potatipejr

[potatipejr]

Hi!! Can you pls do a Spencer x fem reader where she just started working at Smosh and is new to LA and it is love at first sight for him!! PLEASE and thank you!!☺️

Thank you for the request! I had a lotta fun writing this, maybe it’s a bit different then you expected. I had him struggle, i can't date her kinda vibe… but everyone in that office is dating each other anyways lol. Hope you liked it!! Thanks for waiting :))

Here's the link: Get it Together, Spence!

[potatipejr]

Get it Together, Spence!

Spencer Agnew x f!Reader Summary: An ordinary day in the office turns into a frenzy when Spencer terrifyingly realizes that he’s already falling for the newest member of the team. Word count: 3.1k A/N: Request! The poor guy never stood a chance.

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It was supposed to be like any Wednesday. Spencer wasn’t expecting anything. Not anything life-changing, anyway. He thought the highlight of today might have been stealing the last blueberry donut from the kitchen or convincing Brennan to let him use the good camera for something stupid. Normal stuff. Predictable stuff.

At first, it was nothing more than the sound of new footsteps in the hallway. There was a different rhythm—tentative, lighter than the others he knew by heart. He looked up to search for the outlier, expecting a delivery guy or maybe a new intern. Instead, it was you.

For half a second, Spencer forgot how to move.

You were… you. Just a girl standing there, clutching her bag like a life raft, eyes flicking nervously from wall to wall as if the building itself might swallow you whole. You looked like every person who’d ever been new, trying too hard to seem smaller than you were. But to him, you filled the entire room.

It hit him low in the stomach, sharp and certain—Oh.

Spencer had always thought that “love at first sight” was something people exaggerated for movies, some shortcut to skip the messy middle. But all of a sudden, he understood it with painful clarity. Because he was standing there, watching you breathe in this strange new place, and his body reacted like it had been waiting. Like he’d been holding out, half-empty, and now finally the other half had walked through the door.

You caught him staring as you glanced up. He smiled automatically, heart lurching into his throat. He knew he should say something casual, something welcoming but not weird, but all the words bottlenecked at once.

“Hi,” he blurted out. Too fast, too eager. He tried again, softer. “Hey. You must be the new girl.”

Relief flickered across your face. “Yeah. First day.”

He held out his hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. “Spencer. Director of Smosh Games. Pretty sure my actual title is ‘liability,’ but they keep me around anyway.”

His name lingered on your tongue, repeated softly, a small smile on her lips. It was more like a smirk, maybe even a bit playful. Your lips were plump, a gentle sheen of lip gloss on them, or maybe it was just lip balm. He couldn’t tell whether the shade of pink was your own or from pigment, but whatever it was, it made your lips look soft and gentle. They had a nice shape to them, the richness of the hue of pink accentuating their fullness–

Hello? Focus.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, his lungs feeling weak as he sucked in a small breath to get his brain going again.

You gave him a short, genuine laugh, and it smacked all the air out of his lungs again. Spencer felt the ridiculous urge to memorize it. Already, his brain was storing this moment away: the sound, the glow at the corner of your lips, the nervous adjustment of your feet to try to hide your nervousness even though this place could overwhelm anyone.

He realized, belatedly, that he was still holding your hand. “Come on,” he said quickly, releasing it before he scared you off. “Let me give you the tour.”

He gave you a quick smile, his mind hastily trying to memorize every single detail on your face to have more material for his daydreams. 

You smiled back at him, just a sliver of your teeth peeking from behind your lips. You were so beautiful—he felt his heart clench as you looked back at him, noticing his body lean closer to you on its own, as if drawn in by your presence. He leaned away immediately.

Oh I’m in so much trouble.

“This is the writers’ room,” he said, gesturing like a game show host. “Our sacred temple of half-baked ideas. No one’s allowed to erase the whiteboard unless they want to live with permanent shame.”

Your eyes scanned the chaotic scribbles as he bit back the urge to explain every inside joke on the walls.

He kept talking, stretching trivia across the silence like a flimsy shield against the thud of his own heartbeat. Every time you glanced his way, the air went thin around his heart. He stole looks when you weren’t watching: the furrow of your brow as you took everything in, the way you weren’t performing, not trying to impress, just being. And somehow that undid him more than anything else.

“And over here’s editing,” he continued, guiding you down another hallway. “The quiet zone. It looks calm, but don’t be fooled—everyone’s one corrupted file away from a breakdown.”

You tilted your head, fighting a grin. “You say that like you’re speaking from experience.”

Spencer pressed a hand to his chest in mock seriousness. “I’ve seen things. Whole timelines lost. Projects unsaved. It changes a man.”

Your amusement spilled free. Warmth sparked through him at the sound. Not just at the sound itself, but at how quickly you’d slipped into teasing him back, like you’d already decided he was safe to spar with.

Finally, he pushed open the studio doors. “And this is where the magic happens, where we sweat under too many lights and pray props don’t fall apart mid-take.”

You stepped inside, your face softening as you looked around. The lights overhead, the painted backdrops, the clutter of costumes and props— it was all familiar to him, but through your eyes, he saw it differently. 

“Wow,” you murmured.

“You’ll fit right in,” he said softly, meaning it with every nerve in his body.

You smiled, light and easy, and started toward the exit. Spencer followed a beat behind, hands shoved into his pockets, the buzz of your hand brushing his still lingering under his skin.

You smiled over your shoulder, and then you were gone—swept up in the noise of everyone welcoming you.

The studio emptied. The lights dimmed. The day moved on.

And Spencer told himself: I’m fine.

She was new. That was it. New to Smosh, new to the chaos of the office, new to LA. Of course she stood out. Everyone was making a big deal about her because that’s what they did when someone new joined— Shayne clowning too loudly, Amanda bringing up the “official welcome beverage,” Angela pretending it was an audition for a Broadway musical. Spencer had been through this cycle before. He should’ve been immune to it by now.

And yet... his eyes kept darting back, like there was a magnet behind his skull tugging them toward you.

This is literally day one. She doesn’t need me hovering. Play it cool, dude. 

He folded his arms, leaned against the wall like he had better things to do, like he wasn’t listening to every single word that came out of your mouth. He was good at it. Hovering on the edges of conversation, throwing in a sarcastic line here and there, then ducking out before anyone could pin him down. A casual background character. He also told himself it was background admiration, of your talent, confidence, humour. Nothing personal. 

So when he finally opened his mouth, he aimed for a standard Spencer one-liner. Dry, slightly weird, the kind of thing that usually earned him a pity chuckle before he retreated.

Your head tipped back, eyes crinkling as the sound burst out of you, too sharp and bright to be just polite. And that was when it landed in him, loud and insistent, right beneath his breastbone.

Oh. No. No, no, no.

It wasn't supposed to feel like that. Not jagged, not dizzying, not like a single moment had tilted his whole world off-balance. Not like every detail outside of you blurred until nothing else even registered.

The others carried on, Chanse doing a bad Angela impression, Courtney talking schedules, but Spencer stood frozen mid-smirk, drowning in the sound of you.

Pull it back. She’s new, she’s new, she’s new.

He grabbed his water bottle off the table, took a too-big gulp, and nearly choked on it just to have something to do. But when he looked back at you, you were still smiling at him. Your grin left an echo, something warm had lodged into his bones, impossible to shake.

And God help him, the urge to hoard it like contraband flared inside him. He wanted to say something else, anything else, just to see if he could pull that sound out of you again.

This might be bad. This was actually really bad.

This wasn’t safe. It wasn’t admiration. It was a spark catching on kindling he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

On the outside, Spencer stood casually against the wall, half-grinning like always. Inside, he was unraveling. He tried to convince himself it was the disruption of someone new, that tomorrow you’d just be another coworker, another voice in the background.

But deep down, he knew better.

And his plan worked for about three hours, until lunchtime arrived.

The office always got a little chaotic when food appeared. Half the group huddled around the kitchen counter like it was a feast, others sprawled on couches with laptops balanced on their knees, someone inevitably wandering off to find hot sauce in a desk drawer. He’d just settled into his usual corner of the couch, quietly demolishing his sandwich while the room buzzed around him.

You walked in, plate in hand, scanning the room for a spot. The universe, in its infinite cruelty, guided your gaze directly to him. The cushion dipped under your weight, and suddenly Spencer’s entire nervous system went on high alert.

She just needed a seat. Don’t make it a thing.

You turned, easy and bright, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve been here the longest, right? Well, at least one of the longest so I've heard.”

Spencer blinked. “Uh… yeah, I guess.”

“Then you’re the person I should bug about any Smosh lore. Unless you don’t want to be bugged.”

His first instinct was to deflect, to mumble something noncommittal and keep the distance he’d sworn to himself he’d maintain. Instead, his mouth betrayed him.

“Oh, no, I’m the perfect person to bug,” he said, words tumbling out faster than his brain could catch them. “I have, like, a thousand useless facts about this place. Like, did you know—”

And off he went.

About how the office used to have this one weird wall painted neon green for sketches that never saw the light of day. About how there was once a cursed bean bag nobody would sit on because an ex-employee had sex on it years ago. About the time a shoot ran three hours late because a giant rat had infiltrated the office.

Spencer noticed your eyes spark, and it feels like the floor shifted under him. He found himself gesturing more than usual, lowering his voice as if letting you in on forbidden secrets, even though everyone in the room knew these stories.

He was supposed to be casual. Professional. Distant. Instead, he was a runaway train.

And with every look, he felt himself sinking deeper. Spencer knew that his resolution was already dust. Because there was no distance in this. There was only the magnetic pull of your attention, the way it lit him up from the inside. He wanted to keep talking, to keep making you laugh, to keep earning those small smiles that felt like they were meant for him alone.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the rational voice was still yelling: You said you wouldn’t do this. Stop it.

But his heart wasn’t listening.

Not when you tilted your head, eyes bright, and said, “Okay, but you’ve gotta tell me about your favorite Smosh sketch you’ve ever done.”

Not when he caught himself smiling so wide it made his cheeks hurt.

Not when he realized that, against all better judgment, he didn’t want to stop.

By late afternoon, the office had slipped into that strange limbo where everyone was half-working, half-loitering, and all of them were running on too much caffeine. There were wires snaking across the floor, camera batteries charging in a tangle, and someone had left a half-eaten bag of pretzels on the kitchen counter that nobody wanted to claim but everyone kept eating.

Spencer was pretending to scroll through emails, though he hadn’t absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes. His brain was too loud. Every time he caught himself glancing in your direction, he had to mentally slap his own hand. Stop staring. Be normal. Normal coworkers don’t… gaze.

You were tucked into the corner of the break room, phone in hand, thumb scrolling too fast to actually be reading. You had that flat, distant look of someone trying to tether themselves to something familiar.

The shift inside his body, like someone had pressed a fingerprint on his lungs was instant. He shifted in his chair.

Don’t. Do not go over there.

But then you sighed, barely audible, and muttered under your breath what seemed to be out of habit: “I just… hope I don’t screw this up. Everyone’s so… fast. And funny. I’m not—I don’t know if I can keep up.”

Something happened.

He didn’t even realize he was standing until he was halfway across the room. Abort, abort, the rational part of his brain screamed, but the words were already on his tongue.

“You already fit in,” he blurted.

You blinked up at him, startled. “What?”

Too late. He had to commit now. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly hovering beside your chair. “I mean… they’re a lot. Like, too much even. But they’re gonna love you. Honestly, they probably already do.”

Three seconds of silence. Longest three seconds of his life.

Then you smiled. Small at first, like it snuck up on you, then wider, softer, and directed at him. 

You practically beamed at him.

Spencer felt it like a physical impact; hook, line, and sinker. 

He’s done for.

He scrambled for something else to say, something to lighten the weight of what had just slipped out. “I mean, don’t tell them I said that. They’ll never let me live it down. Tommy will write a whole sketch about it. Chanse will, like, choreograph a musical number.”

There was no coming back from this— this image of you looking at him like he wasn’t just some awkward guy in the corner, like he’d made you feel a little less alone.

He sat down before his legs betrayed him, pulling out the chair across from you. “Also if you ever need, like, a translator for… whatever the hell we’re doing at any given time, I can help. Been here long enough to speak fluent Smosh.”

“Fluent Smosh?” you repeated, amused.

He nodded solemnly, keeping a straight face only by sheer willpower. “Yeah. It’s mostly inside jokes and yelling. Sometimes there’s snacks involved too.”

That earned him another laugh, and he swore his ribcage wasn’t built to hold this much.

For a while, you just sat there, scrolling a little slower now, trading small comments back and forth. He didn’t press, didn’t ask why you’d looked overwhelmed, didn’t pry. He just stayed close enough to make sure you weren’t alone in it.

And maybe that was the moment— the quiet shift he’d never be able to undo. Because he wasn’t supposed to care this much. Not on day one. Not before you’d even found your footing. Spencer had thought he knew himself, knew how carefully he kept those lines drawn, how tightly he held the boundaries in place. But here he was, already rearranging his sense of gravity because of one person.

The building had wound down into its usual hum—footsteps fading, laughter echoing down the hall, someone still arguing about whether hot dogs counted as sandwiches. But Spencer felt detached from it, like everything around him had dimmed except the noise inside his own head.

He sat at his desk, staring into a cup of cold coffee he didn’t remember pouring, replaying every second of this day as though there might be some glitch, some point where he could rewind and stop this from happening.

Six hours. That’s all it had taken. Six, and his heart already felt rewritten.

He tried to rationalize it. He’d known people longer than this—months, years—without ever feeling anything close. You probably didn’t even know where the good bathroom was yet. And yet…

His mind had betrayed him. He’d already built entire futures in his head.

He could see it too vividly: you laughing in the kitchen while someone made terrible instant ramen, you scribbling notes during brainstorms, you slipping into bits mid-shoot like you’d been there for years. He imagined coming home and finding your jacket draped over his chair, your name showing up on the group chat like it had always belonged there. He imagined— God help him— the sound of you saying Agnew like it was yours, too.

It wasn’t just attraction. Not some casual oh, she’s cute. This was bone-deep. Like the universe had tapped him on the shoulder and said, hey, pay attention, this one is the one.

And Spencer hated it.

Not you. God, not you. But the timing. The impossibility. The speed of it, sharp as a trap. Love at first sight had always sounded like a lazy cliché to him— until now, when it felt less like a shortcut and more like an ambush.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, groaning under his breath. This was insane. He’d known people longer than you’d been in the building today and felt absolutely nothing. And now—what? He was ready to change his entire personality because you’d smiled at him across the table?

“Cool,” he muttered into the empty office, voice dripping sarcasm. “Totally cool. The girl says hi and you’re picturing her name on your mailbox. Very appropriate.”

The thought made his pulse stutter in a way that wasn’t funny at all. Because under the panic, under the disbelief, there was something terrifying in its clarity.

He wanted this. Too much, too soon, but real all the same.

He thought about how your eyes had crinkled when you laughed at his dumb joke earlier, how you’d leaned in like you actually wanted to hear what he had to say. He thought about how soft your smile had been when he’d blurted out you'd fit in.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, laughter slipping out sharp and bitter, like it had nowhere else to go. Then he dragged his hands down his face as he began to admit something he didn’t want to.

The truth had landed, brutal in its simplicity: he was already in love with you.

The admission hung in the empty room, weighty and inescapable.

Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted his name, dragging him back into the noise of the office. He stood still for a moment, reigning in his mind, drawing breaths through his nose like a man composing himself before war. Because this was war— against himself, against the electric hum you ignited in him without ever trying.

And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that no amount of logic was going to save him from this.

He hadn’t planned for love today. 

But the second he saw you, it was over.

[potatipejr]

Two very specific types of men that I like

i'll die for you spencer

[potatipejr]

I just accidentally deleted a 3k story for a request, brb gonna cry. I’m sorry whoever requested the new smosh employee story, it’s gonna take a lil longer😭😭😭😭

[potatipejr]

You Sleep Like A Log

Spencer Agnew x Reader Summary: Spencer is concerned about his new dating partner’s sleeping habits. Word count: 1.3k A/N:I just wrote this on my phone in the train at 2am, trying not to fall asleep enjoy <3

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Honestly, Spencer is more than mildly concerned about it. More than once now he has paused in the middle of something, like closing a door too loudly, accidentally knocking over a book, just to see if you’d stir. Nothing. Not even a twitch. He’s convinced he could scream bloody murder and you’d keep dreaming, blissfully unaware. He finds it both impressive and a little alarming.

It’s not that you’re still when you sleep— far from it. You move constantly, like a cat curled up in sunlight, twitching through dreams only you can see. One foot will slip free from the covers, then retreat again. A knee will shift, then roll back. Your hands bunch into fists near your collarbone, sometimes reaching out blindly, as if chasing something just out of reach. It’s peaceful in the way storms are peaceful when you’re watching them from indoors: soft chaos. But nothing, absolutely nothing, will wake you up.

He’s puzzled, truly, by how you manage to get up in the morning. There’s no way an alarm is responsible. Maybe it’s some deeply attuned internal clock—some unconscious instinct honed over years of morning routines. Or maybe, Spencer thinks, he simply hasn’t been around long enough to witness the miracle that is you waking up.

Even though he has seen you asleep a handful of times now, you always ask him to wait for you to fall asleep and he always obliges. Tonight, however, he lies next to you for the second time ever, still trying to get used to the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone he likes without all the rules and expectations that usually crowd the space. He doesn’t know how to be here yet. So he doesn’t touch, not at first. He keeps a careful distance; his body a foot from yours, hands clasped at his chest like he’s bracing for impact. But his eyes never leave you.

He watches the way your eyelashes flutter faintly, the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the little sighs that escape when you shift. It makes something ache in him.

He reaches out, finally, to touch your cheek with the backs of his fingers, ever so light, it’s almost not a touch at all. Just a confirmation that you’re real. That this isn’t another one of his imagined futures.

Then you do something that knocks him of balance.

You mumble something unintelligible— his name, he imagines— and stretch out your arm toward him, searching, tugging gently at the space between you. “You’re so weird,” you whisper through sleep, barely forming the words. “So stiff. Just come here.”

And that’s when it happens. The quiet collapse of all his practiced restraint.

He doesn’t move right away, but something in him shifts. Spencer feels it like gravity pulling him closer to something he never quite thought he deserved. A kind of permission. A silent trust. You want him close, even like this. Especially like this.

Still, sleep does not find him for hours.

Spencer remains quiet, staring at the ceiling like it might hold answers for the maddening, tender, beautiful woman beside him.

He stays awake, listening to your breath, watching the way your nose scrunches every so often, memorizing the rhythm of your dreams. His body doesn’t know what to do with this kind of stillness, this kind of warmth that isn’t transactional or loaded with expectation. He is a guest in this moment. He’s invited, but still unsure of how to make himself at home.

He doesn’t hold you like a lover, not yet. He hasn’t quite learned the choreography of shared sleep, of hands resting and hearts slowing together. But he takes small steps into it. Quiet steps. Reverent ones.

And when the night has softened around the edges and the early hours begin to creep in, he finally allows himself in his indulgences. He slides closer, gathering you gently into his arms. He’s almost afraid to breathe too loud. His arms move, one snaking beneath you and the other coming to pull you closer until you are slotted in against his body. As close as he could be. Your head buried in his neck against the mattress and his was above yours, lifted by the pillow. You are completely and utterly encompassed in him. He breathes in your scent. The cleanliness of you. The smell of soap and body wash. He smells the faint scent of lavender in your hair, the clean cotton of your pajamas. 

He presses his cheek against the crown of your head and lets himself feel the terrifying weight of closeness. The simplicity of holding someone not because you have to, but because you can.

He doesn’t think about what it means. Not yet. Not now.

He just closes his eyes and lets the warmth of you settle into him like something permanent.

“Goodnight, my darling.”

x

The morning sun dances off her skin like that had been its sole purpose in traveling down from the sky. Like after billions of years of burning through space, the sun had made a private arrangement just to spill gold across your shoulder, your cheek, the line of your collarbone still tangled in a mess of cotton sheets.

The sheer white curtains of her bedroom did little to block out the light. Instead, they filtered it gently, turning it to warmth. The fabric swayed slightly in the breeze from a cracked-open window, the smell of dew and a hint of early jasmine drifting through.

The light is soft, curious. It likes the couple. It finds them pretty.

It paints different shapes across their faces— scattered beams breaking apart over eyebrows, stretching lazily across closed eyelids and the curve of a jaw. It toys with them gently, brushing over skin and warming their blankets, nudging shoulders and cheeks like a cat asking to be noticed.

But the couple doesn't seem to like it very much.

They do not wake slowly and romantically like in the movies. They flinch.

You groan first, muttering something about “the stupid sun” as you bury your face deeper into the pillow, dragging the sheet up to your forehead in protest. Your hair lays across the pillowcase, some strands stuck to your cheek from how deep you have been sleeping. You smell like sleep and lavender, and something sweet he can’t name.

Beside her, Spencer shifts with a low, disgruntled noise, cracking one eye open only to squint hard against the gold light pouring in.

“Is it morning?” he rasps, voice rough with sleep and disapproval.

You don’t answer him with words. Instead, your arm flops out blindly, locating his chest with the grace of a sleepwalker. You press your hand flat against him and sigh contently, like the effort of reaching him had been monumental but worth it.

“Why is it always morning?” you mumble into the pillow. “Every day. Just relentlessly.”

Spencer grins against the crook of his elbow, eyes still barely open. “Time tends to do that. It’s rude.”

You hum in agreement, your hand now absentmindedly rubbing at his chest. He catches it, lacing your fingers together without thinking about it. It’s the kind of gesture that will become second nature, soft and thoughtless in the best way.

The light catches his eyes as he turns toward you. They crinkle at the corners, still sleepy, but warm. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, defying gravity on the other. His t-shirt is twisted and hanging off one shoulder, and the sheet is tangled around his hips like it tried to hold him hostage and failed.

You peek up at him finally, one eye squinting. “You look dumb.”

He murmurs, “So do you.”

“Good,” you whisper, shifting closer. “Match made in morning hell then.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. The sunlight seems to approve, growing brighter, spilling across both of you like it’s trying to capture this exact moment. A blessing disguised as an interruption. Maybe the sun wasn’t the enemy, after all. It just wanted to be part of the story.

[potatipejr]

Life update if anyone cares: I found a job! And I'm starting school again soon so this is a little heads up for my passive activity, but i don't think i'm that active anyway so its fine. I've written so much this summer, I have a 30k google doc filled with bits and bobs, random scenarios and halve assed stories, and I fear I might be using the same phrases etc so I apologise for that lol

ALSO fuck it i'm writing an Angela Giarratana fic bc I like her :)

[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 !!

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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.