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heavenlybodies333 · 2 months ago

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No Body, No Crime -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You weren't spoiled. You were just… strategic.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Because if your dad—Aaron Hotchner, SSA and reigning king of emotional repression—was going to bury himself in work and try to parent you like you were one of his agents, then he didn’t get to be surprised when you played the game better than he did. You didn’t ask for much. Just little things.

Like getting to “shadow” him at the BAU during your gap semester. Like choosing Quantico over Georgetown for undergrad because it kept you closer. Like getting him to increase your credit card limit when you maxed out the card. Or convincing him to overlook the tiny infraction of “borrowing” his SUV for a weekend road trip with friends.

You knew exactly how to tilt your head, how to time a tear, how to nudge just enough guilt into your smile that your dad would cave—every time. You weren’t evil. You weren’t even selfish. You were just surviving. Managing the rules of your world. And it wasn’t your fault he adored you too much to see the game for what it was.

But the one person who never seemed to fall for your act?

Dr. Spencer fucking Reid.

He always saw right through you, sharp eyes flicking up from some obscure case file or book you couldn’t pronounce, narrowed in suspicion like he was mentally cataloging your every sin. Which, knowing him, he probably was.

You noticed it the first time you visited the BAU after college started—your dad had you shadowing agents over the summer like it was some kind of behavioral bootcamp, as if watching grown men argue over blood spatter was going to build your character.

You tossed him a saccharine smile. “Hi, Spencie.”

His eyes narrowed at the nickname. “What do you want?”

“Relax.” You took a slow sip of your coffee. “Can’t I just come say hi to my dad?”

“Sure,” Spencer muttered, turning back to his paperwork. “After you manipulate him into giving you whatever you want.”

You blinked, still smiling—but your jaw tensed beneath it. There it was. You stepped closer, heels clicking deliberately against the floor. “Excuse me?”

"Shouldn’t you be at Georgetown?" he said, deadpan. "Or did you drop out to ruin your father's life full-time now?"

"Oh, Spence," you said sweetly. “Love the hostility. You been working on that in therapy?”

He exhaled slowly, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t let himself. “I just don’t get what you’re doing here.”

“I’m taking Dad to lunch,” you said innocently, ignoring how his jaw flexed. “Thought I’d cheer him up. He’s been tense lately.”

Spencer’s eyes were sharp. "Tense because he's dealing with cartel-level stress and also trying to keep you from wrecking yourself."

You stepped closer, tilting your head, faux-thoughtful. “You always get this mean when you’re jealous?”

“You know,” he said, folding his hands on the desk like he was about to read you your psychological profile, “most narcissists hide their manipulation better. But I guess you wouldn’t need to when your dad’s too busy trying to keep you from falling apart.”

He pushed. Of course he did. He had to. It was how he coped—with rules, with logic, with little glass jabs that he didn’t even know were personal until you cracked him wide open with a look.

“Maybe if you stopped playing the victim in your own fantasy,” he snapped, “you’d actually see that you’re hurting him.”

That one stung.

So you stepped closer, toe to toe, until your perfume hit his senses and he realized too late you weren’t backing down. Your voice dropped. “And maybe if you pulled your head out of your Harvard-educated ass, you’d realize not everyone had a dad to hero worship growing up. Some of us had to learn to survive by being clever.”

His breath hitched. You were so close.

“Now if you’re done psychoanalyzing me for sport,” you whispered, “I have files to copy. And a lunch to guilt out of my father. So kindly, fuck off.”

But Spencer didn’t fuck off. Not ever.

You turned on your heel, hips swinging with righteous satisfaction, fully expecting Spencer to do what he always did: grit his teeth, stew in silence, and pretend he wasn’t dying to argue with you.

But not today. Spencer followed you—faster than expected, footfalls hot behind you—and grabbed your arm just as you stepped into the copier room. The door clicked shut behind you like it had been waiting for a showdown.

You spun, voice sharp. “Touch me again like that and I’ll scream HR.”

He scoffed. “That’d be rich, considering you’ve probably got them all under your spell too.”

“Oh, right,” you snapped. “God forbid someone actually likes me.”

Spencer’s eyes were wild now—glinting, furious. “This isn’t about being liked. This is about watching you twist the knife every time your dad tries to connect with you.”

You folded your arms. “Is that what this is? Some weird Freudian thing where you can’t stand me because I have the relationship with him you always wanted?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smiled like it didn’t sting. “Don’t project, Spencie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” You leaned in close, almost smug. “You hate it?”

You were standing close enough to Spencer that you could see the gold flecks in his eyes, close enough that your voice was barely above a whisper when you hissed:

"You know what your problem is, Spencer? You're so desperate to be the smartest person in the room that you can't stand when someone else plays the game better than you. So why don't you take your three degrees and your superiority complex and shove them up your—"

"What's going on in here?" Your blood turned to ice. That voice. That tone. The one your dad used when he walked into interrogation rooms and needed immediate answers.

You spun around, and there he was. Aaron Hotchner, standing in the doorway with case files in his hand and an expression that made your stomach drop to your shoes. His eyes moved between you and Spencer—taking in the proximity, the tension, the way Spencer looked like he'd been slapped.

"Dad—" you started, but he held up one hand.

"I asked what's going on." His voice was deadly quiet. "And I'd like an answer."

Spencer cleared his throat. "We were just—"

"I wasn't talking to you, Reid." Hotch's gaze never left your face. "I was talking to my daughter, who I'm hoping can explain why she just told a federal agent to shove his degrees up his ass."

Your cheeks burned. "You didn't hear the whole—"

"What did you just say?"

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish. "I didn't—that's not—"

"You didn't what?" Hotch stepped into the small room, and suddenly the space felt suffocating. "You didn't just curse at Dr. Reid? You didn't just tell him to shove his education somewhere anatomically impossible?"

Spencer had pressed himself against the copier, looking like he wanted to disappear into the machine itself.

"Dad, you don't understand," you said, hating how young you sounded. "He was being—"

"I don't care what he was being." Hotch's expression was stone-cold professional now, the same look he gave suspects who tried to lie their way out of evidence. "What I care about is the language that just came out of my daughter's mouth."

You tried a different approach, the one that usually worked. Eyes wide, voice small. "Daddy, it wasn't what it sounded like—"

"Don't." The single word cut through the air like a blade. "Don't you dare try that with me right now."

Your stomach dropped. He'd never spoken to you like that before. Never looked at you like that—like he was seeing a stranger wearing his daughter's face.

"Apologize," he said quietly. "Right now."

"But he—"

"Right. Now."

The authority in his voice made you flinch. This wasn't your dad who let you get away with borrowed cars and extended curfews. This was SSA Aaron Hotchner, and he was not playing games.

You turned to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "Spencer, I—" Your voice caught. "I'm sorry. What I said was... it was uncalled for and rude. And you didn't deserve it."

Spencer nodded quickly, clearly uncomfortable. "It's fine—"

"No," Hotch interrupted, his voice still that terrible, unfamiliar cold. "It's not fine." He looked at you, and the disappointment in his eyes made your chest ache. "I have never—not once—seen this kind of behavior from you. The language, the disrespect, the complete lack of professionalism."

Your eyes were starting to burn. "Dad—"

"I'm talking." He stepped closer, and you automatically stepped back until you hit the wall. "I don't know who that was, but it wasn't my daughter. My daughter doesn't speak to people like that. My daughter was raised better than that."

The words hit like physical blows. You could feel tears threatening, but his expression told you they wouldn't help. Not this time.

"I hope," he continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "that I never see that person again. Because if I do, we're going to have a very different conversation about respect and consequences."

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice.

He walked out without another word, leaving the door open behind him and a silence so thick it felt like the air had turned solid. Spencer didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. The copier let out a mechanical sigh, like it too had been holding tension.

You wiped your face before the tears could fully form, dragging your palm across your cheek and hating yourself for letting any of this get under your skin.

Spencer shifted.

You turned on him before he could speak. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

He held up his hands like he was surrendering, but his eyes didn’t lose that look—half apology, half the same sharp scrutiny that started this whole mess.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” he said quietly.

You laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, congratulations then. Mission unaccomplished.”

You were still smoothing down your skirt when your phone buzzed with a message from your dad.

Dad: “Reid needs your help pulling Rhode Island cold case files from storage. Top floor file room is incomplete. Check sublevel 3. Serial code #R-0449 through #R-0510.”

You stared at it for a second. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Spencer peered over your shoulder. His lips twitched. “Cold case hell. Sublevel three.”

You groaned. “That’s like ten miles of asbestos and dust.”

Spencer shrugged, already buttoning his shirt. “Hope you wore comfortable shoes.”

Cold case hell lived up to its name.

You followed Spencer down a staircase with cracked linoleum and flickering fluorescent lights, the walls narrowing like they were intentionally trying to squeeze all the joy from the room. It was ice-cold, the hum of neglected air systems echoing like ghosts. Filing cabinets lined the walls like a maze of bureaucratic tombstones.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Is this where joy goes to die?”

Spencer, already scanning labels, didn’t respond. You took that as a challenge.

The first few shelves were just wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, which was—of course—why you didn’t wait your turn. Every time Spencer found a section he wanted to comb through, you slid in behind him, brushing close, your chest grazing his back or your ass brushing low and deliberate against him as you squeezed by.

The third time you did it, you felt it. He was getting hard.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, eyes gleaming with delight as you bent to “check” a lower shelf, ass pushed back just slightly more than necessary.

Spencer hissed softly behind you. “Could you maybe not—”

“What?” You looked back over your shoulder with mock-innocence. “You’re in the way.”

“It’s a single-person aisle,” he said through gritted teeth. “You could wait.”

“But waiting’s so boring,” you whispered, brushing past him again—and this time you pressed. Hard enough to make him swear under his breath.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, voice wrecked. His hands were gripping a cabinet drawer like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You paused beside him, lips parted like you were about to apologize—but your eyes were anything but sorry. You stepped in closer, chest brushing against his arm, and leaned down low, voice a feather-light whisper against his ear.

“I know.”

He turned to face you, jaw tight, eyes scanning you like he was trying to build an FBI profile just to survive the next five minutes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

You smiled slowly. “Doing what?”

He exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Like he was counting prime numbers in his head. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Why would I pretend, Spencie? You’re clearly enjoying it.”

His eyes dropped—traitorously—to your lips, then lower, to where your shirt had ridden up just enough to flash skin. Then he clenched his jaw and looked away again.

You brushed past him again, this time even slower, your hip grazing the front of his slacks—and there it was: a low, stuttered inhale. You bit your lip to keep from moaning just at the sound of it.

You turned back around with mock concern, fingers lacing behind your back. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, just opened another drawer. His hands were shaking a little.

You let the silence build as you stepped into another tight aisle. Then, just as he turned to join you, you stopped right in front of him, pretending to scan the file tabs with exaggerated care.

He had to halt, nearly colliding into you—and there it was again: the perfect excuse.

You bent forward painfully slow, ass grinding deliberately against the hard line you could feel pressed into the front of his pants.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You pretended not to hear. But when you straightened up again, you didn’t move. You stood there, flush against him, your back pressed to his chest, swaying slightly like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

And his hands—God, his hands—hovered just shy of your hips like he was one second away from giving in.

“You gonna move?” he asked, voice strained.

You turned your head slightly, letting your breath ghost against his cheek. “Are you gonna ask me to?”

“Don’t push me,” he said, barely audible.

You reached back—just enough to brush your fingers over the bulge in his pants like it was an accident.

He flinched.

You turned around slowly, chest pressed to his now, face smug. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were so uncomfortable down here.”

“I swear to God,” he whispered, “you’re fucking playing with me.”

You tilted your head. “You haven’t stopped me.”

You reached for a box just above his head, your body stretching, back arching—fully pressing against him as you rose on tiptoe.

His hands snapped to your waist. Tight. Finally. “Enough.”

You barely had time to gasp before he had you pressed against the shelving unit, cold metal biting into your back as his hands roamed lower, greedy and impatient.

“You really want to do this here?” he rasped against your neck. “Where anyone could walk in?”

“Only if you stop talking.”

He hiked your leg around his hip and you felt the sharp edge of him through his slacks, all that brainpower suddenly laser-focused on ruining you.

“God,” he muttered, “you are so fucking infuriating.”

“And you’re still hard,” you whispered.

His laugh was low and wrecked, right against the shell of your ear. “Of course I am. You’ve been torturing me for the past twenty minutes.”

You grinned, lips grazing his jaw. “You make it too easy.”

Spencer’s grip tightened on your thigh as he rocked his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how not sorry he was.

He kissed you then—finally—mouth crashing against yours in a way that made you forget your own name. His hands tangled in your hair, his body caging yours against the shelf, and God, he kissed so well. All that precision and focus he used at work? It translated perfectly. His tongue was slow, deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding—like he was tasting you, cataloging you, memorizing every reaction.

You whimpered into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

He pulled his hand away just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his slacks down. The second he was free, you reached between you both, fingers curling around him with a sinful smile.

“You always this hard when someone calls you Spencie?” you teased, stroking once—slow.

He bit your shoulder in retaliation, and you moaned at the sting. His hand found its way down your panties as his fingers softly teased you before sliding one through your slick. You moaned as he added a second finger.

“Shh,” he whispered, mouth at your throat, “unless you want your dad to hear.”

That shut you up fast. He curled his fingers inside you like he knew exactly what he was doing—because he did. Years of behavioral profiling, pattern recognition, hyper-observance… all of it was focused on you now. On every stuttered breath, every tremble of your thighs, every twitch of muscle.

“Say please again.”

You whimpered. “Spencer—”

“Say it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please.”

He pulled his fingers out and you didn’t get a chance to look—just feel as he slid in, slow and devastating, one hand braced against the wall above your head, the other gripping your hip like an anchor.

“Oh fuck—” You tried to stay quiet. Failed.

His hand slipped around to cover your mouth as the sound of skin on skin echoed in the hallway.

“If you get us caught,” he whispered into your ear, “I swear I’ll finish and leave you dripping.”

You bit his palm. He fucked you harder pulling your leg higher, adjusting the angle until he hit that perfect spot, and you gasped so sharply he had to press his hand harder to your mouth to muffle it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he gritted out, sweat dotting his temple as he drove into you. “So goddamn tight—been teasing me like this for weeks. Thought you were so clever.”

You moaned into his palm, squeezing around him at the praise and the venom twisted into it.

Spencer chuckled darkly, breathless. “Oh, you like that? That I’m pissed off and still this deep inside you?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling as he hit that spot again and again. You came—hard and fast, clenching around him with a choked cry into his palm. Spencer groaned, buried deep, and followed with a stuttering curse, hips jerking once, twice more before stilling completely.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you moved.

Then Spencer let his hand fall from your mouth and pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, unexpectedly sweet.

“I still hate the nickname,” he muttered.

You snorted, breath catching on the tail end. “Sure, Spencie. Whatever you say.”

Then, slowly, carefully, he withdrew—gently fixing you up, tugging your skirt down with more care than you'd expected from someone who’d just railed you in an FBI basement.

You leaned back against the cabinet, trying to catch your breath, your pulse still skittering wildly.

“So,” you said finally, voice wrecked. “Still think I’m a narcissist?”

Spencer gave you a look that was somewhere between exhausted and exasperated.

“I hate you,” he mutters, zipping his pants with shaky hands and avoiding your victorious smirk.

“You came,” you counter sweetly, hopping off the BAU filing cabinet you’d just been railed against. “Twice, technically. So who really won?”

He gives you a glare that says this is not over —but you’re already smoothing your hair, grabbing the manila folder that started this entire mess.

You hand it to him with a grin. “C’mon, Doctor. Let’s go give Daddy the files.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Don’t say it like that.”

You’re halfway to the stairs when he groans, voice sharp with dread. “You have a hickey.”

You glance over your shoulder, wicked. “You gave it to me.”

And before he can argue, you’re already opening the conference room door.

Hotch doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “You two took a while,” he says flatly, holding out his hand for the file.

You drop it into his palm, unbothered. “We were being thorough.”

Spencer chokes beside you. Hotch flips open the folder. Doesn’t even blink. “I expect better time management in the future.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, voice hoarse. He sounds like he’s about to vomit.

You turn to leave and catch your reflection in the glass wall—lipstick smeared, collar wrinkled, pupils still dilated. You wink at Spencer just as the door shuts behind you.

And that’s when Hotch glances up. “Reid.”

Spencer freezes mid-step. “Sir?”

“You missed a button.”

Spencer swears under his breath. You keep walking.

You weren’t spoiled. You were just… strategic. And damn, it worked every time.

a/n: anytime anywhere baby

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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oldermenfucker · 3 months ago

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Welcome to my corner of filth!

Rue • 20 • she/her • undergrad student • gif maker & fanfic writer

gif blogs -> @michael-robby / @doctorrobbysource / @jackabbotsource

Tracking -> #tuserrue

Ao3 -> oldermenfucker (previously peachysunrize)

most of my fics are fem!reader insert but i'll write character x character as well!! may occasionally contain dark content! beware of the tags!!

Anti shippers are not welcomed<3

Tags so you can find our thots easier: #robby thots / #jack abbot thots / #rabbot thots / #poly!rabbot / #boy dad!jack / girl dad!robby / #john shen thots / girl dad!shen / #dana evans thots

Fics under the cut<3

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐓

𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝙎⬂ ➸ 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭

Beautiful Reflection [2.1k] 18+

Jack shows you what happens when you are mean to the body he worships daily.

Mama’s Boy [2k] 18+

Your son interrupts you and your husband’s “fun” time every time Jack gets his hands on you. Tonight he’s hand enough.

This City Holds My Heart [10.3k] 18+

He hears you are coming back to Pittsburgh for the weekend. Maybe the reunion will wash away the pain that’s left inside him after your paths divided.

➸ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 "𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲" 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

You’re Losing Me [9.8k] 18+

he doesn’t notice how his behavior in The Pitt is making you fall from his arms, until the consequences of his actions catch up with him.

His Good Girl [2.4k] 18+

Request: HE PUTS HIS COCK IN BUT HE DOESNT MOVE AT ALL (even if youre begging) AND WANTS TO GET YOU OFF ON HIS COCK BEFORE HE FUCKS YOU???? you also get so overwhelmed by the way hes stretching you out that you cant control your eyes going cloudy and some salty tears falling down your flush face. but his hands are soothing and cooing at you and just like major praise kink yk? anyways yeah okay love you byyeee (gets shy now) whejsjke xoxo

Daddy’s Girl [3.3k] 18+

You finally manage to send your daughter to a sleepover and get your husband alone after various unsuccessful attempts to get your hands on his body.

Alight With The Sparks [8.4k] 18+

Jack and Samira open a dating account for Robby, and furious Dr. Robinavitch goes to shut down the poor girl they have managed to charm, only for the night to take a turn and change his mind.

A Mistake Worth Repeating [4.3k] 18+

waking up naked next to the day shift attending ensures nothing chaos.

Doctor of The Year [2.3k] 18+

celebrating the night your husband wins the Doctor Of The Year after working so hard to achieve this award. Aka reader rides Robby into oblivion because she is proud of him.

Maldives; The Land of Chaos [7.3k] 18+

you planned this trip a year ago when you had no idea you’ll go to it as exes, especially not after the nasty breakup you experienced.

➸ 𝐑𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭

Three’s a Crowd [4.4k] 18+

Robby meets Jack’s new young girlfriend for the first time and his night takes a turn when the couple invites him back to their place.

𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎/𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙄 𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎⬂

Holding You, Holding Me [ M. Robinavitch x reader ]

your parents’ wedding anniversary brings you and your mom’s friend closer to each other, closer than it should be, but there is no harm if no one finds out, right?

Gunpowder & Lead [ Dark!M. Robinavitch x Gloria’s daughter!reader ]

he met you during a silly work gala he was forced to attend, but soon, you became his leverage over your mother.

𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿𝘾𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙉𝙎⬂

⥃ Robby helping you with your Ocular Migraine during your shift

⥃ Jack's wife/girlfriend has insomnia and just shows up with a plate of cookies or a fully cooked meal in the middle of his shift at least once a week

𝘿𝙍𝘼𝘽𝘽𝙇𝙀𝙎⬂

⥃ Dr. Robby & medical kink

⥃ Robby talking you through it

⥃ Robby helping you with your puppy growing old

⥃ Robby & Abbot with a reader who’s scares of needles

⥃ Robby’s birthday

⥃ Love In The Sand / beach day with Robinavitch family

⥃ riding Robby’s tummy

⥃ Jack Abbot handling your anger

⥃ wiping Robby’s kisses to see his reaction

⥃ Robby spanking you with his belt

⥃ Baby daddy!Robby / p.2

⥃ Dark!Jack Abbot

⥃ professor!Robby

⥃ clockwork prompts

#dr robby #dr robby x reader #jack abbot #michael robinavitch #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #dr robby smut #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt smut #the pitt

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utilitycaster · 4 months ago

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You know, something that never sat quite right with me is the defense of Bells Hells constantly having the same argument as "realistic" not just because "realistic" doesn't mean "compelling to watch"...but also because this isn't actually realistic in like, functional groups.

I was involved in a number of clubs in college and was on the board of several; I am on an alumni board for a university club I was in as an undergrad. I've been in a leadership role in an independent congregation and a member of several political interest groups in adulthood. I've also been an indirect manager (think team lead for a specific project but not the person people report to regularly) in a professional setting - and those are just formalized settings and not just hanging out with friends or smaller group projects.

The idea that it's normal and relatable to have a group of people who just endlessly and repeatedly provide their perspective and argument without any sort of resolution is one of those "wait, you live like this?" moments. During debates, such as for board elections or in one case, a very emotionally heightened decision to eject a member who had been credibly accused of wrongdoing against another, the phrase that got used once everyone had had a chance to talk and address any questions was, essentially, "will further discussion change anyone's mind." Because that is ultimately the purpose of discussion - to make sure everyone has all the information, and to allow everyone an opportunity to speak their piece in the service of ultimately coming to a decision. Discussion about a course of action is not an end point in itself, and there comes a time where you have to say "your feelings are valid but your talking isn't going to change anyone's mind at this point and we need to move forward in some manner."

Romanticizing endless tiresome indecision feels no different to me than romanticizing some other utterly unnecessary behavior like, I don't know, hustle culture. If your friends can't decide on a restaurant for 2 hours (or 2 months) then either do a rotating schedule, decide to meet for coffee/drinks/a bring-your-own-stuff picnic, or if this is food as part of a longer outing, don't be afraid to split up for a small part of it. If you can't decide what to do in a group project, assign a leader or take it to a vote and provide a clear tie-break condition. Flip a coin, if nothing else can be done. But you do not have to live like this; really, it just takes one person to speak up and say "we've been talking in circles for two hours and I'm exhausted; does anyone have new information or a concern that wasn't brought up or is it time to call it?" And your life will be immeasurably better the day you decide to be that person whenever relevant.

#cr tag

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claramelooo · 2 months ago

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CHECKMATE (15/20)

Hey, my boos!

We are getting at the final chapter....I know I know! Actually, I'm trying to write the perfect ending but my routine is so crazy! I'm thinking to stop for few days to organize it, and then, back.

Anyway! I'll let you know, okay?

Enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: angst.

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha finds your behavior strange.

Skewer

noun

a tactic where a more valuable piece (like a king, queen, or rook) is attacked, and when it moves to defend itself, a less valuable piece behind it is exposed and can be captured. It's essentially the opposite of a pin, where the less valuable piece is in front.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee was the same. Strong, bitter, and persistent. Thanos loved making coffee. It was one of his small daily gestures, a ritual that seemed like affection.

“Do you have a meeting today?” He’d ask, still in expensive cotton pajamas, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

“I do, at the Chamber.”

Silence would follow, broken only by the soft clinking of a spoon against a mug.

“Don’t you think you’re getting too involved in all this? Politics is… dirty.”

She pretended not to hear, took a sip. “That’s exactly why.”

Thanos gave her a small, measured smile. The kind that always came before a perfectly crafted phrase.

“I just think it’s too much exposure. It changes people, Agatha.”

She smiled back. Because smiling was easier than arguing. Because he never yelled, never laid a hand on her. And yet, every word felt like an invisible clamp pinning down her wings.

Their house in the Hamptons was beautiful. Classic, quiet, and immaculate. She used to run her fingers along the golden frames in the hallway, where his diplomas were displayed.

Economics at Oxford. MBA at Yale—where he’d been her mentor during undergrad, and how they met—and a smaller frame with her name on it, from a speech she gave at Harvard.

A speech Thanos had read and rewritten three times before letting her take the stage.

“It’s not about censorship, love. It’s just a matter of tone. You tend to sound… aggressive when you talk about the system, and no one likes aggressive women.”

That night, Agatha didn’t sleep.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember when exactly she started being tamed. When she had been boxed up and commanded.

On their wedding anniversary, Thanos took her to a French restaurant, all candlelight and background piano.

A toast to love!

He gave her a gift: a pearl necklace.

And she gave a speech. Polished and empty.

On the way home, in the car, Thanos placed his hand on her leg.

“See? When you want to, you know how to behave. Everyone loved you tonight.”

She never wore the necklace.

Years later, she could still remember the taste of that wine. The scent of his skin. The impenetrable silence that filled the house.

And how, on the outside, everything looked perfect.

The businessman and his wife. The philanthropy. The meetings. The smiling photos at gala dinners with his investors.

And a woman slowly disappearing inside herself.

[...]

The bathroom mirror was fogged up, steam curling up the tiled walls. Agatha braced her hands on the cold marble sink. Her reflection looked younger today or maybe just more real.

Her body still pulsed with what had happened a few hours earlier.

The tight stall.The bass thumping through the walls. The taste of your kiss. The muffled moans against your neck.

She closed her eyes.

God, that had been wrong.

So wrong.

Inappropriate, reckless, impossible.

And yet...

She thought of you.

So young.

But it wasn’t just your age. You were movement, impulse. Raw, generous desire.

You gave yourself like someone who had never learned to hold back, like someone who hadn’t been broken into small enough pieces to fear pleasure yet.

And that… that destroyed her, because she wanted to break you.

Wasn’t it wrong?

Yes.

Of course it was.

But... maybe not that wrong.

What happened in that bed, in that stall, it wasn’t casual. You touched her with hunger, with reverence, with a kind of freedom Agatha thought she had buried under layers of power, fear, and duty.

Freedom.

The word echoed with a summer taste.

Being with you was like an unexpected breeze on a stifling afternoon. A light, cool, rebellious wind. The kind that enters without asking, slams windows, sends papers flying, and makes curtains flutter like freed ghosts.

You were that.

An impossible wind.

And Agatha…

She’d spent her whole life closing windows.

She sighed, bracing herself on the sink, and remembered the word:

Mommy.

You always called her that, like it meant nothing. Or maybe it did?

It didn’t matter.

Because the effect was immediate and consuming.

It wasn’t just erotic, no—although it was, searing and incandescent to her. It was what it said about how you saw her.

With surrender, with trust, and need.

Agatha shuddered.

She felt exposed, yes. But also… adored. As if, for one night, she’d stepped out of her armor, as if someone had seen something in her beyond strategy and control.

You saw her. Whole. And still… you wanted her.

You were so sweet you might have been naive. There was a wild insolence in you, a thirst that never apologized.

You wanted the world and you wanted her. Even with her contradictions, her sharpness, her fears and mistakes.

And for some reason... that didn’t scare her.

Not like it should.

You were intense, generous, unfiltered, and maybe— just maybe—The best thing that had happened to her in seventeen years.

She straightened slowly, running her fingers through the wet dark strands falling over her shoulders. The robe touched her skin with silent tenderness.

She took a deep breath.

Maybe she wasn’t the kind of woman who deserved love, maybe she wasn’t the kind who knew how to love, but for now… maybe she could allow herself.

After all, even the most powerful king was once just a pawn trying to cross the board.

When Agatha stepped out of the shower with her hair still damp, skin warm under the cotton robe, she didn’t expect to find the bed so quiet.

You were there, lying on your side, one knee bent, sleeping deeply on the messy sheets.

She stopped, just watched you.

You breathed slowly, long strands falling across your cheek. Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the curtain, sketching soft shapes across your face.

So young.

So confident.

and yet… so, so reckless.

She sat down beside you but didn’t dare touch. She just stayed there, watching over you like someone guarding something precious and fleeting.

That night, she slept beside you without armor.

And dreamed of freedom.

In the morning, the shift was obvious.

You woke up first. Spoke little, almost distant. Irritation shimmered in your eyes, even though you tried to hide it.

Agatha furrowed her brow, confused. But she slipped the armor back on and didn’t ask.

Like every dream, your days of peace had ended.

The car drove in silence back toward Seattle.

She gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting on her thigh in anxious stillness.

You stared out the window. Silent, closed off and inaccessible.

“Is everything okay?” She asked in the gentlest tone she knew, though it still came out stiff, almost automatic.

You just nodded.

“You can drop me three blocks before campus.”

Just like this. Dry and unaffectionate.

“Alright.”

And when the car stopped, you murmured a thank-you far too soft to reach her fully.

She didn’t reply with words. Just nodded, feeling her heart crack with a silence so heavy it ached in her bones.

She shouldn’t be this shaken. It was just sex. Just youth —in the purest sense of the word. Just a detour in the middle of a war.

But why…

Why did it feel so wrong to leave you there?

Hours later, back at her house, the longing ached in the most unexpected corners of her body.

Where was her good girl? That one who smiled with her eyes and obeyed with her body?

Where had she gone?

“Mom?”

Nicky’s voice snapped her out of it.

She smiled, drained.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He walked in slowly, his eyes too perceptive for someone so young. He noticed the small suitcase and the fatigue on her face.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied too quickly. “I went to Oregon. Some company matters to sort out...”

Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded hollow.

She loved her son, with every cell in her body. But holding a real conversation with him—one that didn’t involve numbers, deadlines, or expectations—felt like trying to grasp something that always slipped through her fingers.

Still, she tried. As she always did, even if it was already too late.

She stepped closer and took his hands gently, as if trying to touch something that no longer belonged to her.

“Tell me, sweetheart… how are things? The SATs are coming up and—”

“Mom, please.”

He sighed, eyes shifting away—impatient, yes, but there was something else.

A deeper fatigue.

An old disappointment.

“Can we, just this once, not talk about that?”

Agatha froze.

“About what…?”

“This. School. College. Career. How I always have to be perfect. How you only—”

He stopped himself, swallowing hard, like choosing between speaking and not hurting her.

“What is it, Nicky?” Her voice came out smaller, frightened. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just… sometimes it feels like you know me as a resume, not as a son.”

The words landed like a punch to the stomach.

He went on, calmer now, but cruel in his honesty.

“When I was little, we used to go to the park. You made picnics, you’d run with me. You laughed, mom!”

His eyes were shimmering with tears.

“Now I don’t even know what you like to do in your free time. I don’t even know if you have free time.”

Agatha felt her chest collapse inward.

“Sweetheart, I…”

What could she say?

That she was trying? That she’d spent years walking invisible tightropes just to keep everything running? That loving the right way always seemed to slip from her grasp?

He shook his head, disappointed.

“You keep asking what I want to be, but have you ever stopped to ask what you’ve become?”

Silence.

A brutal pause in time.

He let go of her hands with care. It wasn’t violent or cruel. It was just… final and that hurt more.

Agatha stood there, fingers still curled in empty air, as if she were still holding the five-year-old who used to run through fields with scraped knees and an easy smile.

But he was gone.

“I’m sorry…” she said, but he was already walking out the door.

And just like that, everything was loneliness again.

[...]

Dinner had been set for 7 PM sharp, but Agatha arrived at 7:10. Evanora had taught her well: Men should wait.

Tony Stark was already at the table of an upscale restaurant in downtown Seattle, a nearly untouched glass of white wine in front of him.

When he saw her, he smiled like an ad campaign — standing with the practiced charm of a seasoned flirt.

“Agatha Harkness,” he said, taking her hand as if she were rare porcelain. “You look stunning.”

She looked him dead in the eye, then withdrew her hand and casually wiped it on her dress.

“Spare me the bullshit, Tony. Let’s get to the point. Tell me what you want.”

She sat down without ceremony, crossing her legs with surgical precision.

He gave a low chuckle, settling into his seat with the smugness of a man who thought he was in control.

“What I want?” He twisted the ring on his finger, pretending to think. “I want you… submissive.”

Agatha laughed. It was loud, unexpected and a little terrifying.

“Submissive?” She repeated, leaning over the table, eyes gleaming. “Oh, Stark… how many years have you been dreaming about that?”

“Since you wore that blue pantsuit in the Senate. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

She smiled, but now it was pure ice.

“Shame it didn’t finish the job.”

Tony laughed, but there was a sharpness under the surface.

“No need to pretend you’re still some saint in heels. We’ve all sold something to get where we are. I’m just offering a better price.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him like one would examine a dissected animal.

“You’re pathetic.”

He opened the black folder beside his plate with a theatrical snap.

“And you’re predictable.”

She saw them.

Photos.

Full color.

Too sharp. Too clear.

Her, at your dorm room door—that night when she couldn’t think of anything but you. You, stepping into her car wearing that purple sweater, still smelling like Cuir de Beluga—Agatha could still smell it. Your faces much too close to be professional.

She froze.

Tony turned the first image toward her and smiled like a snake.

“Didn’t know our golden woman had a thing for little girls.”

Agatha’s face remained impassive, but her hand gripped the glass so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“You’re bluffing.” She said quietly.

“Am I?”

He pushed more photos her way.

“You think the public will understand? A powerful fifty-year-old woman with a college girl in her lap? It all sounds very… nineties. And look…” he pointed at one photo. “this one’s right in front of her dorm. Underage or not, the headlines write themselves.”

Agatha didn’t respond immediately.

She took a deep breath and picked up one of the photos, examining it closely.

Tony seemed to savor the silence.

“You could end all this with a nod, Agatha. Be reasonable. Back my campaign. Step down with dignity, and maybe… I’ll offer you a role. Something symbolic. Decorative. Pretty. Like you.”

God, he was so repulsive.

Her stomach turned. The wine threatened to rise.

Agatha looked at him.

For a second, something in her face faltered. A muscle in her jaw, a tremble in her lower lip.

But she didn’t break.

Not there.

Agatha would never break in front of a man.

She gathered the photos one by one, each motion calculated and precise.

“Are you finished?” She asked, emotionless.

“For now.” He replied, smug.

She stood.

Her dress skirt was immaculate. Her posture, flawless. But there was a shadow in her eyes, a crack only the very observant would see.

Tony thought he’d won.

And maybe… for the first time in a long while, Agatha wasn’t sure he was wrong.

~*~

Can I kill Tony?

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqlz @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos @lowlyjelly @xblinkx2 @rmaximoff @loveshineslikethesky

#agatha all along #wlw post #checkmate #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness #domme mommy #mommy k!nk #lgbtq #lgbtqia #agatha harkness x reader #mommy knows best #dom mommy #bdsmkink #bdsmdominant #older woman younger girl #wlw smut #wlw yearning #lesbian smut

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jacksabbotts · 1 month ago

Text

introducing . . . PROFESSOR!READER . ᵒ . 🕯️ 🔮 💫

you are the new hire — not that you ever let anyone say it like it makes you small. you didn’t claw your way through parisian archives and ivy-cracked lecture halls just to be underestimated. you are the girl with band tees under thrifted blazers, occult tattoos half-hidden beneath black sleeves, and too many coffee stains on your thesis drafts to count. sarcasm is your first language; folklore is your second. vulnerability? well, that’s a tongue you only speak behind locked apartment doors, whispered to the cracks in the ceiling when no one else is listening.

you came back to virginia when the call of home outweighed the ghosts of france — or maybe it was just the job offer. it doesn’t matter. you’re here now, in a lecture hall that smells like old wood and burned-out ambition, teaching wide-eyed undergrads about demons, saints, and everything in between.

you drink your coffee black and your wine cheap. you leave lipstick prints on both.

you flirt like a dare and fight like a philosophy debate. your wardrobe never quite fits the faculty handbook — ankle boots loud on the tiles, jeans just barely professional, jewelry that catches the light like warning signs.

you’ve got jokes sharp as knives and eyes that’ve seen too much. you keep people at arm’s length because it’s easier to teach about monsters than admit to the ones still gnawing at your ribs.

and then there’s spencer reid. he’s sunlight in cardigans. softness where you’re static. he quotes obscure french poetry and behavioral statistics in the same breath, and you pretend it doesn’t make your heart hiccup in your chest. he asks about your research not because he’s obligated — but because he genuinely wants to know.

he listens. really listens. and when you speak, it’s like he’s cataloging every word, filing them away like treasure.

he sees the sharp corners and ragged edges and doesn’t flinch.

he isn’t what you expected. but maybe — just maybe — he’s exactly what you need.

this is a tangled web of lecture halls, faculty lounges, slow-burn longing, campus folklore, and a love story built between stacks of dusty books and late-night grading sessions. it’ll span it all : sharp banter, soft confessions, academic rivalry, found family, and eventual, inevitable love.

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ want to join the professor!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist ||| more spencer reid ||| inbox

request are open for professor!spencer reid x professor!reader!!!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ want to request??? click here!!!!!

possible trigger warnings * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ lowercase intended!!!! academic anxiety and burnout. past trauma mentions this includes mentions of emotionally abusive relationships ( romantic and academic mentors ). career-based discrimination ( especially reader’s experience abroad ). occult / religious themes and includes discussions of demonology, religious persecution, death rituals, folklore surrounding spirits and hell and etc. mentions of death & the supernatural, not graphic, but thematic. alcohol use. emotional isolation and or depression. gender bias / academic sexism. profanity. sexual content ( eventually ). academic sabotage.

#professor!spencer reid x professor!reader #professor!reader #professor!spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #professor spencer reid #criminal minds x professor!reader

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darlingdaisyfarm · 20 days ago

Note

Now that you brought up Bord again I am just thinking about the flirting??

Stanford is so shy you don’t even know if he likes you back. But when he stumbles around with strange eyes (fae drugs? That cursed amulet? It could be anything)

He calls you thinks like “toots” and “hotstuff” you asked if he was okay as he stumbles into your arms and he LICKS YOUR NECK.

Ford is already so awkward around you, this man is a fully grown adult and yet he forgets how to exist when you're around, won’t even look you in the eye for more than two seconds, and when you talk to him directly he acts like you’ve just asked him to strip naked and do math under pressure. once he apologized for sitting too close to you on the couch and then promptly left the room, you’re not even making this up. he’s so fucking bad at being in love it’s a miracle you’ve managed to hold a conversation with him longer than thirty seconds. he talks too fast and over-explains every single thing like you're his undergrad student instead of his crush. drops a pen, picks it up, hits his head on the desk. tries to open a door for you and ends up slamming it into himself.

suggestive . so it's Bill x reader too i guess

Ford gets sweaty and itchy just being near you, his hands shaking around his mug or his arms awkwardly crossed so you don’t notice how his shirt is clinging to his back. he can’t look you in the eye without getting distracted by your mouth and it shows. he’ll spend twenty minutes trying to ask if you want coffee, then mutter it “coff—youwantcoffee?” and then walk straight into the kitchen doorframe.

you're not stupid, so the next time you're together, you clearly notice the difference in behavior.

firstly, the smile is unnaturally wide, even reminiscent of a grin. Ford does not allow himself to smile like that. and the eyes are somehow strangely darting, this is not typical of human facial expressions. and the posture is too upright and confident, too loose.

it’s definitely. . . Ford. or at least it should be. maybe he’s drunk? or on something?

“uh . . . ha, is this what happens when you start sampling your own experiments?” you ask because he stumbles into you, grabs your arm and leans on you. it certainly doesn’t feel like the man who used to flinch when your pinky brushed his on accident.

“HOTSTUFF,” he calls you again, “doll, baby, baby, sweetie, you always worry this much? awww”

“what? Ford what's even—“ it’s unsettling, making your knees weak. Ford ignores your question. Bill is actually less interested in the conversation right now than he is in your body. so Ford just leans in and sniffs you. deep inhale, lashes fluttering, letting out a moan muffled by your skin, god, Bill didn't know how great the people you like smelled. turns out Ford wasn't lying.

you’re about to step back when he licks your neck. he just breathes out slow through his nose and licks your damn neck.

you yelp, heat rushes up your spine. wow, Bill thinks, this candy is too tasty, so Ford's hands tighten on your waist, testing what you taste like, until you feel the pain of the bite, hard enough to leave a mark, and you jerk away.

“thought you loved blood, sixer. they're not running yet. look!”

Ford’s panicking. what if you hate him now? you'll start avoiding him now? that look in your eyes, it’s disgust? he ruined all of it?

meanwhile, you’re still processing the fact that the man who once dropped a glass of water just because you complimented his handwriting is now grinding against you, while his lips are red, panting like a dog, because Bill finally learned what being turned on meant.

he pulls back just a little, hissing something under his breath, “shut up, you’re the one pervert here, sixer.”

you definitely misheard that. right? where’d your pathetic shy loser go?

#answered asks #gravity falls x reader #ford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #ford pines x reader #stanford pines #bill cipher x you #bill cipher x reader #stanford pines x you

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axolotsofluv · 2 months ago

Text

❝𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 #𝟏❞ [𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐫. 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨]

a/n: hello everyone, how is your day going? I'd like to introduce a mini series/collection that I have in store for ratio, depicting unnamed individuals sharing their experience witnessing his dynamic with his s/o, aka you. This is purely self-indulgent and serves as an outlet for the scenarios that have been plaguing my head. I hope you enjoy them. Please excuse any mistakes, whether it's my grammar or characterization of ratio. Any questions about this are more than welcomed. Happy reading ヾ(^▽^*)))

synopsis — a collection of anonymous accounts testifying Ratio's unusual behavior.

An undergraduate working alongside Ratio was introduced to you. It wasn't an out-of-the-blue affair. Ratio hung around them quite often that they were probably the closest thing he has to a friend (sans you, naturally) and this bond was further reinforced due to them being in the same faculty program. The first thing they thought when they saw you was that you're his sister, but when they fail to see the resemblance—and well, stumbling across you both sharing a brief peck—they 've long abandoned that perception. This person confessed that they thought you were student there like them, but it turns out you went to a different university. You didn't even live close to their university.

While they aren't one to discriminate based on education, they couldn't suppress the shock upon finding out that a high caliber scholar like Ratio, who has no qualms pointing out idiocy and mediocrity, had romantic relations with you. What's more is that you two were more or less polar opposites in terms of attitude. He's critical, cynical, repudiates anyone who gets close to him with superficial motives, and couldn't stand the mere sight of idiots (hence the alabaster head), yet you're laid back, easygoing, willing to befriend just about anyone, and struggle to understand even the most basic topics that Ratio studies. Even so, he holds you in such high regard that if he were some kind of program, you would be a VVIP subscriber in possession of all the exclusive privileges.

One day, they gathered the courage to pose a question to him that roughly translates to: just what do you see in that person? Their speaking mannerism must've given away their underlying bafflement, since Ratio shuts down the question with a click of his tongue and, in his own eloquently brusque way, tells them to mind their own business. They've seen you hang around Ratio quite often, so it was easy for them to form the opinion that you're clingy. Clingy and cheerful, which are traits that they didn't think he would be fond of. This time, Ratio dignifies them with a response. "That's precisely the issue. You don't think."

And just like before, this notion was dispelled when they overheard you telling Ratio to socialize more without your presence, to which he responds with: “I'll keep that in mind. But do know that I won't stop extending an invitation for you to join me.”

“Oh, c'mon. You should hang out with other people more. What would your peers think if they only ever see you with me?”

“You are sorely mistaken if you think I have even a speck of regard for their opinions.”

They conversed with you more following that discovery and threw the questions they've always wanted to ask Ratio at you, taking comfort in the fact that they don't have to fear being pummeled by a chalk projectile or have their confidence incinerated by his scathing words.

“Do you ever face judgment for dating him?” They started. You responded with a nonchalant nod.

They took your expectant stare as permission to proceed. “And are you bothered by it?”

You cupped your chin with a hum. “A little? Who wouldn't be discouraged by such negativity? But…” The undergrad perked up. “At the end of the day, does it really matter? I know Veritas isn't a shallow man. I won't torture myself with ‘what-ifs’ or doubt just because people can't understand what he sees in me.”

The more they talked, the more this person became aware of just how prematurely they had judged you. You might not have any PhD under your belt or any noteworthy innovations, but in your words: “everyone has a part to play. Veritas has a passion in education and the gift to support it. I have neither. Why pursue something I have no interest in? Besides, aren't diplomas and titles supposed to be concrete evidence of one's competency in their respective field? If so, there's no need for me to undermine their values and liken them to jewelry people hoard just to flaunt them, is there?”

They were starting to see why Ratio could connect with you. Your words, while devoid of his characteristic elegance, resonates with the same brand of wisdom and self-assurance that he carries. Unwilling to bend to people's expectation, acknowledging one's strength and desires, the slight jab at how the world of academia is not that far apart from people vying for prestige as opposed to improving livelihoods.

The mold that incarcerated their capacity to understand you as a person disappeared. Now when they see you and Ratio, they perceive you as you truly are. Someone who's sincerely proud of him as a scholar and as a person. Someone willing to set aside their misgivings over a complex study just to grant him a personal audience. Someone who doesn't reduce him to this unidimensional depiction of an untouchable deity among man, but rather a person with the ability to aid humanity's progression and the earnest intention to see it through. Someone with the guts to rein in his acerbic words when they begin to stray beyond the boundary of what's acceptable.

For the longest of time, this unnamed student had always seen Ratio the same way most people do—a genius scholar, no more and no less. But as they watch the aforementioned person gaze at you with a spark that shines brighter than when he looks at math equations, they knew that their mindset was in need of a revision. At the end of the day, not even Ratio can stand to resist the lulling notes of love.

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