#architect and his muse

[portrait-paintings]

Architect and His Muse. Portrait of James Caulfield, Lord Charlemont

Artist: Anton Raphael Mengs (German, 1728–1779)

Date: 1756-1758

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: National Gallery Prague, Czech Republic

Description

The signed portrait depicts the Earl of Charlemonte (1728-1799) as an architect clad in an antiquizing tunic holding a measuring scale in one hand and a ground plan sketch of a building in the other. The lord is leaning against a commemorative slab dedicated to Vitruvius. Placed on a high pedestal behind Charlemonte’s back is a bust of Andrea Palladio. The allegorical figure of Architecture is explaining to the draughtman that the study of Vitruvius is no longer purposeful and that instead he ought to turn his attention to modern architecture represented by Palladio. The painting was produced after the Earl’s return from his Grand Tour during Meng's professional career in Rome. Behind the execution of this painting are most likely the events associated with Piranesi’s volume entitled Antichita Romae, for the publication of which he had counted on Charlemont’s financial support that the Earl promised him in the past but which he later no longer acknowledged. Piranesi was outraged by the lord's behavior, however Charlemont lost interest in Piranesi's work, due to the development of his opinion regarding architecture and to his own practice in the Neoclassical style. In 1757, he wrote his Lettere di Giustificazione scritte a Milord Charlemont that he distributed among his Roman and British friends. Mengs also received one copy. The portrait of the Earl of Charlemont had probably been finished by then.

[skxrbrand]

Keeping a low profile....

[daybreakrising]

Alhaitham had stopped reading a few minutes ago, though his book remains open in one hand should Kaveh take a moment to look over. He has instead been watching Kaveh over the edges of the paper, the way he's left smoky smears of charcoal across his face from his fevered sketching, lost in the realms of his creative vision. Quietly, slowly he shifts the hand unoccupied to reach for his Kamera, his movements quiet and slow so as not to disturb the other until he has the perfect shot lined up. Then ever so quietly he takes a breath and sets the camera to take the shot before turning his gaze back to his book. The brief flash may startle the other from his feverish creating but to join the dots may be a sluggish given his ignorance to the world at present.

There is something truly relaxing to simply exist in a peaceful space with someone who shares your desired environment. Alhaitham's presence both fades into the background and remains a constant comfort in the form of a silent companion. What difference would it make, someone might wonder, to work in an empty room? A lot of difference, would be Kaveh's answer. He has always found it easier to focus when sharing his space with someone equally focused upon their own work or study. How often had they studied together like this as students? Just the sound of pages turning and coffee mugs hitting the table.

And focused he is - though he might notice should Alhaitham get up and leave, he is unaware of the smaller movements of the other man. So he doesn't notice the sly setting up of the Kamera, doesn't register anything at all until the sudden flash catches him unaware.

His head snaps up from his sketches, eyes blinking in surprise and confusion as his mind hurries to piece together what just happened. It doesn't take long - longer than it might have had he not been so focused on his work, of course, but he's still quick to understand. A narrowed gaze is shot at the scribe immediately, who is seemingly engrossed in his book and not paying him any attention.

But Kaveh spies the Kamera beside him. "It is hard to be subtle when your Kamera gives you away." He remarks, the beginnings of a smirk quirking at one corner of his mouth. There's instantly a spark of curiosity - what had prompted the scribe to take his picture? Surely, the image of him bent over his sketches wasn't so captivating that it required immortalisation - certainly, it is a daily vision Alhaitham can be privy to.

He doubts he'll get an answer, particularly as Alhaitham is still yet to lift his attention from the pages of his book. For all Kaveh knows, the scribe has turned on those headphones of his and is ignoring him, as is common. He leans back in his chair with a slight huff, raising a hand to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes.

That's when he catches the smears of charcoal of his fingertips, and his hand freezes in the air before him as the dots are connected. He immediately snatches for a small hand mirror he keeps in the top drawer of his desk, and groans when he sees the smears that decorate his skin.

"Alhaitham!" The blond launches from his chair at once, heading for the sly device at the scribe's side. "Show me that photograph!"

[bailesona]

they've been diverse in their interests, of late. a range of projects which everyone feels are of value to their future plans. amita has the pharmaceutical companies eating out of her perfectly manicured hands. marcus has charmed his way into every elite 1% club known and unknown. xavier has appeared in photographs with politicians and people of unimaginable influence. reputation. image. public perception. everything is immaculate, flawless, a smooth and entire sweep of perfect harmony. except, of course, for a diner in lower manhattan, a vast estate on the west coast of county clare, and now, a clinic. the city's best-and-worst-kept secret. the only reason edgar even managed to find it was because victor broke his wrist and eli was so frantic that he didn't realize the risks.

an accident. an innocent mistake. and one edgar has exactly zero interest in exploiting.

now, he sits in a rigid plastic chair in a small waiting room. eli left to find aisling, and victor's sleeping off the anaesthesia. it gives him a tiny opportunity to observe. whatever about the bureaucracy, the red tape, the dotted lines of the bullshit papers in this country... this clinic is a place surrounded with respect and admiration. it's small, yes. busy. but it's clean. organized. maintained to a high degree. @nightmdic is practically a god to the locals. heaven-sent, as the saying goes... amita would be all over this place if she knew it existed. the knowledge that isabella must know, and hasn't told anyone, even with all her cameras... it's a mystery. but he knows he won't be poking that bear. and when marie appears, he's quick to stand up, holding victor's hoodie and rucksack, a hand lifting to try and assure her.

" wait. i imagine... he is awake now, i'm sure. he's probably told you who i am. who i work with. aisling surely has, a little bit. but i'm not here to cause you any trouble, doctor mcashten. i only wanted to be sure victor's alright. that, and... perhaps to offer my services in some way? off the books, of course. "

villain-y s.c. here!

[dxsole]

MEET PROFESSOR LEON MERRICK! A MODERN DAY RENAISSANCE MAN!

Professor of Technical Drawing for Cambridge's Architecture & Design studies. For some, it's a big deal. For others who understand that he's still in the art department, they probably pity him. Leon feels indifferently. He feels indifferent about a lot of things actually. Like the eerie sculptures left for law enforcement in a number of abandoned homes and warehouses throughout the county. Those are not technical at all— bodies drained of their blood, limbs manipulated into a form of the artist's choosing. String, wire, wood, concrete...it's all added to accentuate the piece. Flesh tugged in different directions. Limbs bending and breaking as needed to fulfill the vision. Concrete smeared over the final iteration in thick, globs that adhered victims to floors so efficiently, jackhammers were called in just to remove the victim from the crime scene. No one could call his creations plain now. Like this post for a wee starter with Leon!

[minban]

❝ You were my new dream. ❞ [ eden to hsr!kaveh ! ]

@lunaetis / the yearning, the devotion.

words said with such genuinity brings shock to his face, eyes widening a fraction more, pausing in his actions as if he were struck still by static. kaveh would not believe that he is worthy of such a confession, utterance that can be taken as praise for the person that he is, or may have been seen as. who is he to become someone's dream when he is simply a mere architect drifting through the limitless expanse of space, wandering wherever the pull of gravity takes him. the label of genius has long been gone as he has left his homeworld, stepping away from the title as if he were freeing himself of shackles that once bounded him. maybe the title had really been a weight that held him down, a station he found that he had to live up to unless he were to be seen as a disappointment.

in space, he had started anew, not a credit to his name as he had first started this journey in search of himself, launching straight into the vast unknown, the thrill of being left in the dark all so new to him, invigorating in it's own right. the astral express had been one stop of many, one that he had found to be so welcoming and homely that he did not want to leave. and upon meeting eden, he could not help but to think how brightly she shined. where eden stepped, she brought a special kind of light with her, enveloping the room around her in warmth and laughter, the merry sound chiming softly with her every move. kaveh saw eden as a brightly lit star, a guiding light to follow and yet still so unreachable. they had become fast friends, a feat that kaveh knows is so easy for eden for she makes friends whenever she goes, leaving her name to be whispered among the stars, and he has enjoyed her company in anyway that she bestows upon him. he seeks her out sometimes, when his mind is straying and all he needs is a simple distraction to bring a smile to his face.

so it is in kaveh's own belief that he has the right to be taken off guard when she offers words that he could easily throw right back at her, taking her bat and swinging the meaning in a perfect turnaround. he doesn't of course, not in the literal sense at least. "i don't quite know what to say," honesty bleeds in his voice, the lingering effects of his shock still remaining. "not when you are the person most akin to a dream, a person anyone would feel honored to fight alongside. you are the perfect representation of the trailblaze, forging your own path and compelling both friends and strangers to follow behind you as if it were not a question but a tempting offer meant to entice a new journey."

kaveh breathes slowly, adverting his gaze in an attempt to gather the many emotions he wishes to convey to eden. she is so bright, so warm, surely she must know that? she is like the sun, and he, a simple sunflower, turning when she turns, following the rays of light in the path she leaves behind. he turns to her then, searching for any indication that she may want to take back what she has said, perhaps learning of his many faults in the small time between. kaveh finds that eden looks at him with warmth, and of course she does, she spreads and shares her kindness in every corner of the stars she reaches, and kaveh finds that he cannot refute her. "my apologies, i do not mean to brush aside your statement. i find it rather heartwarming that you see me in that way," kaveh is a little bashful as he continues, "it means a lot when coming from someone who i look up to. i... hope you know that i see you in the same light."

[gemkun]

@haereses said : " Ah, Mr. Kaveh. Wonderful to make your acquaintance. You've made quite the name for yourself. I was only wondering whether you might be available for a consult on interior design. " ↬ unprompted asks | always accepting !

      ⸻       learned   ,   he   is   cognizant   to   the   fact   that   it   is   rude   to   stare   ,   even   more   so   when   he   conducts   a   once   —   over.   but   somehow   he   is   compelled   to   digest   the   garb   before   him   ,   pieced   together   with   an   eye   for   detail.   as   if   the   clothes   on   his   back   are   a   project   in   of   itself.   awareness   dawns   once   more   when   there   is   a   pause   of   silence   ,   cueing   his   expectant   response.   surely   his   appreciation   would   be   a   note   of   disinterest   and   quickly   dismissed   by   his   potential   client.   the   man   practically   oozed   with   an   air   of   proper   ,   visualised   in   the   decadence   of   his   wears   and   mannerisms.   passing   glances   must   have   certainly   been   a   norm.

  ❝   oh   yes   ,   uh   ,   would   you   prefer   to   talk   now   or   later   ?   i   ,   um   ,   have   a   moment   to   spare   ,   but   i   do   have   a   project   to   finish.   ❞   if   he   had   been   blessed   with   more   time   ,   kaveh   would   no   doubt   have   cleaned   his   work   station.   but   here   it   stood   ,   slathered   in   blueprints   and   unfinished   designs   ,   awaiting   for   imagination   to   be   realised.   given   a   form   to   be   constructed   in   reality.   frazzled   ,   his   mind   mirrors   his   untidy   space   ,   weaving   with   thoughts   upon   thoughts.   ideas   a   never   —   ending   stream   ,   lacking   a   system   of   prioritisation.   ❝   do   you   have   anything   in   mind   ?   ❞

[serosanguine]

the joy of HSR kaveh is in this verse he actually gets to use mehrak as his weapon like celestia intended

[coreofgold]

Loquatius Seelie tag drop !

I'll seelie you later (Loquatius interacts)

The Herald of Avalir (Loquatius muses)

Remember the Eyes of Avalir and his bravery (Cerrit Agrupnin)

Remember the Dragon and his sense (Nydas Okiro)

Remember the Keeper of Scrolls and all the wisdom she brought (Patia Por'co)

Remember the First Knights of Avalir (Zerxus Llerez)

Remember Architect Arcane the most beautiful woman in the world (Laerryn Coramar-Seelie)

[satori-runa]

—The star of the night

Summary: In the middle of chaos, Reca chooses you, his assistant, to replace the actual actress.

Words: 2k

Tags: Fluff, slight comedy, mr reca being mr reca

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In your lifetime, you'd never been anywhere more glamorous than Reca's movie set. It was a polished spectacle of wealth, fame, and sheer creative ambition concentrated in a single place.

The set was pristine. Everything from the polished equipment to the crew buzzing around the latest cutting-edge technology spoke of high-budget prowess. Reca had wrangled only the crème de la crème of actors, and the script itself was a masterpiece, lauded by critics before a single frame had even been shot. Naturally, it was no surprise when the man beside you, the very architect of this grandiose vision, let out an audible groan, throwing his head into his hands. He pulled them down his face in a gesture so theatrical it almost belonged on the screen itself.

"No, no, no." He groaned, his voice laced with overdramatic despair. “Not like this. This is supposed to be art. Art!” He gestured wildly at the set. “Any three-year-old could create such a display with macaroni!"

While you found yourself captivated by the scene's intricate design—each prop in perfect position, the textures, the layout of furniture—all meticulously assembled to support the vision of an unfolding narrative, Reca saw only flaws. In his eyes, it was a desecration of the perfection he had so painstakingly envisioned.

To him, everything was wrong. The lighting was lifeless, casting shadows that fell harshly across the actors’ faces, robbing them of the soft glamour he’d imagined. The music? A hollow echo that failed to evoke a single stirring of emotion, as far from evocative as a flat note played on a broken piano. And the actress—the poor, unknowing actress who, in any other setting, would be lauded for her skill—was, to Reca, nothing short of an abomination in this moment. His eyes were fixed on her, his lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head.

“Does she even know her lines?” He muttered, mostly to himself, though you heard every word. “It’s as if she’s performing in a high school play, not…not this.” He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth, his presence a cyclone of perfectionism.

For the past hour, Reca had been tearing every detail apart. The set he'd once raved about was now an "ill-matched mess." The weeks you'd spent booking this elusive location, the endless calls, the backup locations you’d scouted, and the rejections you’d faced until this one finally came through. The casting? The exhausting process of reviewing tapes, organizing callbacks, going through Reca's list of notes and opinions on each actress, often just to have him change his mind the next day. And that demo track? You’d pulled every string, barely scraping by deadlines, just to make sure everything was in perfect order for him.

And here you were, watching it all unravel with each of Reca’s sighs and exasperated mutterings. As he kept pacing, criticizing the lighting again and muttering that the entire production was in danger of "crumbling into mediocrity," you couldn’t help but let out a silent prayer. An aeon, a muse, a miracle—someone save me, you thought, raising your hands briefly to the heavens in a quiet display of surrender.

Because if Reca’s mood didn���t lighten, there was absolutely no way this movie was getting made today.

Just as you were silently pleading for an escape from this nightmare, Reca’s pacing came to an abrupt halt. His head snapped in your direction, and his gaze narrowed, a glint of sudden inspiration lighting up his face. You felt a jolt of dread. That look—oh, you knew it too well. It was the same look he had whenever he came up with one of his “brilliant” ideas, which, more often than not, meant you were in for another impossible task.

“You.” He said, pointing at you with a fervor that made you take a step back. “You’ll be perfect.”

You blinked, uncertain if he was joking. “Me?”

“Yes! You!” He clapped his hands together, excitement bubbling up in his eyes. “Don’t you see? You have everything this role needs. Raw energy, authenticity—a complete lack of…training! It’s fresh. It’s real!”

“Reca, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense!” He cut you off, waving your protests away. “You’re exactly what this film is missing! All this time, I was looking in the wrong places. These actresses…they’re too polished. Too practiced. They lack that something—that spark of untamed potential that you have.” He smiled, a bit maniacally, but you could tell he was deadly serious.

“But I’m just your assistant.” You stammered, feeling your face flush. “I don’t know the first thing about acting. I’d probably ruin the entire film!”

“No way.” He insisted, eyes blazing with enthusiasm as if he’d already envisioned you on the big screen. “Think about it! You’ve been here for the whole process, you know every detail. You’ve seen every scene in my head just as I see it. Who else could be better prepared?”

You opened your mouth to protest again, there was no one that had the same vision as him, but he was already motioning to the costume designer, barking orders to prepare an outfit for you. Any hint of hesitation had disappeared from his face. In his mind, you were already cast and rehearsed, the missing piece that would bring his vision to life.

The next thing you knew, you were being ushered into the dressing room, handed a costume, and given a rapid rundown of your character’s motivations—directly from Reca himself, who seemed thrilled beyond measure. Somewhere between his impassioned monologues and the mounting nervousness that took over you, you found yourself on the set, standing beneath the very lights he’d spent hours cursing.

And as the camera rolled, with Reca’s wide-eyed gaze fixed intently on you, you couldn’t shake the surreal feeling. You’d gone from assistant to lead actress in a single, unpredictable twist, and despite your inexperience, you found yourself saying the lines and stepping into the role…all under the watchful, eager eyes of a director who now thought you were the perfect star.

The set had quieted down, and the crew took a break, leaving only a few people around. Reca, still lingering near you after that intense practice, watched the others drift away before turning back to you with a small, thoughtful smile.

“Let’s run through it one more time, mon cherie.” He said, his voice softer now. “Off camera. Just us.” There was a vulnerability in his tone you hadn’t heard before—a subtle, unspoken invitation.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding again. With the equipment and the audience gone, the space between you felt strangely intimate, as if stepping outside the boundary of the roles you were supposed to be playing.

He took a steadying breath and stood before you, his gaze searching yours. “Close your eyes.” He said, his hand brushing yours. “Forget the lines, the lights. Just…feel it.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink in. You could feel the warmth of his presence, so close now that every brush of his hand seemed to linger, every movement deliberate. He guided you gently, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hand until your fingers were laced together, his touch grounding, even protective.

“Imagine…” he whispered, his voice soft and full of emotion, “Imagine there’s no one here but us. No cameras. No crew.”

You opened your eyes, and he was watching you, his gaze vulnerable and sincere in a way you hadn’t seen before. His expression held an emotion that was entirely unscripted—almost a question lingering in his eyes, as if he was daring you to step closer.

His hand moved to your face, fingertips lightly tracing your cheek. The way he looked at you was overwhelming, like he was seeing parts of you no one had ever seen before. It felt like he was letting you in, past the director, past the confident professional, to something real and deeply hidden.

“Just us.” He murmured, almost to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. For a second, it felt like he might kiss you—not as part of a scene, not as an actor in a role, but as himself.

You swallowed, your own emotions swelling, breaking past the practiced distance of assistant and director. The way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered just a moment too long, felt impossibly real. It wasn’t just acting. Not anymore.

And in that shared silence, the line between character and reality blurred completely, leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something there that neither of you had dared to speak aloud.

Your breath caught as Reca leaned in closer, his hand cradling your face with an intensity that made the world around you disappear. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretched on, filled with a tension so thick it felt like the air had turned electric. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, and you felt your heart pounding, anticipation building with each passing second.

You closed your eyes, half-expecting, half-hoping for the kiss that seemed to hover right on the edge of happening. The moment felt impossibly fragile, a secret shared only between the two of you. And just as you felt him draw in that final breath…

He pulled back, a sudden spark lighting up his eyes, and he spun around, letting out a shout that shattered the delicate silence. “Yes! That’s it! THAT expression—exactly what we need!”

You blinked, still reeling, as he practically leapt away from you, his energy blazing. “Everyone!” He called out, his voice filled with exhilaration. “Get ready to film! Now, now, now! We have to capture this—she’s got the emotion perfect, it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for!”

The crew scrambled into action, quickly setting up cameras and adjusting lights as you stood there, frozen and feeling a little…lost. You watched him pace excitedly, giving orders and pointing out positions, his focus now on preparing the scene. Meanwhile, you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that the almost-kiss hadn’t been what you thought at all.

You felt the warmth creeping up your cheeks, your heart still racing from the almost-kiss that had left you somewhere between flustered and bewildered. As the crew finished setting up, you broke into a grin, chuckling softly at the absurdity of it all. Reca had played you perfectly, swept you into the scene so thoroughly that, for a moment, you’d forgotten where the acting stopped and the real feelings began. You couldn’t help but shake your head, laughing at yourself.

Reca, seeing your smile, grinned back, clearly thrilled that he’d managed to get such an authentic reaction. “That’s the spirit!” he cheered, clapping his hands together in delight. “I knew you had it in you!”

“You know, Reca.” You said, trying to keep the teasing note in your voice light as you crossed your arms, “you played me well. Got me all caught up in the moment. Almost too well, actually.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Only did what any good director would do.” He replied, a playful edge in his tone.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a spark of confidence as you leaned in just a little. “Well, maybe we should rehearse some more roles in private sometime.” You suggested, your smile turning slightly coy. “You know…just to pick up where you left me hanging.”

For the briefest second, he looked taken aback, his eyes widening as if surprised by your boldness. But then, that familiar grin returned, his gaze lingering on you with a newfound intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Perhaps we will.” he said, his voice a touch lower, his gaze still locked on you. “Only if you think you can handle a bit more of my…methods.”

Your smile deepened, and you felt a thrill run through you. Maybe, just maybe, the line between acting and reality was thinner than you’d thought. And if Reca wanted to blur it a little more…well, you couldn’t say you’d mind.

[lumnix3]

The Architect and the Muse

this is my first time writing a fic soo lmk what you think !

The control room hummed with subdued power, its sleek walls and towering monitors casting a cold, unyielding glow. On the screens, the macabre ballet of Red Light, Green Light unfolded—players moving and stopping, their lives dictated by a mechanical doll’s gaze. Death punctuated the air like gunshots, for that was exactly what they were.

At the center of it all, Hwang In-Ho sat in his throne-like chair, his tailored suit immaculate despite the undercurrent of violence in the room. His mask, as much a shield as a crown, obscured his expression, but the weight of his presence was unmistakable. Draped across his lap, you embodied an eerie grace, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the armrest as your gaze lingered on the carnage below.

“You see her hesitate?” In-Ho’s voice was a low, commanding rumble, his gloved hand resting possessively on your hip. “Player 029. Her legs quiver before every step. Weakness will swallow her whole.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving into a faint smirk. “And yet, the bold ones are the real spectacle. They’re the first to break when things get… personal.”

His fingers tightened reflexively on your waist, a quiet affirmation. “And the ones who don’t break?”

“They burn,” you said, your tone as detached as it was assured. “Beautifully, I might add.”

Your eyes remained fixed on the monitors, cataloging every stutter, every falter, every flash of defiance, as your mind began to drift to where it all started..

The rain lashed against the cracked pavement of a forgotten alleyway. Hwang In-Ho, disheveled and gaunt, leaned against the wall, his suit tattered and soaked. He clutched the prize money, his victory in the games a hollow triumph that gnawed at his soul.

“You look like hell,” a voice remarked, cutting through the storm.

He glanced up sharply, and there you stood, umbrella in hand, the rain sliding off its edges as if refusing to touch you. Your sharp eyes seemed to dissect him in an instant.

“And you,” he rasped, voice raw with despair, “look like you don’t belong here.”

“Maybe,” you replied, stepping closer. “But you do. And I’m curious—what keeps someone like you standing when it’d be so much easier to fall?”

He didn’t answer, but something in your gaze held him there, a tether he didn’t know he needed. Over time, your quiet strength became his anchor, your sharp mind his counsel. When you discovered the horrors behind the games, you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stayed. You stayed, and he began to realize you weren’t just his salvation—you were his equal.

Snapping out of it, the tension in the air was a living thing. The eerie melody of "Red light, Green light" echoed across the arena, the giant doll swiveling its head with mechanical precision.

On the monitors, Player 029 hesitated again.

“Watch,” In-Ho murmured, his voice reverent. “She’s done.”

The crack of a rifle confirmed it. The player’s body hit the ground, lifeless.

You leaned back against his chest, your calm mirroring his own. His arm tightened around you, fingers brushing yours in a silent exchange.

“Some surprises,” you murmured, gesturing to another screen. A bold player��Player 067—had darted forward in defiance of the doll’s rhythm, earning gasps from her fellow competitors.

“She’ll be one to watch,” In-Ho admitted, a rare hint of admiration threading his tone.

You hummed in agreement, the faintest trace of a smile playing on your lips. “For now.”

The room dimmed, the monitors fading into standby mode as the first game drew to a bloody close. In-Ho removed his mask, revealing the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, dark and searching, found yours.

“You see things I don’t,” he murmured, his hand cupping your jaw. “I trust your eyes more than my own.”

You chuckled, a soft sound that belied the weight of your shared history. “Careful, In-Ho. You’ll spoil me with that worship.”

His gaze hardened slightly, a reminder of the feral edge that always lingered just beneath his surface. “You’re already spoiled. And I’d destroy anyone who tried to take that from you.”

You traced your finger along the edge of his jaw, your touch as much a challenge as an affirmation. “You’d better." You mutter as you draw closer to him. In-Ho's thumb brushed over your lower lip, the gesture a silent question. You answered by tilting your head forward slightly, inviting him closer. His breath was warm against your mouth, the faint scent of mint and expensive cologne mixing in the air. When he kissed you, it was with the same fierce intensity he brought to every battle, but tempered with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

Your hands slid around his neck, fingers tangling in the short strands of his hair as you deepened the kiss. The world around you faded into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of your heartbeats echoing in your ears. You felt the tension in his muscles, the way they flexed under your touch, and the heat that seemed to radiate from his very core.

In-Ho's grip tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. His other hand rested on the small of your back, the pressure both reassuring and demanding. You could feel his desire, a potent force that seemed to vibrate in the air around you. It matched the thundering of your pulse, the rush of blood in your veins.

But as the final buzzer sounded, the room flooding with light and the sound of cheers and curses from the other players, you reluctantly broke the kiss. In-Ho's eyes searched yours, the question clear even without words. You nodded, and pulled away. The moment had been perfect, a secret shared between the two of you amidst the chaos of the games.

The surviving players were herded out of the arena, their terror lingering in the air like smoke. The control room was silent but for the crackle of monitors.

You rose gracefully from In-Ho’s lap, smoothing over your suit. Your voice, calm but laced with an edge, broke the quiet.

“Let’s make the second game… unforgettable.”

In-Ho smirked, his voice low and amused. “What do you have in mind?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your eyes alight with something dangerous. “Why don’t i join with you? Shake things up a little.”

His laughter was a dark, rumbling sound. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I like the heat.”

As the monitors flickered to life again, the next game revealed itself—a playground, with two giant rainbow circles on either side of the place. The room seemed to hum with anticipation, the stakes rising for both the players and the couple who controlled their fates.

In-Ho reached for your hand, his voice a whisper. “Let’s see if they can survive your game.”

Your smile was razor-sharp. “Let’s see if they can survive us.”

[misswynters]

Buddy, the snowman

featuring. s2 jayce x reader

a/n. i want everyone to picture s2 long haired jayce for this (my lil hispanic boy)

Piltover in winter was a different kind of magic. The city’s usual bustle slowed as the snow draped over rooftops, blanketed the cobbled streets, and softened the sharp edges of its mechanical marvels. The air was crisp, filled with the faint scent of pine, and for once, it seemed as if even the gears of progress paused to appreciate the quiet beauty of the holiday season.

You stood on the edge of the park, bundled in a thick coat, scarf, and gloves, waiting for Jayce. Who is always late, as usual. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you shifted your weight, your breath visible in the cold air. When he finally arrived, he was juggling a small box of cookies he’d picked up on the way, a thermos of hot cocoa, and his scarf, which he hadn’t managed to wrap around his neck yet.

“Sorry I’m late,” he called out, flashing you a sheepish grin. “I got held up by Mrs. Halloway. She wanted to tell me all about her snowflake shaped cookie cutters.”

You laughed, reaching out to grab the thermos before it slipped from his hands. “Let me guess, you were too polite to escape?”

“She cornered me at the shop,” he admitted, his breath clouding in the air as he finally wrestled the scarf into place. “But hey, I brought cookies!”

“Then all is forgiven,” you teased, linking your arm with his as you walked into the park.

The snow was untouched, sparkling under the late morning sun. Children’s laughter echoed from the far side of the park where a sledding hill was busy with activity. You and Jayce gravitated toward a quieter spot, where the snow lay pristine and the trees offered some shelter from the wind. “I can’t remember the last time I built a snowman,” you mused, surveying the scene.

“Then we’re fixing that today,” Jayce declared, already kneeling to scoop up a handful of snow. He packed it tightly, forming the beginnings of a snowball. “You start the bottom, I’ll handle the head.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You trust me with the foundation?”

“Of course. You’re the architect here, aren’t you?” he teased, his grin warm and inviting.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you got to work. The snow was perfect, soft enough to mold but firm enough to hold its shape. You began rolling the snowball across the ground, watching it grow larger and larger. Meanwhile, Jayce fashioned the middle and top sections, his gloved hands moving with practiced ease.

“Hey,” he called out after a while, his voice tinged with amusement. “Is this snowman going to rival the height of the council tower? Because it’s looking like you’re aiming for a structural masterpiece.”

You stepped back, admiring your work. The base was enormous, almost up to your waist. “Bigger is better ,” you retorted with a grin, dusting the snow off your gloves. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

Jayce chuckled, hoisting the midsection of the snowman in his arms. “Fair point. But if this guy topples over, I’m blaming the architect.”

You laughed as he carefully balanced the second snowball on top of the base. “You’re not exactly the most careful engineer I know, Jayce. Remember that time you accidentally launched yourself across the workshop?”

“That was one time!” he shot back, laughing as he adjusted the snowball until it was perfectly centered. “And I still say it was an unintended success.”

“You’re lucky I was there to catch you,” you teased, rolling up the final snowball for the head. Jayce stepped aside to help you lift it, his hands brushing against yours as you both placed it on top. The snowman took shape quickly, its proportions absurdly exaggerated but undeniably charming. Jayce pulled a handful of random gadgets and bolts from his pocket, because of course he carried those everywhere, and started sticking them into the snowman’s torso.

“What are you doing?” you asked, watching in disbelief as he carefully attached a cogwheel where a button might go.

“Improving him,” Jayce said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Every snowman deserves a touch of innovation.”

You snorted. “This is why you can’t leave well enough alone.”

“I prefer to think of it as creativity,” he said, leaning back to admire his work. “What do you think? Too much?” The snowman now looked like a combination between a friendly holiday figure and an early prototype from Jayce’s workshop. His scarf draped around its neck (stolen from Jayce’s coat), the twig arms were bent at jaunty angles, and the “buttons” were a mismatched collection of gears and screws.

“It’s… unique to say the least,” you said, stifling a laugh. “But he needs a name. How about… Buddy?”

Jayce grinned. “I like it. He’s definitely our buddy now.”

The two of you stood back, admiring your creation. The late morning sun glinted off the snow. But then, out of nowhere, a snowball hit you square in the shoulder. “Jayce!” you yelped, spinning around to see him grinning mischievously, another snowball already in his hand.

“Consider it a christening for Buddy,” he said with a wink, launching the second snowball toward you.

You dodged, laughing, and scooped up some snow of your own. “Oh, you’re going to regret that!” The next few minutes devolved into a chaotic snowball fight. You darted behind trees, narrowly avoiding Jayce’s throws while lobbing your own with surprising accuracy. He wasn’t as agile as you, but his aim was scarily good, and more than once you ended up covered in snow.

When you finally called a truce, you were both breathless and laughing, your cheeks pink from the cold and exertion. Jayce flopped onto the snow, spreading his arms and legs to make a snow angel.

“Not bad,” he said between breaths. “But I think I won.”

“You wish,” you said, collapsing beside him. “I hit you way more times than you hit me.”

“Debatable,” he replied, turning his head to look at you. His brown eyes sparkled with warmth, and his smile was softer now, less mischievous. The two of you lay there in the snow, staring up at the pale blue sky. The world felt quiet, the only sounds the distant laughter of children and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

“Thanks for dragging me out here,” Jayce said after a while. “I needed this.”

You turned your head to face him, your breath visible in the cold air. “Me too. It’s nice to just... be for a while. No council meetings, experiments, or deadlines.”

“Just you, me, and our little Buddy,” he said with a chuckle, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. You felt your cheeks grow warmer, though whether it was from the cold or something else, you weren’t sure. “And the cookies,” you reminded him, sitting up and reaching for the box he’d brought.

Jayce sat up too, brushing snow from his coat. “Right. Can’t forget about the cookies.” The two of you sat together, sharing cookies and sipping hot cocoa from the thermos. Buddy stood proudly nearby, a testament to your combined (if slightly chaotic) efforts. Pulling off your gloves, cradling the thermos in your hands. The warmth seeped through your fingers as you took a sip, the rich, sweet cocoa melting the chill in your bones. Jayce opened the box of cookies, offering you one before taking one for himself.

"These are so good,” you said, savoring the buttery sweetness.

“Told you Mrs. Halloway knows her stuff,” Jayce replied, his grin boyish as he took a large bite. “Snowball fights and cookies. Best day off ever.”

You leaned back, watching Buddy stand proudly in the distance. “I think we outdid ourselves with that snowman,” you said.

Jayce glanced at it, a playful smile on his face. “He’s definitely got personality. Though next year, I’m thinking we add some light-up features. Maybe a mini hammer.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course you are. But fine, as long as I get to handle the design.”

“Deal,” he said, raising his cookie like a toast.

As the two of you sat there, sharing cookies and warm drinks, the soft glow of the setting sun painted the snow in shades of gold and pink. It was a rare, perfect moment of peace, one you knew you’d carry with you through the busier days ahead. And in the quiet of the winter evening, with Jayce’s laughter still echoing in your ears, you realized this was what you loved most about him: his ability to make even the simplest moments unforgettable.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Jayce pulled his scarf from the snowman and wrapped it around your shoulders instead.

“You’re going to freeze,” you protested, but he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’re the one who dragged me out here, so it’s only fair that I make sure you stay warm.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, leaning into his side as he slung an arm around you. “Same time next year?” he asked, his tone light but hopeful.

“Maybe, as long as you aren't late.” you agreed, smiling as you watched the last light of day fade behind the snow-covered trees.

taglist. @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights @writingwisterias

[skxrbrand]

He's gently, wearily, brushing the tuft of his tail...

[bunicate]

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅. al haitham x fem reader

warnings ꒱ hybrid au . bunny reader. bath-time with haithy ! fingering. subtle hand kink. fluff ﾉ wc ꒱ 2.4k ﾉ 18+

al haitham finds himself lost in his own musings more often these past moons. instead of his mind circling around any new wonder of the world, he’s recalling small moments enough times that distract him from his usual thinking.

at first, he tried to organize such thoughts into some semblance of order and question why they appeared in the first place until he realized for once, that he didn’t need an answer. he didn’t want one.

while peeling apart that revelation— scraping away at the edges, he wondered if doing so would give him that same sweetness or grant him the seeds to plant more. somehow it was the latter.

the seeds sprouted prickly vines that sunk into both his heart and mind.

now al haitham spends his walk home just remembering tiny exchanges down to the most minute detail. the meeting of fingertips, eyes squinting from the blinding warmth, sleep woven into each wrinkle, frown, and soft giggle.

the scribe had become even more reluctant to be pulled away from his own thinking, but he makes an exception when the one occupying his thoughts excitedly appears before him.

just seconds after he steps through the door of his home, he’s ripped away from his reverie. al haitham is nearly sent back into the outdoors from the solid weight that collides against him. he uncharacteristically loses his footing and the hardwood floor might’ve been his fate if not for his fast reflexes.

pillowy arms latch tightly around his slender waist and fluffy ears tickle his abdomen. face nuzzling into his lower stomach, carelessly grazing his groin, you whine, “haitham . . . you’re finally back.”

the smell of his scent mingled with the aroma of the desert warms your senses. leftover speckles of the granular sand on his clothes poke at your skin, and yet you pull him closer.

“I missed you sooooo much.”

he nods, “I’ve returned.”

you tilt up to look at him with your dolly eyes that enamor him. eyes that once belonged to a creature that only sparked his curiosity was now a companion.

his hand rests on your head, careful to put it between your floppy ears. the tip of his fingers scratch and caress the surface and he’s rewarded with your expectant purr.

your tail flits from the bubbling eagerness to receive more of his affection. he recalls his roommate chiding him for not being soft enough with you, but he begged to differ.

reminded of the blonde, he wonders aloud, “is kaveh here?”

al haitham doesn’t make a habit of thinking about the architect, but he’s grown wary. it seemed like kaveh had also fixed his attention to you. a ribbon unfamiliar to al haitham adorns your hair and there could only be one person responsible.

“mhm! he’s in his room.”

eyes run down the curves of your body. his oversized shirt did nothing but define the slopes of your breast and rise above your tail perched above your butt.

“what did I say about your clothes ?”

arms falling to your sides, your lips jut out into a tempting pout. “I know what you said, but I’m wearing panties this time,” you petulantly mumble.

you had a terrible habit of walking around completely bare. while the loose shirt was a step up from complete nudity, he didn't need kaveh to see anything else. he recalls the architect walking in on your naked body on multiple occasions.

“I suppose,” he hums. “still, I’d prefer if he didn’t catch any more glimpses of you.”

you chuckle lightheartedly at the man displaying clear signs of jealousy, but it’s interrupted by a yawn. your head shakes reactively trying to rid your body of the drowsiness and play it off in an effort to fool the scribe into letting you stay up later but, nothing made it past him.

“it is rather late. let’s get you to bed. '' he reaches out to hold your hand, but you don't take it.

head tilted to the side you ask, “I need to take a bubble bath first ! are you gonna come?”

you lean closer to him, fullest parts pressing against his athletic frame in a cute attempt to entice him , but he shakes his head. ever the busiest scribe.

“I have some paperwork to finish and I wanted to catch up on some light reading before I retire for the night .”

your ears droop.

“but–”

your ears perk back up.

“I could help you, if that’s what you want,” he offers.

you instantly spring back to life. “oh yes, please!” you squeal excitedly, grabbing his hand to lead him noisily up the stairs. nearly tripping over yourself, still you drag him to the bathroom.

“be careful,” he scolds, but you just laugh at his tense and worried expression.

shutting the door after you both enter, you hop up on the counter and wait patiently.

al haitham shakes his head, a ghost of a smile forming. he takes off his gloves and rests them on the cluttered sink. this mess was undoubtedly your doing, and he makes a note to bring it up later. he turns on the hot water and when it rises a bit higher, he dips his hand to feel the temperature and he's quick to pull it out. he preferred the water to be much more tepid while you liked it to be boiling.

he senses your eyes on him watching as he pours the vanilla-scented soap into the water waiting for the bubbles to form into clouds.

when he finally turns to face you, he’s met with a bright smile only you could own. not a word was spoken. silence was enough to consume the delicate air between the both of you .

you decide to hop off the counter and pull the cotton t-shirt off your body. al haitham moves to crouch, resting on his knee to pull down your underwear. your hand leans on his shoulder as you take your time to step out of the undergarment.

left foot first and then the right.

you do a little hop when you almost lose your balance, but he steadies you, staring at your bare cunt.

you turn your back to him and he ogles at your ass before standing to his full height. towering over you and standing close behind, you feel his breath grazing your neck. agile fingers sweep your hair towards your shoulder blades, tickling the warmth of your skin to unhook your necklace that acted as a collar. he places the fine jewelry on the sink and extends his arm towards you once more.

you place your hand between his and he leads you to the tub. you submerge yourself completely in the water and al haitham plays with the bubbles before washing you up.

you both use the moment to admire each other's features. gray-ish hair hovers over his eyes that betray no emotion and still you can make out his affections. your gaze trails down to his nose, lips, and wide shoulders. the muscles in his arms flex as he drags the soapy cloth along your body and you bask in the moment before he decides to break the silence.

“what did you do today?” the cloth glides over your chest, easily soothing you.

“nothin’ much. kaveh came home early and he bought me a slice of cake.”

of course he did. kaveh always had a tendency to obsess over pretty things so it was only natural that he’d flock to you– a cute and helpless bunny. ever since this place has equally become your home kaveh wasn’t good at being discreet. his touches lingered for far too long and al haitham became keen on how much time kaveh spent with you while he was away at the akademiya. but he could at least feel secure knowing you were safe.

hybrids, a species often neglected and exploited needed to be protected, and he guessed he could rest easy knowing he had another pair of capable hands to rely on.

“h-haithy !”

your sudden cry lures him out of yet another daydream but this time he’s flustered. he understands the alarm in your eyes when he realizes how close his hand was to your nether regions, crassly nudging your cunt for the past few minutes.

he exhales and sputters at the sight and he’s quick to pull his arm away, but you stop him. it’s the first you’ve seen him taken aback and you want to tease him like he does to you , but you can’t—not when desire engulfs you to the point of ruin.

“n-no ! . . . leave it please ?”

both of your hands tug his further into the water, knees coming closer together around his his limb, just until you feel that graze against heat.

al haitham remains quiet, closely watching your next move to see what you’d do now. your head reclines back to rest on the tile wall, your fingers guide his own to your middle, and with steady humps against his wrist you feel relief that rids that redundant ache.

“. ‘haitham, can we? . . just for a little bit ?”

he didn’t think he could say no even in a light-hearted jest.

you nearly collapse in on yourself when you finally feel him becoming receptive to your inclination.

his fingers feathers at the seam of your lips. instead of making it easy for you, he’d rather give you the tools to bring yourself to your own high. he would only give you a running start.

his palms slide up cupping and then squeezing the plumpness of your cunt. it fits perfectly in his hand, hot and sticky even when submerged under the water. a finger slides down to settle on your clit, circular rubs turn into slow strokes. if you wanted to feel more, you’d have to work for it yourself.

your small hand wraps around his wrists trying to feel more of him. “hnnn . . want them inside, haithy.”

he’s deliberately pressing down on the sensitive bulb hoping to draw out your cute moans, ignoring your simple request. al haitham's gaze is glued to your tummy folding over and your spread legs. between them is perfect pussy spoiled and eager to receive more of his touch.

his digits slide down your outer lips to press down on your hole. probing it, teasing it until it twitches greedily for more. he moves around the orifice collecting slick that struggles to disperse in the water.

“ haitham . . .” you beg. his eyes flicker to your pleading ones. lip tucked under your teeth and brows drawn tight, your chest expands as you greedily suck in air, hips gyrating into his palm hoping for him to satisfy you. “please.”

he smirks and to your luck, two fingers enter and stretch you. long and nimble things your pussy takes the shape of. they scissor and separate to feel the heaviness of your walls clamping down.

“so tight.”

the veins in his flexing arm are prominent. you see the force behind his movements as well as feel it. his biceps bulge while his fingers jerk you to completion . the sounds of you the splashing water and your whiny moans further arouse you

“you’re close to cumming already ?” he provokes. “ from just my fingers, too. it seems I must train you just a bit more.”

the bass in his voice sends a tremor down your spine. his words of encouragement provoke more of your thoughtless pants and the swivel of your hips. just a bit more—more of his knuckles stretching your walls, more of those eyes you fell in love with looking back at you with an unspoken, ravenous haze.

it makes you bashful. your damp bunny ears fall over your eyes, shielding them from his hungry stare.

“oh?” his expression darkens and his tone drips in a taunting and authoritative tone.

“are you hiding from me now ?”

it should make you quiver, but you know him well enough by now. as stoic as he may appear, the caress of your folds tell a different story.

you foolishly part your mouth to audibly confirm but a broken gasp escapes at the coil slowly winding up inside of you.

“you shouldn’t be so shy. wouldn’t you rather see who’s making you writhe? don’t you want to see how you’re fucking my hand like a wild bunny rabbit in heat?”

your hair sticks to your face from the steamy room and the sweat that gleams your skin. you pull your floppy ears away from your eyes and you’re met with the sight of his handsome face. contrary to his expression, the sight before him acted as a fire, melting him into remnants of himself.

his cock twitches against his snug pants, itching to enter your gooey cunt. how well you’d behave— how obedient you’ll be when he seats you on his member and you’ll hop up and down like good bunnies are supposed to.

with how generously your pussy has been tugging on his fingers, he’s more than willing to test that theory.

your eyes are tempted to screw shut but you want to watch. sensing your conflict, al haitham nods in approval to coax you.

“that’s more like it. you’re hard to resist when you’re so obedient.”

his fingers work themselves inside of you, precise thrusts, muscles defined and on display. he’s so . . . big, so filling and you might just lose it.

a prolonged gasp echoes as your thighs squeeze around his muscular arm. the continuous strokes of your sticky walls forces you upright into a sweltering mess. your pussy’s throbbing quickens erratically until he feels the rhythm steady out into a slow pulse— suckles that pulls his digits deeper toward yours sacred spot until you couldn’t anymore.

your senses fail when his thumb rubs your little clit to help drag out your end. you were nothing but a drooly and overstimulated shell of yourself, with meek moans falling from your mouth.

“yeah, that’s a good girl.”

he doesn’t stop milking you. his other hand reaches out to scratch behind your furry ears in praise while you crumble to pieces. he carefully removes his fingers from inside of you and pats your pussy that puffed from his ministrations. it pulsated around nothing—twitching like a bunny’s nose.

“I’d say you’re more than satisfied.”

you’re exhausted and still you nuzzle into his palm. what was once supposed to be a relaxing bath was now a drawn-out session of your dear owner playing with your sore cunt. still he admires your tired and spent state moving to actually get you clean this time.

“let’s get you to bed.”

[museofthepyre]

“Our muse was never truly alone. I was always here… to watch him. To have him. To know his beauty in a way our poor Architect never will.”

(alt versions below cut, this one’s a bit messy but oh well)

[easy-there-leftovers]

Magnum Opus (Prologue)

When an MIT prodigy on their gap year is contacted by the FBI regarding potential involvement in a series of murders in Washington D.C., she must now cooperate to uncover how paintings are mysteriously appearing at the crime scenes. (Written with Season 1-4 Spencer in mind, but the timeline could be anywhere pre-season 12. No mentions of past cases)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist! reader|cw: Canon-typical violence|word count: 700 words

Notes: I made up a bunch of chemicals and their chemical properties up so shhhh!! Also, I'm not American, I have no contextual understanding of the distance of one place to another. The US is large enough.

Also on Ao3!!

Series Masterlist

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"Muses are the silent artists of our souls, whispering inspiration into the canvas of our thoughts, painting the colors of creativity with the brushstrokes of imagination." - Author Unknown.

“Seven months ago, one freelance architect named James Carter aged 42 was murdered in his own home in Newton Massachusetts. The victim was posed like the painting placed at the foot of his own couch. All forms of ID on him were missing.” 

JJ made her way from the map inside the meeting room to the screen to present pictures of the crime scene. All other agents made their way inside, with Garcia jotting down notes, as they listened and took their respective places.

“Four months after that, indie artist Daniel Lopez, aged 25, was also found dead in her apartment with another painting and missing ID. Posed just like the girl in it too. Autopsy revealed similar entry and exit wounds through the chest.” 

Images of the victims’ wounds that have already been cleaned up were exposed to the camera. Wounds that could’ve been missed if investigations weren’t conducted made themselves notable as Emily and Spencer opened up their files.

“Ballistics?” 

JJ shook her head at Morgan's question. “No bullets were found.”

“The unsub probably killed them somewhere secluded, then placed them back in their home.” Emily looked to Spencer, only to see him already getting up towards the screen.

“Look at the way they’re dressed. Clothes fitted like that aren’t meant to be worn without the intention of meeting someone.”  Spencer motioned to their clothes. “They didn’t plan to go just anywhere looking like that.”

“Yeah, well neither did this man.” JJ then presented a picture of another victim, another male, another painting, posed in another home. She then turned to redress the rest of the team. “Found yesterday with similar signatures. The only difference is that he was actually staged in a vacant apartment. Everything in there was left by the previous owners. Still no ID on him.”

The resident team genius furrowed his eyebrows at the information, turning to see what the others thought. “Kills both males and females…”

“Victims were found with their clothes on. Dressed to impress but no signs of torture, no experimentation,” Hotch lifted the pictures nearer to his face. “Doesn’t look like he’s interested in either.”

“A serial killer with no sexual preference?” Emily raised her brow at that.

“Wouldn’t be the first.” Spencer replied, looking closer at the paintings in his own file. “Although the subjects in the paintings look exactly like the victims they’re placed on. It brings up the question of which one came first, the person depicted in the painting, or the painting itself…”

“Says here forensics found no prints anywhere but did find traces of  5…dur– durasta—”

“Penta-durastalene. Also known as ‘Lunacite.’” Spencer corrected Rossi.

“Actually, this synthetic compound is a little on the newer side, a compound that was originally developed by an MIT student for their dissertation in the Chemical Engineering program. I tried figuring out what the naming convention she used was but she didn’t give an explanation on that part. I assumed it could’ve been one out of a number of references, ranging from an anagram of—”

“How new are we talking?” Hotch interrupted, but deeply thankful that someone on the team seemed to have a lead.

“13 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days new. But it’s weird.” Spencer punctuates his statement by flicking through the papers. 

“The compound shouldn’t be commercially available anywhere and it’s meant to make other materials resistant to corrosion. No one should be using it in paint, let alone processing it.” The team let his words ring in their head before Hotch broke the silence.

“Garcia, look for MIT graduates who have worked with Lunacite and a background in fine arts.”

“Already way ahead of you chief, and deliciously, only one name fits the bill in every angle you can have it.” Their tech analyst who had been typing away then placed her laptop pointedly and turned it onto the round table for everyone to see. Everyone leans forward, but the BAU’s resident pretty boy is the one who says the name out loud.

“Y/N L/N.” On the screen is a put-together picture of you on various digital scans of your passport, driver’s license, doctoral degrees in Chemical Engineering and Anthropology, and undergrad degrees in both Philosophy and Sociology.

“Watch out, pretty boy. You may have just found your match.” Morgan’s comment is greeted with a few snickers, much to Spencer’s dismay.

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