board you were only beginning to understand.

And if the last few weeks had been about earning your place, the next would be about keeping it. While pretending not to notice how the walls were already starting to close in.

--------------------------------------------------------

That night, Spencer requested a meeting.

Private. No details. No Excuses.

You were simply told to be there.

You prepared carefully but not obviously by choosing a tailored black dress, sharp heels, and a watch that looked expensive but wasn’t. Professional enough to blend in. Subtle enough not to look like armor.

Still, it felt like armor.

Because walking into Spencer Agnew’s penthouse felt like walking into the lair of something ancient and patient.

His office was nothing like the sterile precision of Agnew Holdings.

It was old-world luxury: dark wood paneling, vintage maps framed in burnished gold, velvet armchairs worn smooth at the arms, heavy leather-bound books filling floor-to-ceiling shelves. A low fire burned in a marble hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the Persian rugs.

Everything smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something richer underneath; amber, sandalwood, the kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after you left.

You arrived exactly five minutes early. He was already there.

Spencer stood near the massive window, a glass of amber liquor in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose and forgotten around his neck.

The city stretched out behind him, skyscrapers gleaming like the teeth of some sleeping monster. The lights painted shifting patterns across his profile, jaw shadowed, hair curling rebelliously against his temples, gaze unreadable.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

"You handled the test," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful.

You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

"I handle a lot of things," you said smoothly, stepping further into the room.

Now he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze swept over you, not admiring, not possessive, just…thorough. Like he was cataloging you. Assessing not the surface, but the seams beneath it.

Yet somehow, it still felt devastatingly intimate.

"Most people fold under pressure," he said. "Or they posture. Pretend they're smarter than they are."

You lifted your chin slightly. "And I did neither?"

He stepped closer, his glass catching the firelight.

"You adapted," he said simply.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that asked questions neither of you were ready to answer.

You felt the air stretch taut, charged with something that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with proximity.

Spencer studied you. Not the way a man admires a woman, but the way a hunter respects the prey clever enough to set its own traps.

"You’re not like the others," he said, voice dipping lower.

You gave a soft, practiced smile. "I’ve heard that before."

"But do you believe it?" he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was dangerous. And you weren’t entirely sure which version of you he was speaking to anymore. The operative? The persona? Or something more raw underneath?

He stepped closer again. Too close. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, layered over skin and expensive whiskey.

Close enough that you felt the subtle, electric pull between you. A thread stretched tight, daring either of you to cut it or tie it tighter.

Your breath caught, just for a second. But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t push forward.

He simply looked at you, really looked at you, and for one suspended moment, it felt like the entire city fell away.

"You’re dangerous," he said quietly.

The words should have been an accusation. But they sounded almost like a compliment.

And for a terrifying second, standing there with your heartbeat too loud in your ears, you weren’t sure which of you he meant.

You didn’t break eye contact.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t move.

Finally, Spencer gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d decided something you weren’t privy to.

"Welcome to the real game," he said.

And just like that, the moment broke. He turned back toward the window, lifting his glass again. Dismissed, without ever actually dismissing you.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and stepped back toward the door, your heels silent against the thick carpet.

You told yourself the rush of adrenaline in your veins was just nerves. Just the high of getting closer to the mark.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But your hands were trembling slightly when you closed the door behind you.

And you didn’t know if you were running away from him-

-or yourself.

--------------------------------------------------------

You made the call to Marlowe from the back stairwell of your apartment building.

It was nearly midnight. The city buzzed faintly below, but up here it was cold, quiet, forgotten.

You leaned against the chipped brick wall, burner phone pressed to your ear, the concrete under your heels still holding the heat of the day.

Marlowe answered on the second ring, voice rough and immediate.

“You’re doing well,” she said, skipping any pleasantries, the connection crackling with static over the burner phone. “We’ve got intel suggesting he’s moving something heavy soon. Guns. Bodies. We’re not sure yet. We need details.”

“I’ll get them.” you said. But something in your gut twisted, slow and delicate. There was a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Marlowe spoke again.

"You're getting close," she said. "Maybe closer than you should."

You didn’t answer.

Marlowe’s voice sharpened, cutting through the cold.

"Keep your head clear," she said. "He’s not your ally. Not your confidant. And sure as hell not your..."

She trailed off, the word left unsaid, heavy between you. She didn’t need to say it. You both heard it anyway.

"He's your mark," she finished.

The reminder landed with a dull, familiar weight.

You swallowed.

"I know," you said.

There was another long silence.

Marlowe’s voice dropped lower. Softer. Almost pitying.

"Do you?" she asked.

Not accusing.

Just... tired. Like she’d seen this before. Too many agents thinking they were the exception. Too many agents who forgot which lies belonged to them.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t answer.

You hung up instead, the line cutting to dead air.

For a long moment, you stayed there, phone cooling in your hand, breathing in the faint smell of rain and asphalt and something metallic beneath it.

The words echoed anyway.

He’s your mark.

You repeated it silently. Over and over.

Until it sounded like the lie it was becoming.

--------------------------------------------------------

Your progress wasn’t loud, it was made in careful, patient inches.

You worked your way into the transport operations the way water wore down stone, silent, persistent, inevitable.

It started with small tasks. Internal schedules. Double-checking manifests. Confirming carrier licenses. Quiet things no one wanted to bother with.

You did them all without complaint.

You smiled at the right people. Listened more than you spoke. Made yourself invaluable without making yourself noticeable.

By the end of your first three months, no one questioned why Elise Hawthorne’s name was on the logistics rosters. No one blinked when you started making small adjustments to transport routes, optimizing loads, sidestepping random inspections.

You became necessary.

And that was when the real opportunities began.

First came the observation runs.

"You’ve been good on paper," the Operations Director said one afternoon, dropping a sealed file onto your desk with a grunt. "Let’s see how you are on the ground."

You nodded crisply, hiding the flicker of satisfaction curling through your chest.

Two days later, you found yourself in a sleek black SUV, bouncing down the battered side streets of the industrial district. Clipboards, cargo checks, and cold-eyed men packed into the schedule ahead of you.

Alex Tran was waiting by the first truck. The first time you had seen him that month, but not the first time you had been aware of his watchful eyes.

Dressed down in tactical black, gun at his hip, gaze cold enough to freeze asphalt.

"You’ll stay close," he said without greeting.

You nodded once, matching his pace as he led you through the inspection.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.

Every once in a while, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, not with curiosity. With calculation.

As if he were trying to solve an equation where none of the variables added up. You were confusing him, he was starting to trust you. Something that he didn’t do. And it was making him angry.

You played your part during the operations perfectly.

Professional. Precise. Helpful but not pushy.

You caught a forged manifest within ten minutes at the first handoff. Quietly corrected a load discrepancy at the second. Smoothed over a bristling argument between two drivers at the third.

You didn’t flinch when weapons were checked, or when they were pulled on you. You didn’t ask questions when the crates were heavier than declared, just waved them through.

You just did your job.

And Alex saw it. He didn’t say it. But you saw it in the way his mouth tightened. The way he stopped hovering quite so closely.

It was a start.

At the end of your fourth month with Angew Holdings, you found something waiting for you on your desk.

No note. No signature.

Just a small, velvet-lined box.

You checked it for traps first. Reflex.

Inside was a slim, understated silver pen. Heavy, expensive, engraved with your initials. Subtle. Professional. Perfectly you.

Then you found it. Tucked beneath the satin lining, almost invisible, a single slip of fine cream cardstock. Three words, handwritten in black ink:

Good work. -S

Your throat tightened. Not from sentiment. From something more dangerous.

Approval from Spencer Agnew wasn’t a gift.

It was an invitation. And a warning.

You tucked the card and the pen away carefully, heartbeat steady.

When you looked up, Alex was standing across the operations floor, watching you.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

His disapproval was written in every taut line of his body. Your carefully built trust with him now broken into fragments.

Approval from Spencer had marked you.

And Alex didn’t trust anything that wore Spencer’s attention like a medal.

Over the next week, you were no longer just shadowing ground operations, you were organizing them. Setting schedules. Signing off on manifests. Escorting high-value shipments through the last stages of transfer.

You weren’t at the center of Agnew Holdings. Not yet. But you were in the bloodstream now. Moving through the arteries of a machine built on steel and blood and secrets.

And it was working.

Marlowe’s encrypted updates came in cautiously optimistic.

You were getting closer. You were gaining trust. You were setting the stage for the bigger moves ahead.

But under the careful victories, something gnawed at the back of your mind.

A slow, quiet awareness.

That every step deeper you moved into Spencer Agnew’s world was a step further away from the version of yourself you still pretended to be.

--------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through your fifth month, everything went sideways.

It should have been routine.

You were shadowing a simple exchange, paperwork, handoffs, signatures, the kind you could almost sleepwalk through by now. Two trucks. Six men. A quiet warehouse by the docks, thick with salt and diesel fumes.

The only strange thing had been Spencer himself.

He insisted on overseeing it personally. No explanation. No warning.

Unusual for him, the man who built distance into an art form.

Still, you played your part. Smiled. Nodded. Blended.

Until you stepped out of the car and realized something was wrong.

It was too quiet.

No seagulls screaming over the water. No radios buzzing from the port authority checkpoint. No distant thrum of trucks or container lifts.

Dead silence.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled just seconds before the first shot shattered the air.

Gunfire ripped down from the rusted catwalks above, sharp and sudden, turning the night into chaos.

Screams.

Scrambling boots on concrete.

The metallic clatter of weapons drawn in panic.

Chaos.

You dropped behind the nearest crate, pulling the gun Alex had insisted you carry. The cold metal bit into the flesh of your hands.

You weren’t supposed to use it, hadn’t even planned on it. You weren’t supposed to even look like you could. Your FBI training would give you away in half a heartbeat.

But then your eyes found Spencer.

He wasn’t ducking. He wasn’t even moving for cover.

He stood in the open, calm, almost... curious. Like he was trying to read the pattern inside the chaos.

You opened your mouth to shout just as you saw it. The glint of a rifle barrel overhead, trained directly on him.

"Spencer!" you yelled, voice cracking through the gunfire.

He turned toward you, just a fraction, just enough.

And you moved without thinking.

The gun rose.

Your hand was steady even though your heart wasn’t.

One shot.

The man on the catwalk jerked backward, arms flailing like a broken marionette, before he fell in a sickening echo of boots and steel.

For one suspended second, the world held its breath.

Spencer’s eyes locked onto yours, not in shock, not in anger.

In recognition.

Spencer looked at you. Really looked at you.

Something electric and terrible passed between you.

And then someone yanked him back toward cover, and the world exploded again.

More shots. More shouting. You ran, heart hammering, the metallic taste of adrenaline burning your throat.

You survived. You all survived.

The clean-up took hours.

The shooters were hired freelancers, dead ends. No fingerprints, no ties, no convenient stories. The docks were re-secured. The shipment was intact, whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

You sat on the edge of a battered shipping crate outside the warehouse, the night air cool against your sweat-soaked skin.

Your hand was still trembling.

Not from fear. From something worse.

From the memory of Spencer’s eyes when he realized what you had done.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself it was instinct.

You told yourself it was to preserve your cover.

You lied.

He found you there, sometime past three in the morning.

Spencer emerged from the warehouse like a ghost. His shirt bloodstained, sleeves pushed back, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat. None of the blood was his.

He moved differently now. Looser. Rougher around the edges. The king’s crown was crooked.

His armor had cracks. Maybe you had put them there.

He crossed the cracked concrete without a word and stopped in front of you. You didn’t look up immediately. You didn’t trust yourself to.

"You saved my life," he said quietly.

You exhaled a shaky breath and forced your gaze upward.

Spencer’s face was shadowed, half-lit by the distant floodlights. He looked at you like he was seeing something new, something he hadn’t known to look for until now.

"I thought you didn’t trust new people," you said, voice soft and hoarse.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"I don’t," he said.

He crouched in front of you, folding himself into your space without hesitation, without asking.

"But maybe I should."

His hand brushed against yours, not quite taking it, not quite letting it go.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

It was a simple touch. It should have been meaningless.

But it wasn’t.

You could feel it, the possibility coiled between your skin and his, warm and treacherous.

Spencer searched your face like he was hunting for the real answer beneath all the careful lies.

"Why’d you do it?" he asked.

Your throat tightened.

For a second, just a second, you almost told the truth.

Because you didn’t want to see him fall. Because you didn’t want to lose the way he looked at you. Because some reckless, traitorous part of you didn’t want to be his enemy anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just met his eyes, steady, practiced, and let the lie sit heavy between you.

For the mission. For your cover. For survival.

But you couldn’t tell Spencer any of it. Of the truth or the lies.

You took a deep breath, letting the corner of your mouth tug into a wry, careless smile. Your own armor.

"Can’t afford to lose the most lucrative job I’ve had in a while," you said lightly, voice dry.

A joke. A shield. A plausible excuse.

Spencer didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you, long enough and deep enough that the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding twisted painfully inside your chest.

He knew.

He knew you were lying.

But he didn’t call you on it. He just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and stood.

The moment between you snapped like a brittle thread pulled too tight. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the warehouse. His footsteps fading, swallowed up by the stillness of the night.

You sat there alone, frozen for a moment longer. Your body thrumming with the aftershocks of adrenaline, denial, and something far more dangerous humming just beneath your skin. Your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

Then a faint shift in the air. The subtle scrape of a boot on concrete.

You looked up.

Alex stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in the dim light spilling from the floodlights outside. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

But his eyes- Sharp. Cold. Alive with something simmering just beneath the surface.

He had been watching.

For how long, you didn’t know. Long enough. Long enough to see too much.

You straightened slowly, slipping the gun you had used back into the hidden holster inside your jacket. Every movement careful. Measured. Controlled.

Alex didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched you with that same ruthless precision, like a man weighing whether to pull the trigger or wait for a cleaner shot.

"You were sloppy," he said finally, voice low and flat.

You let out a breath you hoped sounded steadier than you felt.

"No one else noticed," you said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.

"He did."

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement of fact.

You said nothing.

Alex pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you in three slow steps.

He didn’t get in your face. He didn’t have to. His presence alone pressed down like a weight.

"You’re here to do a job," Alex said quietly. "Not catch bullets for him."

"I was protecting the shipment," you said, evenly. Another lie to add to your long list. But it was not as clean as you wanted it to be. Not clean enough for Alex.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. "Maybe you’ll even believe it."

The words landed like a bullet between your eyes. Fast, deep, deliberate.

You lifted your chin, refusing to flinch.

"Is that a warning?" you asked.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

And then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the shadows with the same silent efficiency he'd arrived with. Leaving you alone with the gun at your hip, the blood on your hands, and the gnawing certainty that it wasn’t just the mission slipping out of your control anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist

[onlytiktoks]

https://www.washingtonpost.com/national-security/2025/04/30/fbi-kneeling-photo-demoted/

[brinconvenient]

Thanks for the advice, Mr FB of I! That's the same thing my very good friend the Nigerian prince told me, too, so our MUST be true!

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

A prominent computer scientist who has spent 20 years publishing academic papers on cryptography, privacy, and cybersecurity has gone incommunicado, had his professor profile, email account, and phone number removed by his employer, Indiana University, and had his homes raided by the FBI. No one knows why. ... Fellow researchers took to social media over the weekend to register their concern over the series of events. "None of this is in any way normal," Matthew Green, a professor specializing in cryptography at Johns Hopkins University, wrote on Mastodon. He continued: "Has anyone been in contact? I hear he’s been missing for two weeks and his students can’t reach him. How does this not get noticed for two weeks???" In the same thread, Matt Blaze, a McDevitt professor of computer science and law at Georgetown University, said: "It's hard to imagine what reason there could be for the university to scrub its website as if he never worked there. And while there's a process for removing tenured faculty, it takes more than an afternoon to do it."

[mysharona1987]

So SCOTUS has just given Joe Biden the funniest way to end this election, ever.

[theonion]

Noting that millions have already fallen victim to the long-running grift, the FBI warned Monday of the ‘American Dream’ scam. “Reports are coming in all across the country of Americans who were promised great prosperity and success in exchange for a lifetime of hard work, only to find themselves swindled and left with virtually nothing,” said agent Dean Winthrop, who explained that susceptible parties are made to believe that class mobility is possible simply through ability or achievement, despite the fact that innumerable social, economic, and racial barriers prevent the vast majority of U.S. citizens from attaining even marginal amounts of upward movement.

Full Story

[republicansaredomesticterrorists]

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

[politijohn]

Source

[ketsueki-k]

Thomas Gibson aka Hotch's selfies were so random LMAO

[simply-ivanka]

[medusadyer]

🚀Physics Magic?🚀

[reality-detective]

Is this 👆 really what’s going on? 🤔

[dosesofcommonsense]

So, they’re going after the agents at the FBI who took up the call to weaponize the branch to cover the fraud and target opponents. That’s 5,000 of the 13,000 agents, or 38% of their workforce.

Now, every CIA employee is being offered a buyout.

Meaning, the CIA is the nucleus and not redeemable compared to the FBI. The FBI will get gutted. The CIA needs to go. Maybe both will be combined into something new and better.