#temporary architecture

[moodboardmix]

'Garage Screen' Cinema,

Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, Moscow, Russia,

Studio SNKH 

[derearchiviatoria]

Expansion of the Zachęta national gallery of art Warsaw, Poland 1958 Oskar Hansen (1922–2005)

[arc-hus]

Atelier Hawkesbury, Lovett Bay, Australia - Leopold Banchini

[spurloser]

[catboyrightsdefender]

is it even worth applying for this job smh

[retfalvi]

„Lakni kell!” - 2019 köztéri installáció

Típus: megvalósult terv, építészet, installáció Megvalósulás éve: 2014 Megvalósulás helye: Széchenyi tér, Pécs, Magyarország Alkotók: Rétfalvi Donát, Dányi Tibor Zoltán, Szintén Bianka

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of mail order soldier könig)

Despite everything, you really weren’t ready for how big he was.

Sure, his profile had mentioned it- “tall” in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected “tall” in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5’10” in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: König didn’t just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure who’d been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.

You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had been… an ordeal. König didn’t drive. You hadn’t even gotten far enough to ask why. It could’ve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didn’t drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of König, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.

You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. “Five stars and I’ll make sure he doesn’t flay you.”

The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.

Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. König had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.

The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. König climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaints… though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.

When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: “This is… home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.”

König said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.

You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. “You can sit. If it holds.”

It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. König, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian “sorry.”

“…Okay. Floor’s fine too. Floor is classic.”

He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.

And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.

Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-it’s-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.

Your ex-fiancé.

You turned slowly to König, who had stilled completely. His body didn’t move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.

“Okay,” you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. “This is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, it’s a narcissistic man with commitment issues.”

König tilted his head slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?

You held up one finger. “Let’s just… see what he wants first.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to peek through and block most of König’s terrifying silhouette. And there he was. Your ex-fiancé, smug as ever with his hair gelled within an inch of its life, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a gold chain that you were pretty sure had been repossessed twice.

“Hey, babe,” he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had König with you. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I changed phones,” you replied instantly. “And numbers. And species.”

He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve been thinking-”

And that was when König rose. Not stood, but rose.

The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your ex’s attention span. Your ex’s expression did a full software reboot.

“…Who the hell is that?”

You offered a cheerful shrug. “Oh, that’s König. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.”

König took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.

Your ex-fiancé made a sound- a half-choked, half-whined hiccup that suggested his ego had just herniated. Still, he tried to rally. Puffing his chest. “I’m not scared of him, okay? You think you can threaten me with some… some cosplaying lunatic?”

König stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.

The air grew heavy.

Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. “Y-you know what? This is toxic. You’re toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!”

König tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.

Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t had time to finish.

“We’ll talk later!”

No, we won’t.

You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.

König turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .

You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. “A+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!”

He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.

Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if you’d handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.

You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half to yourself, “this might actually work out.”

He didn’t reply, but he did lean a little closer.

“What d’you want for lunch?” You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.

“We gotta keep you big and thick, König! So just say what you’d like.”

…he was staring a little too intently at you, actually. You kind of felt like you were kinning your ex-fiancé in this moment.

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

So, pack up your car, put a hand in your heart, sing what ever you feel, be wherever you are

We ain't angry at you love. ⋆·˚ ༘ *

The pain of the neglected soul. Under the heavy mood lingering in the manor. An architectural design that screams wealth but is never wealthy with love and laughter. well, at least not to the second youngest child of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy, the most powerful man in Gotham City.

Being a product of a mistake between an infamous prostitute and a well-known, almost "celebrity"-like man was not really an ideal life. Being shunned away by the woman who you call Mom, who's supposed to whisper sweet words to you and rock your fragile body back and forth to ease you of whatever you feel bad about, instead shoves you into the arms of an unknown man who's your supposed father. Yeah, that sucks.You've always adored your mom. Despite the horrible words she casually whispers to you - "you ruined me, kid"—you turn a blind eye to her actions and act deaf to her cruel words and instead pretend that she's the mom who loves you and adores you just as much as you do for her. Because it was better. It just was. Your brain can't really process the fact that your abusive mother can be abusive. No, not when she was the one who carried you for 273 days, birthed you, and gave you your name. A 5-year-old's brain can't possibly carry the thought of having that same woman hate you. So even when it was your birthday, you waited for her all day to come home and give you kisses and maybe a birthday cupcake or present. just for once, she comes home drunk, messy, and dizzy with a man on her arms while laughing feverishly. It crazy to think that was the most happiest you've seen her; she was always scowling when she was with you. Strange. Even so you greet her with a hug. "Momma, I've been waiting for you all day—" she cuts you off and tells you to get away from her and calls you this strange name "annoying" huh. Wonder what that means. And for the next hours you spend your birthday alone, in your bedroom. Awake and hungry. But it doesn't matter at least mom came home! Sometimes she doesn't even come home for a few days, but she came home today! That means she must love you. Only for a few days she stays at home with the strange man she brought home on the day of your birthday. It doesn't bother you, it was normal after all. She always do this and then after a few days the man's gone. Yeah, this is just temporary. You say as you clean the house full of dirty clothes and empty alcohol bottles. And then one night the strange man is yelling at your mom; screams filled the tiny apartment with smashing sounds of bottles echoing around the room. You're furious, and you want to defend the woman who you oh so lovingly call "mother" You push the man away, and it angers him. With his bloodshot eyes, he grabbed the bottle and smashed it at the side of your tiny head. You soon wake up in a large room with bright lights and thick white walls. Soon you find out that you're in a hospital; its so cool, it's the size of your living room! Maybe even bigger… Moments later you found out that your mother gave you up to some unknown man who is to be called your "father.". You thrash and scream against the nurse's hold and scream for your mommy, yet she never came.A strange man came and introduced himself. He said he was "Alfred" and said from now on he will take care of you. That's silly because no one in your entire life has had someone take care of you. Soon he drives you to a gloomy big house with lots of statues as Alfred proceeds to tell you that this will be your new home now. Different portraits adorn the walls, and shiny pottery and impressive works of art fill the house. Alfred soon introduced you to your father, Bruce Wayne. Now this is where it all starts. With your new home, hope sparked through your heart, and you believed that somehow, someway, maybe you'll be able to get the love that you have always longed for, yearned for, waited for.

Wrong.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the most powerful man of Gotham, the heartthrob, the Batman, but never the father of y/n l/n. He doesn't even know you. Doesn't even try to acknowledge you and your hard work, desperate to try anything to make him pay attention to you. To give you the attention you crave and yearn for ever since you arrived at the comfort of his home. You weren't stupid. You knew who he was and his nightly activities. You understood. But what hurts was that despite this, he managed to give every. Single. One. Of his children, attention except you. Was it because you weren't like them? Was it because you didn't fight bad guys for a hobby? Or was it because he never deemed you worthy of his time? Why? Were all the things the kids and big adults whispered behind your back true? That you were a child of a whore and you were bound to become one too over a matter of time? Was it true you'll never compare to your siblings? Being compared to your siblings, who had so much talent and had their own special abilities that yours can't compare to, was draining—and partially true. Your little ballet classes can never impress bruce over his other children's combat skills, multilingual abilities, and genius calculations. And you learned to accept that over the years as you grew up.

Richard grayson, dick, the loving big brother, the family guy. Maybe he was a good guy. After all, he managed to acknowledge you for about 6 seconds one time! He even asked you about your ballet classes! Though that was only to distract his self before Damian came. Always the big brother and Lil brother duo! .. Despite being busy with being a full-time cop and a vigilante, he still makes time for family, the ones he considers as family. Not you, never you. Who were you kidding? Dick is the star of the show, and you're just another side character in his main character life! Just a plain, old, boring bystander. That's all you will ever be to little Richard Grayson's glam life story.

Jason todd was different. He was known as someone who was brutal and full of anger. So it was no problem for him to shove you and tell you off. He had no conscience in telling you to go away, and you liked that. You like the fact that at least he had the decency to not give you false hope. Jason todd hates you, and you know it. Jason todd is jealous of your normalcy and how oblivious you are to the danger of the world. In his eyes, you were his replacement; looking at you makes the green monster of envy crawl out of him and take his anger out on you. The way you are so vulnerable stirs something up inside of him, and he realizes that your eyes look just like his when he was full of wonder and innocence. It made him restless and irritated. It reminded him of his mistakes, foolishness, and those memories he buried deep inside his mind to save him from countless nightmares he desperately ran away from.

Timothy Drake, the genius Robin, the hero by choice, the prodigy son. You would be lying if you said that you weren't jealous of Tim at all. I mean, look at him! He's a genius, a hero, a heartthrob, and a role model to several youths of Gotham. He was exactly like Bruce, and I mean exactly like Bruce. His life revolved around solving crimes, fighting bad guys, acing all of his tests, and coffee. Anything was more important other than you. Sure! He has time to cuddle with his family for movie night (without you, of course) but never has the time to play video games with you. Everything seemed to send thrills to his veins and spark an interest in him except your very existence. If you were just a mere bystander in Dick's story, you weren't even in Tim's!

Cassandra. The girl of the family. You have always envied her. Not only was she the only girl of the family and doted on by every single one of your brothers, but you and she also shared the same interest. What's even more infuriating was that she didn't even have to try. She didn't have to beg countless times to have anyone attend her performances because they were all there. Even Jason, who hid in the shadows. They were all there to support her and show her the love you have always asked for, begged for. She swooned all of them with her dancing, and you can't help that maybe her hands are more gentle, maybe her feet are more pointed, maybe her posture is more straight than yours, maybe she's prettier than you, maybe she's more worth than you.

And finally. Damian al Ghul Wayne. The youngest son, the baby brother, the scarred child loved by his family. When Damian came into the manor, you were thrilled. You thought that maybe you and he could bond over the same trauma. Maybe finally someone can understand you.You thought wrong again. Damian thought you were weak and a disgrace to the bloodline of the Wayne family clan. He called you thousands of cruel names and insulted you whenever he had the chance to. He always belittled you and showed you no mercy, going as far as to drag the blade of his sword across your neck, drawing blood, just for him to cruelly laugh in your face and tell you that you are being dramatic. You forgave him. You were a good kid. Right? So why is it that a kid who made thousands of innocent lives bleed through his sword is sitting with his father—your father—on the couch, sleeping soundly on his chest? It's not fair.

They were never fair.

As Dick was checking the CCTV footage of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage—about 2 weeks ago—of a person packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates; it's impossible. Unless…Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed in on the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled, and his eyes dilated.

It can't be.

[unsolicited-opinions]

Anyone want to defend this as antizionist, not antisemitic..? Anyone?

Anticipated Responses from Western Leftist "Pro-Palestinian" Folks:

This smells like a false flag. Mossad must have thrown that brick.

Being pro-Palestinian doesn't mean we're anti-Semitic. It just means sometimes windows need to be broken for liberation.

This is property damage, not violence. Violence is when someone disagrees with me.

Why does a kosher store automatically mean it's a Jewish space? Could've been a coincidence. Besides, Jews stole kashrut from Islam.

Well, did the store post anything about Gaza? Because silence is violence too.

Maybe the brick was a metaphor. Ever think of that? Art can be confrontational.

Windows are temporary - oppression isn't.

We can't be certain of the intent. Maybe they just really hate deli meats.

The real crime is people trying to center Jewish feelings during a genocide.

Zionists are trying to weaponize this to distract from dead Palestinian babies.

Not all Jews are Zionists, but all Zionists play the victim.

We condemn all violence - except when it's against systems of oppression like kosher grocery stores.

Okay but why is everyone talking about this when Rafah is being bombed?

This is what happens when people feel unheard. Don’t blame the oppressed for lashing out.

Let’s not jump to conclusions until we know the full context, like whether the store sold Sabra hummus.

Even if it was one of ours, can you really blame them?

'Free Palestine' isn't hate speech. That window was on the wrong side of history.

Stop centering Jewish trauma.

Wow, can’t believe people care more about one window than an entire blockade. Y’all are the real oppressors.

The store's called The Butcherie?? Sounds pretty colonial to me. And appropriating Lesbian culture.

How do we even know it was a real brick? Could’ve been CGI.

Jewish businesses need to check their complicity before calling the cops. That's carceral Zionism.

If Jews feel unsafe, maybe they should try being pro-Palestine for once.

If the owners aren't Zionists, this is bad...

This is a distraction campaign by the settler-industrial deli complex.

Antisemitism? No, that’s just a term Zionists use to silence dissent and…bagel lovers.

People always call these things 'antisemitic' just because they target Jews.

Technically it's anti-Zionist architecture critique. Read Fanon.

If you think a brick with 'Free Palestine' thrown through a window is hate, maybe the real issue is your internalized Zionism.

Please share your own predicted responses.

[miinxiee]

envy, darling °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you bond with a familiarly charming npc on a heist adventure, much to jax’s dismay.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: unspecified gender, established relationshipa bit of angst if you squint, maybe ooc im very sleep deprived writing this

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

you knew something was off the second jax didn’t make a joke.

the new adventure seemed normal enough— bright lights, disjointed architecture, some theme caine would over explain and then abandon halfway through. this one was simply named “THE HEIST”, and the premise was classic: sneak into a vault, collect shiny nonsense, and boom, mission accomplished.

nothing new.

well, except for the new guy.

caine poofed him into existence with fanfare: tall, fox-faced, a too-wide grin stitched onto a too-smooth voice. he was dressed like a magician who got lost on the way to a poker tournament. he seemed too familiar.

“slick!” caine declared. “your infiltration expert-slash-roguish wildcard-slash-totally-not-misleading-at-all sidekick!”

“pleasure,” slick said, flicking his coat with flair.

you weren’t impressed. you weren’t annoyed either.

zooble groaned.

ragatha offered a polite smile and wave.

jax? nothing.

not even a “wow, this loser’s trying way too hard” or a smirk.

he stood beside you, silent, one brow slightly raised, and said absolutely nothing.

something seemed a little off about his whole demeanor, but you dismissed it. you really didn’t think much of it.

at first.

the group was split up, and you were paired with slick.

jax didn’t object — just turned and walked off when caine announced it. no biting comment. no sarcastic farewell. just a weirdly quick exit.

you blinked after him. then hesitantly followed slick down the corridor.

your task was to apparently disarm the alarms. slick was agile, cocky, kind of charming in that ‘i’ve never been beaten and it shows’ sort of way. you rolled your eyes more than once, but he kept the pace light. easy to talk to. clever in a way that didn’t feel exhausting. he was nice, even if he was temporary.

“you’ve got good instincts,” he said, crouching beside you as you both inspected a puzzle lock. “you’re either very smart or very lucky.”

“little bit of both.” you said shortly.

“modest. i like it.”

you snorted. “well aren’t you sweet.”

“not as sweet as you.” corny sure, so much so that it pulled a small laugh out of you.

he jokingly winked. you shook your head and rolled your eyes yet again. how cliché.

you found that slick was a likable guy after more friendly banter, but there was one thing that stuck you. besides appearances, he was exactly like jax. almost.

you didn’t want to say he was nicer, just less.. harsh. he was nice sure, you just felt there was just something missing from your interactions. whatever, you were probably just looking too much into it.

you were laughing.

slick said something about the guard being built like a toaster with legs. dumb. harmless, even. but funny

at the sound of your sweet laughter, jax looked over his shoulder at you with a grin that quickly dissipated as his gaze trailed to slick.

and you swear something in his whole posture changed.

not dramatic— no twitchy ears or narrowed eyes. just… quieter. more alert.

like he was deciding if he wanted to blow something up.

“oh, look,” he said as you approached him, voice flat. “you made a friend, y’gonna take him out for dinner later?”

you blinked. “we’re just doing the ad-”

“sure,” he said. “didn’t know flirting was part of the strategy.”

“flirting? what are you talking about jax?” you were genuinely confused.

slick gave a polite, clueless smile. “is there an issue?”

“not at all,” jax said, tilting his head. “i just think it’s cute how fast some people lower their standards.”

you raised an eyebrow. “jax.”

“what?” he said innocently. “i mean come on! he’s just like me, but without the edge. or the originality. or the good looks.”

so jax noticed it too. maybe you weren’t overthinking it.

slick said nothing, just glanced your way with a look that said is he always like this?

you didn’t answer.

because... you had never seen jax so bitter towards an npc before.

the next twenty minutes were exhausting.

jax started triggering puzzles out of order. tripping traps for fun. talking over ragatha so much to the point where she looked like she wanted to pull the yarn out of her head. ‘accidentally’ tossing an important puzzle piece down a vent.

he laughed at his own antics louder than usual, but it was shallow. it lacked enjoyment. you were starting to get the sense that he wasn’t actually having fun.

after slick cracked the final lock, you were the one who opened the vault.

adventure all done. mission accomplished.

caine cheered. confetti exploded. a new useless prize was announced.

you turned to slick, out of habit, to offer a high-five or a ‘hey, nice job’ but jax was already between you.

“wow,” he said, smiling way too wide. “really earned that fake trophy, huh?”

you narrowed your eyes. “you good?”

“peachy,” he said simply, and dragged you off to the portal.

you shot one last look over your shoulder at slick, waving cheerily at you. he was back into background npc status like most one-off characters did.

as you stumbled out of the portal, you turned back toward the hall — where jax had disappeared.

you decided to leave him alone for the time being, but after nagging thoughts and an aching conscience, you later found him in his room sitting on the edge of his bed.

his back was to you, hunched down and feet swinging ever so slightly.

he didn’t turn around when you sat down beside him.

“something on your mind?” you asked.

“nope.”

“oh okay,” you shrugged, before you narrowed your eyes at him, “liar.”

you both sat in silence.

then he muttered, “you laughed at his jokes.”

you raised your eyebrows. “seriously?”

he didn’t look at you. “i’m just saying. they weren’t even good.”

you tilted your head. “you’re mad i laughed at him?”

“i’m not mad,” he said too quickly.

“you’re mad-adjacent.”

“i just think it’s weird.”

“what is?”

“that you laughed,” he said. “like, full-on laughed. you don’t even laugh at me that much.”

“you make me laugh all time time jax! just not when you’re being an ass, and you’re an ass a lot jax, you know that,” you sighed.

“still,” he said. “you just laughed at anything he said, and he was practically all over you.”

“first of all, he was not all over me, and second, you’re really mad because i laughed at somebody else?”

“i’m not—” he started, then stopped. “you know what? yeah. maybe i am.”

you paused.

“you sound jealous.”

he didn’t say anything.

you leaned a little closer. “you are jealous.”

“i’m annoyed.”

“because someone else was around for two seconds and i got along with him?”

he finally turned toward you. his face lacked his usual smile.

“because he reminded me of me,” jax said quietly. “and.. i dunno i just- i felt so replaceable.”

you stared at him, your face twisting painfully. he wasn’t this expressive for just no reason, and he definitely wasn’t this vocal about his feelings with anybody else. you didn’t think he’d get so bothered by this.

jax crossed his arms, looking away with a regretful expression, like he had said too much or something.

“i wasn’t trying to make you feel like that jax. there’s no point in being rude to somebody who isn’t even real though, you have to understand that. he was just part of the adventure.” you softened. just a bit. he didn’t respond right away.

“you know if i really wanted a knock off version of you,” you said softly, “i wouldn’t even be here right now.”

jax just looked at you. he couldn’t help but smile.

“of course you like me more, i was always the better competition.”

you bumped his shoulder lightly. “competition huh? listen, promise me next time we get split up you won’t like.. implode or something.”

“not making promises.”

“figured. wanna hang out for a little bit?” you stood and held out a hand.

he looked at your hand before taking it and slinging you over his shoulder, your laughs echoing down the hallway.

[mariasont]

PART I: THE LADY OF SHALOTT

this is what it means to love in verse and violence

part I -> part II -> part III -> part IV -> part V

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: dissociation, detachment, depictions of emotional numbness, exploration of unhealthy coping mechanism, obsessive thought patterns, situationship, canon-type cm violence wc: 1.7k

It feels blasphemous somehow, the serenity of your sleep while he quietly burns up in your atmosphere. Spencer watches anyway, the pain like a necessary liturgy, masochism dressed as ritual.

He thinks of Orpheus. The final glimpse. Desire’s ruinous price. You’re a figure behind glass, beautiful in its fragility, and he presses his longing against it like a handprint left on a window. It won’t hold.

It has to be safer like this. It’s the foundational premise, the condition, the contract he obsessively redraws in his head. You and him, whatever this is — it’s not a relationship. It’s too structured, carefully fenced in. No promises or permanence.

His breath briefly fogging your cold glass before inevitably fading away. 

Finite.

But his mind is disloyal to his efforts. It feeds him poetry at midnight, terrible beautiful things about staying, about softness, about wanting. He loathes it. He hates himself more for listening.

Loss is familiar to him. Predictable, even. The reaching, the missing, the grasping for things already halfway gone. Always phantoms. Always slipping. 

Better, then, to keep you preserved in a delicate status, sheltered, just outside the reach of the damage his presence seems destined to inflict. Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t survive contact with his hands. It’s a lesson he’s been forced to memorize in painful repetition.

There had been no reckless start with you. No heat-drunk declarations made in the haze of midnight or slurred confessions coaxed out by a bottle of wine.

Just something quieter. Slower. A gradual arrangement built on the architecture of sidelong glances and the language of proximity. It began in simplicity — how was your weekend? — and ended in confessions neither of you meant to give.

Until one day, without ceremony, vulnerability became habit. And intimacy, the kind that asked for nothing but the immediacy of bodies, was already there, waiting to be noticed.

Spencer understood that what he craved wasn’t emotional attachment. He didn’t pretend it was. It was physical. It was just sex. But not for the sake of lust or conquest or even pleasure. It was about what sex offered. The temporary illusion of closeness, the feeling of another person’s heat echoing back into him. Fingers skimming ribs, palms pressed to hips. It was a language that bypassed explanation.

He didn’t need to be known. He just needed to be felt. Needed the proof of another heartbeat beside his own.

He refocuses on your sleeping face, mouth tense like you’re fighting something behind your eyes. He’s grown disturbingly adept at interpreting your facial expressions, a proficiency he never consciously sought.

Usually, he leaves before these things become clear, out the door by two at the latest. Tonight, however, the neon glare of the clock on your wall — 2:56 — declares a harsh judgment.

Spencer knows, in some detached sense, he’s violating a fundamental rule of your agreement. 

So why isn’t he already halfway across town, cloistered behind familiar walls?

A simultaneous vibration splinters his thoughts. 

You wake with a sharp inhale. Spencer doesn’t flinch.

He reaches his phone first. One look at the screen is enough, but he answers anyway. Prentiss doesn’t waste words. We have a case. Briefing in thirty.

The call clicks off and he glances up — just in time to catch the look on his face. Sleep-blurred, yes, but also uncertain. Your eyes shift to the clock, then to him. Your lips part slightly, like they might form a question, but close again just as fast. 

He doesn’t offer an answer. You don’t demand one.

Neither of you spoke on the car ride over. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… quiet. Still meandering in that liminal place between sleep and awake, not able or willing to summon the energy for idle conversation. 

You had yawned at least four times in fifteen minutes. Spencer had counted without meaning to. He felt the same, half-aware and craving rest he couldn’t seem to find.

His exhaustion had been more pronounced than ever over the past couple months. At his own apartment, he sleeps. More or less. As well as anyone in his position could hope to. Enough hours, no interruptions outside of case hours.

He doesn’t wake to the sound of shouting or scraping medal anymore. A soft bed. No concrete slab. No cellmate shifting in the dark.

And still, he wakes up like he’s been emptied. Like rest is no longer a cure, just a placeholder.

He hasn’t admitted it out loud, but a theory’s been forming anyway. One that begins and ends with you.

The headaches are back too. He hadn’t missed them. They weren’t like before, thankfully, no blinding spikes of pain, no full-body shutdowns, but steady. Insistent. A dull pressure rooted behind his eyes, quietly leeching whatever thin layer of energy he manages to remain overnight.

Even the lights in the office feel hostile today, too bright and too cold. Fluorescence like a blade.

He blinks against it, resisting the childish urge to cover his face with his hands.

Instead, he squints toward the board. Three victims. All women. Early twenties.

“Three different methods. Drowning, strangulation, stabbing,” Rossi says, tapping the board with two fingers. “No clear pattern.”

Spencer frowns, eyes narrowing. “Unless that is the pattern,” he murmurs.

Emily looks over. “You think he’s varying methods on purpose?”

“It’s possible,” Spencer replies, suppressing a wince as the pressure in his skull pulses again. “Typically, yes, killers rely on routine or repetition. But each of these is too precise. Too controlled. If he were experimenting, we’d see hesitation, evidence of trial and error.”

“Could he be trying to confuse us? Distract us from the real motive?”

“That could be part of it,” he says, “but there could be something else. He could be assigning meaning to each method. A symbolic system. One we haven’t decoded yet.”

“So, he’s playing games,” You say grimly. Spencer almost reaches for you, just to soften the crease in your forehead. He stops himself.

Games. 

It lands wrong. He hopes that’s not what this is. He hopes the unsub isn’t clever, isn’t strategic, isn’t the type to leave messages behind like breadcrumbs, dragging them out just long enough to make it personal.

Spencer desperately needs this case to be clean. Not because simplicity implies ease, nor because brutality is diminished by brevity, but because he doesn’t possess the mental bandwidth to endure another protracted game of psychological chess.

He insists, adamantly, that it’s driven purely by morality, by justice, because every unanswered crime feels like a stain that seeps into his conscience.

But there’s another part of him that wonders if he’s simply worn down by impatience. If he wants this to be over so he can rest. Wants the luxury of collapsing into your warmth again, tucked behind the shield of excuses he’s been recycling since the start.

And yet, he’s not naive enough to believe rest will come after this.

There will be another case. Then another.

A carousel of grief dressed in new faces. He wonders, sometimes, where he’s supposed to draw the line. To quit before the work finishes hollowing him out completely.

Maybe then, he could allow himself to love you without conditions.

You would make a good wife. You would make a devastating home out of someone like him. Maybe there’s a version of this world, some other branch split clean at the moment he walked into the BAU, where you and him are just ordinary, happy, untouched by bureaucracy and regret.

Maybe.

But not here. Here, the air is dry, the grass brittle beneath his boots, and someone else’s ending waits in the dirt.

His attention flicks to a knot of wildflowers half-trampled by the path, their petals bruised beneath morning’s glare. They look like devotion offered too late. A gesture turned grotesque by where it landed.

She’s been placed, not dropped — the victim. That much is clear. Her body rests in the field, arms folded, face angled upward. Her hair spreads around her like a halo, washed-out gold against the soil. Despite the violence that ended her life, her face remains eerily serene. Mouth slightly open, as if paused mid-word.

“It’s strange, right? Like… the way she’s posed. It almost feels like he cared.” You glanced down, eyes catching on the blood-dark hole through her sternum. “Almost.”

His eyes trace the curve of her shoulder, the positioning of her hands.

“There’s a difference between cruelty and care,” he murmurs. “But I think some people forgot where the line is.”

Spencer crouches slowly, joints stiff with the cold. His gloved hands hover just above the victim’s frame, careful not to disturb the scene.

Why the effort? 

The arrangement suggests something close to tenderness, though the context makes that hard to stomach. Reverence and murder rarely coexist comfortably. Maybe it isn’t about the death at all. Maybe it’s about the preservation. An attempt to suspend something fleeting. Youth. Beauty. Innocence. As if holding her like this could capture forever what can’t naturally endure.

“Do you ever think about how we show up after the worst thing someone’s gone through? And then just… leave?”

He stands slowly, spine aching from crouching too long.

Your face tilts toward the wind and sun catches on a smudge near your jaw. His fingers reach for it this time, brushing over it before the texture of the glove registers.

He drops his hand.

“You had something there.” A pause. “And now you probably have something else.”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse things on my face.”

“I really hope you mean frosting or face paint,” he mutters.

He knows what you meant. Semantics aside, he’d studied the evidence up close.

The joke had bought him time, but not much. You’d asked him something and he dodged it. Clockwork.

“Yeah. I think about it. Feels like patching bullet holes with band-aids,” he says finally. “Better than letting it bleed out though.”

“Sure.”

The word came out thin, like you didn’t really mean it. He didn’t respond — just watched as techs pass by, then started walking.

The drive back was quiet again. You were scrolling through case notes, thumb dragging lethargic circles over the pages, eyes vacant and half-present.

You never played music. He always gripped the wheel like he was expecting something to go wrong. 

Driving made him anxious. Watching you drive made him worse. You hit curbs like they were suggestions and got distracted by things like birds on telephone wires. He’d said once that riding with you felt like tempting fate on purpose. You laughed. 

You asked if he was okay somewhere near the overpass. He said yeah, quietly and kept his eyes on the road, didn’t trust his face not to betray the lie. That was enough of an answer.

The rest of the day bled out without resolution. By evening, you were both too tired to pretend the lack of leads didn’t matter. 

When you asked if he wanted to stay the night, he knew you expected a hesitation. A caveat. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to. It was another rule you both upheld — not overnights during cases. It was too complicated.

But his agreement came fast. He didn’t pause. Didn’t qualify. He should have. But Spencer’s rules bend with you, and lately, they’ve started to fold, orgami-thin and splitting at the creases.

You step back to let him in, barefoot, already half-undressed in the way you usually were after midnight. 

Spencer keeps his eyes open the whole time. It wasn’t necessarily about watching but more so remembering. If this was wrong, he needed to hold onto it tightly enough to justify the transgression.

Your mouth against his, your hands pulling him in, the curve of your throat, the shiver under his palm. All these pieces of proof he’d replay later, alone, dissecting memories in the silence of his apartment.

He’s not sure he’ll ever know what fragments of these stolen moments he’s allowed to believe in. 

He kisses your skin, fooling himself into believing it was sufficient, that passion could remain confined. 

But even tempered glass has its breaking point.

The mirror crack’d from side to side; / ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried / The Lady of Shalott.

part II

[derearchiviatoria]

Hill House box Helensburgh, UK 2017–2019 Carmody Groarke (2006–), architect Johan Dehlin, photographer

[arc-hus]

Shelter for Homeless Women, Barcelona - Vivas Arquitectos

[fatehbaz]

Some updates from the past twelve-ish months:

-- Late 2022: Portland and its mayor (Wheeler) started a major push to ban "street camping". Headlines in major media outlets also described "Portland's first sanctioned mass homeless camp" and how "Portland moves forward with $27 million plan to build mass shelters". In December 2022, Portland-area authorities used the so-called "aggressive landscaping" tactic, installing hundreds of hostile architecture boulders to prevent sitting/sleeping. Also in December, homeless advocates and Disability Rights Washington advocates attempted to halt Spokane's (Washington) clearing of a major camp for hundreds of people, and a federal judge sided with advocates to put a temporary restraining order on the sweep.

-- January 2023: Even in the immediate aftermath of historic cold as far south as Miami and Monterrey, sub-freezing temperatures across the Deep South, and sub-zero-Fahrenheit blizzards sweeping North America for a week or longer around Solstice/Christmas 2022, convenience stores "in Texas, California, New York use classical music to shoo homeless".

-- By March 2023: "Portland Mayor Wheeler unveils first location for city-run homeless camp".

-- April 2023: San Francisco and Mayor Breed announce a major "five-year plan" costing over 600 million dollars "to cut the number of unsheltered homeless in half". (Not a plan to put people in homes or find stable housing, but just to technically put them under the roof of shelter, keeping them out of sight, therefore qualifying them for the strange designation of "the sheltered homeless".) At the same time, San Francisco opened a "long-term homeless shelter on Treasure Island", pushing homeless people onto an isolated island mostly composed of concrete and asphalt.

-- Summer 2023: In May, the city of Phoenix (Arizona) began its project to clear and eliminate its largest homeless camp, known as the Zone, a refuge for hundreds of people. During the record-breaking heat of the summer of 2023, Phoenix cleared the camp systematically, block by block. At the beginning of September 2023, as "Phoenix breaks heat record as city hits 110F [110 degrees Fahrenheit] for the 54th consecutive day", the city cleared the block of the camp where most seniors and the elderly lived.

-- January 2024: About one week ahead of winter holidays (Solstice/Christmas), the City of Edmonton pursued plans to sweep 130 homeless encampments as part of what has been described as a "shocking" eviction plan. In January, the city was clearing camps amidst sustained deadly severe weather, during a polar vortex event with temperatures of negative 50 degrees Fahrenheit and daytime highs of negative 25F. When a court case presented by Coalition for Justice and Human Rights tried to slow the sweeps, a judge sided with them and shut down the evictions.

-- March 2024: Florida's governor signs a new law. NPR describes: "law that seeks to move unhoused people off public property altogether and into government-run encampments".

-- April 2024: The U.S. Supreme Court begins hearing a case from Grants Pass (Oregon) with major implications and potential to incite nationwide "banishment race" and "homelessness crackdown". Lower courts have previously said that city policies (like Grants Pass, Boise, and others) were "cruel and unusual" for fining and/or jailing people for sleeping on public land if no adequate accessible shelter is available. But now?

[retfalvi]

Temporary City - Épületprotézis

Típus: megvalósult terv, építészet Megvalósulás éve: 2009 Megvalósulás helye: Hattyú ház, Király utca 15., Pécs Alkotók: Sztranyák Gergely, Varga Rita, Rétfalvi Donát, Bianki Dániel, Csikós Gábor, Gaál Sarolta, Hajdu Veronika, Kapcsos Beatrix, Molnár Tamás, Vörös Erika

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

That may be a strange thing to say but I have been playing Vil's red carpet cadets (I'm an only En player so I'm not sure what it's called in JP 😅 I don't mind spoilers though) but this event makes me overwhelmed like I'm the one walking in this fancy place.

I don't know why but while I'm playing it.. it feels like I'm the one walking among those very fancy shops and I feel so poor... I don't actually like places like this irl because it makes me feel overwhelmed I prefer going to commoners shops where prices are responsible and people shopping are just normal people shopping and not celebrities lol 🥲

Aaaah, if that's the case... Then I'm afraid that Tapis Rouge (that's the JP name) may not be the event for you 😅 The entire setting and the reason for why you go to Maquillaville (Fairest City in JP) is all set up for decadence, and there's really no escaping that. I think the appeal of the event is to let players vicariously live a temporary live of luxury via Yuu and company. You'll be dressed in designer outfits, shopping in fancy stores, eating at an exclusive restaurant, rubbing elbows with famous people, getting a behind-the-scenes tour of a studio, and walking the red carpet as part of a celebrity's entourage. These are things that most of us won't get to experience for ourselves, so Tapis Rouge serves to provide that escapism. But obviously that won't appeal to everyone, and I can see why that would be overwhelming for some, like yourself.

If it helps to ground you at all, you can try to focus on just window shopping or appreciating the aesthetics of the city rather than focusing on the luxury price tags there. (That's honestly my favorite part of going somewhere fancy, just taking in the sights!) Maquillaville/Fairest City definitely has really interesting architecture and packaging for its products--and eye candy is always free! You can also take solace in the fact that Yuu is going around with classmates they can relate to, rather than with various celebrities walking around. At least Grim and Ace are also from humble backgrounds and are always there to bounce off of. (Vil is obviously the social outlier here, whereas Azul and Jamil are well-trained for social situations like this.)