#but hell have a hunch and be faced with evidence and due to Circumstances and his own personality

[clonehub]

Ive never been a big fan of "Rex hates fox for killing fives" narratives because i feel like they'd require Rex to have believed fives was right to some degree, and they'd require Rex knowing fives was deliberately not in his right mind and so technically unfit to be dealt with like someone who was. But the point is that Rex ultimately didn't believe Fives, or at least he wasn't willing/able to fully investigate it at the time when he should have. Either way, that gap in knowledge is key to characterizing that entire scene, and Rex holding that deep resentment for Fox, almost to the point of arguing "why did you kill him?" I think misunderstands Rex as a character.

Like fives had just trapped two commanding officers and then reached for his blaster when explicitly told not to. Rex would definitely feel pain at the situation, but I don't know how much he would hold it against fox specifically. Fox doesn't know fives like Rex does. Rex and Anakin may have still felt relatively safe despite being ray shielded, but Fox walked in and saw what I just described.

Also/although I do think it's important to note that this isn't the first time Fives was faced with execution. The first time it happened, Rex stood by and almost let it go through -- it was Fives himself who had to put it to a stop, and then Rex moved.

[jeannereames]

Hi, love your blog and your books, they have been good for my knowledge, they had made clear some points that were cover by the mist of ignorance, I mean, when I was at school my teachers didn't know about Alexander so when we saw him in history class there were a lot of incoherences (sorry for my poor grammar, I'm still learning english).

Hephaestion is an interesting character, we don't know much about him but I have always wonder how he was as a husband, in my research it seems that he wasn't so interest in women like others were. I have wonder if that make him a careless or a typical (in the context of the history) husband? Did he marry because Alexander say so or because he wants to ensure his place? Does he felt pity for the girl or he didn't care about her at all? Was a better husband than Alexander?

And talking about Drypetis, we know about the famous beauty of her mother and of Roxanne. But how do you think that beauty was? Certainly, not like my modern view about attractiveness of a female, so I wonder yours.

Sorry for the long post! 🙃

We know nothing about his interest (or lack of it) in women. He did marry in Susa in 324 because Alexander told him to…along with 90 other officers. That doesn’t mean he was against the idea—may have been one of the few fully in favor of it for the politics.

While fictionally I’ll make hay over his lack of recorded lovers (of either gender), from an academic point of view…it’s meaningless.

This is probably a good time to review “arguments from silence,” and why they’re so tricky.

An ARGUMENT FROM SILENCE suggests a lack of evidence is significant. BUT this only works if one can demonstrate that such evidence ought to be there…and isn’t.

That’s hard to do for the ancient world as “a lack of evidence” describes our cursed lot. My modern historian colleagues are regularly astonished by how little we have, and what we can spin out from that little.

I bring this up is because arguments from silence are too common in pop history, which too often does them badly due to a lack of understanding regarding 1) what evidence IS available, 2) what should be available, and 3) what’s absolutely unsurprising not to find.

Sometimes students will ask me, “But didn’t they write stuff like that down?” (‘That’ varying.) The answer is often, “No.” Or more colorfully, “They didn’t give a shit.” Even in the Roman Empire, they lacked bureaucratic record-keeping as we understand it. In Greece, centuries earlier, a few city-states kept some records, but most didn’t, especially prior to the mid-4thCentury BCE. It’s connected to the “epigraphic habit”: the desire to record information (in public) for posterity, and the idea that record-keeping might be a good general idea often merge.

Even so, WHAT they thought worthy of recording isn’t always what we’d like to know. This, in turn, pertains to how they wrote historical texts: what they chose to report (or not).

So, with that background…

The problem with knowing Hephaistion’s sexual interest (or lack of it) in women is how and why our sources relate such information.

In short: they mostly don’t.

This owes to their LASER focus on Alexander. Even then, what each source tells about him varies. I think we can probably be sure we know all Alexander’s wives, although Barsine’s status is not completely clear (imo). I assume she was at least a palakē, which is a formal mistress: less than a wife, but more than a hetaira. Yet given Macedonian marriage practices, perhaps she was a wife in Macedonian eyes? The Greeks regularly “demoted” Macedonian royal wives to mistresses, so I don’t trust our sources on this score.

Whatever the case, we don’t know all Alexander’s female (or male) sexual liaisons outside his wives because the sources mostly don’t care. When they do care (ala Plutarch and Curtius), it’s for some—often Romanized—moral point. Which is a looong-ass way from anything the Macedonians cared about.

And if we don’t even know his, how can we assume we know his officers’? Hell-to-the-no!

We hear about these women only if they matter to the larger (Alexander-driven) narrative. So we know the name of Philotas’s mistress, Antigonē, because she was hired by Krateros to bring pillow talk back to Alexander. We know Harpalus’s mistresses because he spent oodles of treasury funds on them, and got in trouble for it (twice). We recognize the name Laïs because she later became the long-time mistress (palakē) of Ptolemy I, mother of some of his important offspring in the Successor wars.

Ergo, not knowing the names of Hephaistion’s mistresses—or whether he had any—is not significant. Outside of special circumstance, we wouldn’t expect to.

We DO know the name of his wife from the mass-marriages at Susa in the spring of 324 because she was a princess, sister of Alexander’s wife, and her selection for him had distinct political significance. Yet that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a wife already, back in Macedon. Others of Alexander’s officers did–one reason many promptly divorced their Persian brides after Alexander’s death. I note the possibility largely as it illustrates the level of what we don’t know.

My educated hunch is that Hephaistion’s marriage to Drypetis was his first marriage. And I don’t believe he had any children (even by-blows), or we’d have heard about them as a result of Alexander’s extravagant grief. Yet this is far from saying he had no mistresses—or boyfriends, for that matter.

Regarding Drypetis and his relationship with her…it’s a complete blank. We just don’t know how Hephaistion treated her, what she thought of him, or what he thought of her. They weren’t married long enough. The weddings were in early spring, after ATG got back to Susa following the Gedrosian march/rest in Karmania. He spent a while sorting business in Susa before he went on to Opis (and subsequent unrest/mutiny there). I suspect Hephaistion and Drypetis were married no more than 6-7 months. He died in early/mid-October. She wasn’t pregnant by his death, but given how busy that period was, it could be a function of his duties and lack of time.

As for the beauty of Persian royal/elite women, it seems to have been something remarked upon by more than just Alexander historians. We lack images of Achaemenid Persians, alas, but below is a lapis lazuli bust of among the most famous: Atossa, daughter of Cyrus, wife of Darius, and mother of Xerxes (lived second half of the 6th century BCE). Note the large eyes, high eyebrows (apparently plucked), and small mouth. Given the tendency to idealizing in Ancient Near Eastern art, this suggests what would have been considered high beauty.

Beneath her is a Roman copy of Praxiteles’s original Aphrodite of Knidos—considered the ideal of Greek female beauty in the early-mid 4th century BCE (based on the incomparable Phryne, Praxiteles’s mistress).

Both have an oval face with full cheeks, and we can see Aphrodite’s nicely plump. That meant something! She had enough to eat = wealth. The modern starved-skinny model with long face, strong jaw, and stark cheekbones…that’s attractive now partly owing to what photographs well: prominent features and thinness (because the camera adds pounds). Persians and Greeks preferred rounder features, heart-shaped faces, small bow mouths, soft jaws, and fullness in the body (plump, not overweight). About the only hold-over would be large eyes.

What I haven’t really noted is coloring…other than a preference for pale skin as that signified one had slaves (= rich) and didn’t have to work in the fields outside. Hair color and eye color just wasn’t that big of a deal. Sometimes it comes to the fore: gray-eyed Athena. (Although the word is generic for blue/gray/greenish.) Similar for Apollo and Dionysos, in the Homeric hymns. Dionysos had black hair there (as did Apollo). Both “blond-up” only in the Classical era. And Hera was noted for her extraordinarily beautiful “cow-eyes.” E.g., large and dark-dark brown.

BUT, because I love to support the Gingers of the World…RED-blond hair was considered the most desired in Greece. Aphrodite was a strawberry blonde (at least sometimes), as was Helen…when anybody bothered to note it. And (quite probably) Alexander.

[lucycola]

The Lone Survivor: Part 2

Spock x Fem!Reader

Premise: Fem!Reader accidentally bonds with Spock when rescued from her own starship crash. The Golden Trio realize the footage from the wreck could wrongfully incriminate the reader. They attempt to find a way out of this. PART ONE HERE

SLOW BURN. Eventual smut in later parts. More Bones dialogue than probably necessary but WHATEVER. Fatherly Bones. There will be more one on one Reader and Spock in part three. Right now it plays like a normal episode with build up because I’m stubborn. 

WARNINGS:  Movie amnesia, sexual themes if you squint, mentions of death, and implied one-sided matrimony.

Part 2: The Night We Met I Knew I Needed You So

There was no mistaking the final moments illustrated in the found footage from the Calvary. It was you assaulting the crew on the bridge-you setting a course straight to destruction on Toravalve 9.

However, Mister Spock had disagreed. He had reached into your mind and saw you in your own eyes. It couldn’t have been you.

After carrying you back to the medbay you were put safely back in your bed with a Doctor McCoy who hovered over you like a disgruntled mother bear. With the tricorder at your forehead you pleaded with him to relax. 

Captain Kirk had been summoned to hear what you both, or rather, Mister Spock had to say. For some stranger reason Spock omitted the existence of the orange tape. He deliberated his own findings via meld instead. 

“A copy of sorts, Captain.”

“And you’re sure you saw the Lieutenant looking...at her own self?”

“As unlikely as it may seem, it is was I saw. Although it was also demonstrated that the Lieutenant received a severe head injury before witnessing her own self attack the crew members.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t some kind of...” Kirk deliberated for a moment, “... out of body experience.”

“Also unlikely. Although it is perceivable Lieutenant L/N maybe have suffered delusions after cranial trauma I possess a suspicion that an illusion was made unto the Lieutenant and the crew.”

Kirk glanced at you for a moment and back to Spock, quizzically at first, but then with a dashing smirk. “A hunch, Spock? How very...human.”

Spock quirked a brow, hands still stonily behind his back, “All endeavors begin with a hypothesis.”

“You believe me,” you murmured, from your bed still although no longer in your white, medbay gown you were graciously presented with black Starfleet fatigues. Nurse Chapel had gently maneuvered your unruly waves into two pleats that were coming undone slowly.

A stark contrast to the pristine, polished head science officer.

The fingers on Spock’s right hand flexed at the sound of your voice.

He only turned his head to look at you, “Empirical data is what needs to be obtained-whether I believe what memories are buried in your subconscious is incidental.”

“They still don’t feel real,” you admitted. Not even your name felt real.

“Such an admission will not help your case and I advise you keep that opinion to yourself, Lieutenant.”

You felt like he was chiding you. Your ground your jaw slightly and you knew he could feel it: the aggravation, the impatience. Fear.

His right fingers flexed again, but his expression, unchanging as ever, gave nothing away.

The electric pool of warmth in the back of your mind hushed you, told you to remain calm. Diplomatic.

How could looking at your own self feel real? ‘She’ seemed so real. You had walked around the corner and met yourself, squaring you up instantly. She lunged for you and you wrestled with her, shocked at the fact that you had your own hands around your throat. They weren’t your hands. It was an imposter. 

How? That was the real question. 

“How do we find proof then, Mister Spock?” Kirk asked, reinserting himself.

“We locate the imposter and confirm my hypothesis.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Kirk replied.

“Indeed it will not be so. Commander Craft is aware of the meld that took place and will order me to testify my findings against the lieutenant. Until the Lieutenant’s sanity can be declared-”

“I’m sure I can help with that,” the doctor said, almost appearing out of nowhere.

“What is left is concrete evidence,” Spock added.

“The imposter,” Kirk finished, nodding. 

“Who’s Commander Craft?” you asked.

He turned to look at you. You were made to feel the oblivious child with everyone in the room talking about you. However, you listened and you absorbed. You were careful with your input. Listen first, talk later, you thought to yourself. The presence in the back of your mind hummed in monotonic approval as if to say, good girl.

You wondered what those words tasted like on Spock’s lips. You shuddered in embarrassment and turned your head away.

Spock coughed uncharacteristically, “Commander Craft is the elected official heading the investigation crew from the Federation. We were contacted yesterday and were to present a full report of our findings and happenings.”

Which included the bond. That detail in itself was still above you, not fully explained nor understood. You could feel it for what it was and knew he was there. Not why or how, however. 

 “We must garner more time,” Spock continued to his captain, “And possibly keep myself from testifying.”

“We could declare you insane,” the doctor quipped earning another brow arch from his opposing.

“You’re asking for a loophole,” Kirk stated.

“Essentially, Captain.”

Kirk seemed to know there was more to it, the way he pursed his lips and put his fists on his hips. You knew yourself that if Spock testified against you with what he saw in the meld then there was no evidence against you truly-just what you yourself witnessed. However, Spock would be asked to tell the whole truth and that included the tape. If you were deemed crazy then your own experiences would be null and void.

Did Kirk already know about the tape?

Kirk sighed,” Spock, I...we’d be misleading not only Starfleet, but the Federation. This isn’t the first time you’ve-”  he glanced at you, “-taken the unorthodox route to obtain justice.”

“Then I am asking for your trust, Captain.”

Kirk’s eyes narrowed then softened. He relented and with a sturdy tone which meant business as he relayed, “I suppose you already a loophole in mind then?”

“Indeed, Captain.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Spock paused, fighting to look at you.

“Well, aren’t you gonna tell us?” the doctor asked.

“Proposals are not so elementary to make on Vulcan, even when it is logical...but also yet not as it could fare unfavorable circumstances. Especially if one party is unwilling.”

It took Kirk a moment, and even the doctor even longer.

“You mean...?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“You’re willing to marry her so you don’t have to testify?” he asked incredulously.

You were stupefied, impressed, but stupefied. The stoic Vulcan could play dirty. An actual proposal.

“You’re going to marry her?” Bones asked, mortified, “She’s a person...not a pawn! This is her life we’re meddling with. Marriage is a serious thing-”

“You’ll find, Doctor, that I am quite serious.”

“You could wreck her life.”

“I intend on saving it.”

Spock, your heart breathed.

“It seems like a reach for you, Spock,” Kirk said, “They would never believe the both of you, even if Y/N did agree.”

“It will be most believable as the Lieutenant and I have already made a bond.”

Silence befell everyone.

“You can’t be serious,” the doctor said finally, a fierce protectiveness in his voice. “At a time like this-”

“It was not intended as I am careful to shield my mind when partaking tactility with other forms-but, she called to me.”

And he had found you in the dark.

“She accepted it-although it is possible that may be due to the extreme duress she was suffering.”

“And you were there to save her,” Bones finished, a grave distaste in his voice.

“Such a bond can be mediated by a healer with moderate difficult just as a Terran divorce can be secured.”

It was a slap to the face. He was as willing to ‘save’ you as he was to dump you and leave you for dead. Red hot turmoil threatened in your core and you clenched your blankets. What was the point then?

Your crew was dead, your reputation tarnished, and everyone thought you were a murderer.

Let me die, you thought, just let me die.

“Certainly not,” Spock said quietly. Both the Captain and the Doctor eyed him wearily as this random statement.

“So you...negating your-”

“No, sir. I am simply waiting for Lieutenant L/N’s input on the matter.”

“There’s no way in hell she’d agree to this. The bond is clearly one-sided, Spock. How could you be so irresponsible?” Bones chided. 

“A explanation escapes me.” He was still looking at you with smoldering eyes, with bright stars dancing behind them. Cold, but fierce.

What other shot did you have? How else could you bide time while searching for this monster? You wanted to give up. It would be easy.

Kirk leaned in to his second in command and suggested softly, “Perhaps you should ask more properly, Mister Spock. She is a lady. Bones is right. It’s her life.”

“Lieutenant-”

Kirk elbowed him.

“Y/N,” he corrected himself, “Will-”

“Yes,” you blurted in a hushed voice, “I will marry you, Mister Spock.”

x

You were left in your bed again under strict supervision this time. You reveled in the shock of what you’d just agreed to, and even the shock of the situation in its entirety. Rediscovering the monster that claimed your crew and your identity was still fresh and seeing it through your own eyes again with the meld drained the life out of you. You were exhausted, but your mind still raced. ‘It’ was on the ship-it had to be. They didn’t find a copy of you or anyone else in the wreckage. You wondered how recognizable some of your crewmates were and you had to still your frantic thoughts. 

“What ever is going on up there it needs to stop. You heart rate is very high.” Doctor McCoy was already readying a hypo. 

“That...thing. It might be here-”

“We’re on high alert, looking for any copies of ourselves. It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened,” he tried to assure you.

“There are no red lights.”

“They get annoying after awhile. Whatever it is, it’s damn good at hiding. But we’ll flush it out. The Captain has a plan.”

“Did Mister Spock tell you the imposter can read your memories? That’s how it tricked me. Did he tell the captain?” you asked, wring your hands with the blanket. 

“Your guess is better than mine.”

You thought back to Spock’s omission to the orange tape. Always flipping back and forth between elusive affection and monotonous professionalism. Marry me. Divorce after. 

“He’s hard to place sometimes.”

“And you agreed to marry him.”

“I did,” you blurted stubbornly. “We’re bonded.”

Bones suddenly became eye level with you, bracing both hands on the rail. “But do you know what that even means?”

You arched a brown similar to Vulcan fashion, “Do you, good doctor?”

Bones shook his head and instead asked, “Sleep now or later? Does it help with the nightmares?”

“Yes, I think so. Now, I think. Doctor?”

“Yes, kitty?”

“Thankyou.”

x

Sleep was apart of the healing process and being roused from it interrupted that. That was at least what Bones tried to argue when the captain requested your presence in the conference room. Flanked by your fiancé and the kindly captain himself you were expected to hold an interview of sorts with Commander Craft via telecom before his arrival at the crash site. Several ships had already come to help clean up. 

“What am I supposed to say?” you half pleaded with them, “I’m not good at lying.”

“You do not have to be deceitful. However, if you find yourself under duress the commander may suspect a guilt as I had sensed upon our initial meeting,” Spock replied, one arm linked on your good side. 

Your other arm supported a crutch when had a nervous hand floating behind it via the captain. 

Kirk shot a reassuring look your way. “I recommend the truth. Tell him what you told me, and you’ll be fine. He’s a bit of a stickler for rules and he’s tough on the stand-”

“Jesus,” you muttered. 

“Or...a bit of theatrics couldn’t hurt if you get too overwhelmed. You did just lose your crew.” 

“How could I forget?” Your lip quivered. 

You three paused at the door. 

“I trust my first officer, Y/N,” Kirk turned to face you, “As unorthodox as this has become, I put trust into his melds and by what he has told me you didn’t do anything wrong. That thing-that monster did.”

You couldn’t stop the tears dribbling. “Captain, I let my crew die.”

“Any death having occurred was unintentional on your part, Lieutenant, ”Spock said in his chilly tone, “As was demonstrated in your memory you tired to apprehend and fend off the creature, but to no avail. You did everything in your power. The human emotional phenomena your are experiencing is common upon singular entities having being spared from genocide.”

“That is?” Kirk asked. 

“Survivor’s guilt,” you sighed, finishing the statement for you fiancé. 

x

Commander Craft was not unkind, nor did he smile. He was neither young or old and his questions were fairly basic as the captain’s were three days earlier. You recounted all you could remember, and it was stressed by you and the captain that you had lost most of your general memory due to head trauma. Whether he seemed convinced was unknown to you. You tried to hold back in your distress. The warmth in the back of your mind wrapped around the little knot that pain and anxiety was birthed. It was squeezed it slowly, like the grasp of a hand. You delivered your answers calmly. 

“The double of yourself, you saw. Did you see it transform from your father to yourself?” the commander asked.

“No sir.”

“Have you seen a copy of yourself since you boarded the Enterprise?”

“No sir.”

“And no foreign entity has been detected on the ship?”

“No sir,” the captain replied. 

“Mmm,” the commander paused for the first time in what seemed like hours. “L/N, had you ever experiences delusions or hallucinations before?”

“I don’t remember.”

“And did you experience the trauma to your head before or after you saw yourself sabotaging the ship?”

“I...” you glanced, “I’m not sure. After?”

“Do you remember hitting your head at all?”

“I remember the copy throwing me hard against the wall and everything going black.” You tried to strengthen your voice, but it kept cracking. You heart continued to race. “And-”

It flashed. 

“When I let my father on the ship. I went black there too. But I’m not sure if I hit my head that time.”

“And Mister Spock you were able to witness what Lieutenant L/N saw?”

“Affirmative.”

“But...through her point of view.”

Fuck. You had a feeling he would try to pull the crazy card. 

“Were there any observation tapes recovered from the crash?”

“My  crew obtained few, but to my knowledge they are still processing them,” the captain answered smoothly. 

“Has any other information been made available to any of you?”

You could feel the edges of your vision blacken. You couldn’t make eye contact with him. Cold sweat had broken from your brow.  A cold, steady hand placed itself to your brow. The natural warmth on your mind shimmered. 

“She has a fever, Captain.”

“I won’t tolerate any nonsense, Lieutenant-”

“Commander, she has just lost four-hundred members of her family to a people-eating imposter!” Kirk bellowed lowly, “She’s kept it together well so far. I commend her efforts. You have the wrong idea about her.”

“Until I can find proof of this ‘imposter’ and until her psyche can be cleared by one of our doctors then we’ll see. This isn’t the first time the Federation has had to deal with the Enterprise’s shenanigans.”

“People eating?” you whispered in disbelief.  Oh my god. 

Spock caught on to Kirk’s unnecessary honesty. “It was discovered the imposter’s prime directive was to use the Calvary’s crew as sustenance.”

You toppled forwards and were caught and cradled by your fiancé. 

“Take her to the medbay, Mister Spock,” Kirk ordered. 

“Call for the doctor. I am not taking my eyes off her until we arrive!” the commander snapped. 

“By the time Doctor McCoy arrives she will succumb to shock. I must attend to my t’hy’la in the most logical and efficient manner possible.”  

Kirk fought the need to smile, not realizing that your theatrics weren’t really theatrics. 

x

PART THREE

[spoondrifts]

so I've fallen head over heels for good guy Jonalias and must write more about it

Elias knows that everyone who works in the Archives becomes bound to the Institute, but he has a delicate balance to maintain between serving the Eye and watching over his staff, so after Gertrude Robinson dies, he promotes Jon and transfers his assistants, hoping that this time around Elias will be able to keep the archival staff safe from the various mishaps that tend to befall them.

Jon will end up being the Archivist regardless, but Elias is sure that letting him get started on his own will ultimately be more beneficial.

Obviously this goes wrong as Elias' initial hands-off approach leads to the Corruption festering in the Institute, and though he pulls the lever as soon as he's able, he's too late to prevent Jon from being marked. This is unfortunate because Elias really doesn't want the world to end, and a third mark means the stakes are ramping up. Elias scraps his Distant Assistance plan entirely when Martin finds Gertrude's body in the tunnels.

Now Jon is having a paranoid breakdown, which only worsens as Elias tries to actually connect with his Archivist in an attempt to build trust so that the revelation of fear gods existing might be introduced more gently.

Elias, swinging by Jon's office for the third time this week: are you alright? do you need anything? do you want a raise?

Jon, as soon as he's gone: supplemental. both Elias and Martin are being strangely nice to me. Martin made me tea this morning and Elias keeps offering more weeks of paid leave. are they in on this together? more at ten.

And when Elias discovers Sasha has been replaced, he curses himself for not getting rid of that damn table earlier. One night, after months of putting up with this intrusion, in a rash moment of fury-- how dare that thing invade his Insitute, how dare it masquerade as one of his staff --he corners the Not-Sasha.

The hallway is shadowed and dim. Everyone has gone home for the night. Not-Sasha's heels click on the waxed floors as she casually makes her way towards him.

Elias blocks her exit. He's taller than her, but her teeth are too sharp and her green eyes are too bright, and a shiver, unbidden, runs down his spine.

"Hello," he says coldly. "Going home for the night?"

"Yes. Have a good night, Mr. Bouchard."

Not-Sasha smiles at him, and his patience snaps. He grabs her by the coat collar and slams her up against the wall, relishing in the way she yelps in shock. People tend to forget about his violent and unpredictable temper.

"You will leave my Institute," he snarls, the weight of the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze falling heavily on this uncanny creature. Not-Sasha growls darkly at him. "You will not return. This is a temple of the Eye and you have desecrated its sacred archive with your foul presence."

Not-Sasha bares her teeth at him, nails like claws digging into his arm. Her appearance shifts and warps like fuzzing static, and Elias feels her power straining against his. "You're not strong enough to banish me."

"I will call in the couriers to take your table far, far away, and you won't be able to hurt anyone ever again."

"The couriers don't answer to you."

Leaning in close and keeping eye contact as Not-Sasha hisses in pain, Elias says lowly, "I watch over my own. Leave, or I will make you."

Not-Sasha suddenly goes very still. Her mouth falls open and Elias can see her teeth sharpening as she speaks, her voice warped and thrumming. "You should keep a closer eye on your Archivist."

Elias steps back. He tears his Sight away from Not-Sasha and casts it frantically around the rest of the Institute and there--

He Sees Jon, lifting an axe above his head, and--

Sharp laughter bursts from Not-Sasha, harsh and echoing, and she doubles over with the force of her wild cackling. Elias grits his teeth, torn, and makes his decision.

He spins on his heel and races towards Artefact Storage, that haunting laughter trailing him all the way there.

Skidding to a halt and throwing open the doors, Elias catches Jon just as he brings down the final blow and the table collapses.

"Jon," Elias says breathlessly, "what have you done?"

Jon whirls. His eyes are wild with fear. The axe clatters from his grasp. "I-I destroyed it. Destroyed the thing that took Sasha-"

"Jon, the table was binding it."

Elias sees the moment the realization hits Jon. Horror spreads over his face.

Delighted laughter floats down the hallway outside. Jon turns, sucking in a sharp breath as Not-Sasha calls out, "Joooooon! We should chat, Jon!"

"Dammit," Elias says. "There's only one exit."

"What do we do?"

Elias takes a single second to assess the situation before making a decision. He grabs Jon's arm and hauls him farther back into Artefact Storage, behind the tall, imposing shelves. Jon stumbles after him. There should be a door somewhere around here, waiting for them to notice it.

There. In the corner sits a perfectly innocent-looking yellow door.

As Jon sputters in protest, Elias knocks three times on the door.

"W-Wait, that's Michael's door, he's-"

"A monster, yes," Elias says. He turns to face Jon, who has his arms wrapped around himself as his body shudders with adrenaline. "And unfortunately our only option. I have no doubt that the Distortion is rather invested in you due to your position as Head Archivist."

"Why?"

Elias smiles despite himself. Relentless questions, even in the most dire of circumstances. "I'll explain everything later. Keeping you in the dark has proven to be a mistake on my part."

"I-"

The yellow door creaks open, squealing on its hinges. Michael is draped in the doorway, knife-like fingers clicking together as a toothy smile splits his spiraling features. Elias has to tear his eyes away from the Distortion's impossible shifting form.

"That was very stupid, Archivist," Michael says, chuckling softly. The sound makes Jon wince.

Outside, Not-Sasha cackles with glee. Jon starts to tremble.

"It seems you're in need of a door."

Jon stammers something incoherent.

"Yes, we are," Elias says. "Are you offering safe passage?"

"Not safe, certainly not," Michael giggles. "But passage. Yes. Though only the Archivist, I'm afraid. The Institute's Heart is not welcome within my corridors."

"What do you mean, the 'Heart'?" Jon asks, and Michael just laughs and laughs and laughs until Elias' ears begin to ring.

"Go, Jon," he says firmly, pushing his Archivist closer to the doors. "I can always find you. Wherever you end up, you will be able to navigate if you keep a level head and trust your Sight. Now go."

Casting back one last terrified glance, Jon vanishes into the twisting, vibrant hallways. Michael leers at Elias.

"Turned over a new leaf, have we?"

"Something like that. If you harm my Archivist, I will assure you, you will regret it."

Michael's face contorts into a warped mockery of a scowl, all jagged edges and blown glass-esque shapes. Elias stares him down until Michael slams the door in his face.

The door is gone, or had there ever really been one? Elias shakes his head and ducks into one of the aisles, rapidly scanning the dangerous contents.

By the exit, Not-Sasha bends and crumples in on herself to fit through the door, her body now a mass of grey limbs and hollow, empty caverns for eyes. Elias takes in a shallow breath and snatches a Leitner off the shelf.

"Where are you, Jon?" she trills.

Elias runs a hand over the cover of the book. It's volatile, but perfectly suited for his purposes.

"Jon."

Stepping out into the open, Elias wills himself to stand his ground, even as Not-Sasha's head crunches and snaps to look at him. Her limbs skitter like an insect.

"I warned you," Elias says.

"I'll wear your skin," Not-Sasha threatens, though she doesn't move to attack him.

"I hate to draw comparisons between us, but I'm afraid you wouldn't like this skin much. It's second hand." Then Elias flips open the Leitner-- Tied & Bound --and begins to read.

Meanwhile, in the tunnels, Martin and Tim are arguing.

"Fine," Tim mutters.

"No, it's not fine!" Martin hisses, his words echoing down the dark and ominous tunnel. "You’ve been going on and on and on about how alone you feel because Jon’s not taking your feelings into account while he’s having his breakdown, but you’re just doing the same thing!" His voice pitches with fury, as restrained as he can manage. "We’ve all been going through this, Tim, but you’re the only one who’s been running away. Even Elias has been trying to help, and he barely does anything around here."

"Okay," Tim relents, holding his hand up in surrender; a pipe dangles from his other hand, which he'd found earlier. They walk in silence for a few more minutes. "I don't think there's anyone down here-"

"Tim?"

Tim lets out a shout of surprise as Jon appears around the corner, cringing back from the noise. Jon is hunched in on himself protectively, as if he expects Tim to attack him.

"Jon?" Martin gasps.

"What the hell are you doing down here?" Tim demands, taking a step towards Jon.

"I could ask you the same thing! I told you both to go home."

Tim scoffs. "And you thought we would just unthinkingly obey you?"

"I'd hoped you would have some self preservation. Evidently not."

"Jon," Martin interjects. He places a placating hand on Tim's shoulder. "What was that thing? It... It looked like-"

"Sasha," Jon says quietly. "Yes.

"Stop saying it looked like Sasha," Tim snaps. "It wasn't her."

Jon's expression twists with pain. "Tim... it took her during the Prentiss attack. It's a changeling. It takes people and replaces-"

Tim lunges for Jon, who staggers backward and trips, landing hard on his elbows. Martin tries to grab Tim but the other man is stronger, yanking Jon up by his shirt and shouting, "How long have you known? How long?!"

"Tim!" Martin cries.

Jon shoves feebly at Tim's hands. Tim shakes him roughly.

"Do you get a kick out of being an psychotic bastard? How long have you kept this yourself?"

"Mr. Stoker that is enough."

Everyone goes still.

In the middle of the corridor stands Elias, pale green eyes glowing in the dim. With an axe in one hand and a book in the other, the cover coated with grime and dirt, he looks abruptly menacing, and Martin finds himself shrinking back from Elias' furious stare.

"Violence may have resolved some issues in the past," he says, voice tight, "but not this one. Jon only discovered Sasha's replacement today."

Reluctantly, Tim releases Jon and gets to his feet. Jon scrambles up, ducking behind Martin as if to hide from Tim's anger. Martin touches Jon's arm gently; he's shaking.

"Elias," Jon says hoarsely. "What happened to the- the Not-Sasha?"

"Let's just say it won't be seeing the light of day for quite some time and leave it at that."

"And w-what about what Michael said? He called you the Heart of the Institute, and wouldn't let you through his door. What does that mean?"

"How did you find us so quickly?" Tim asks, narrowing his eyes.

"You knew about Sasha, too, didn't you?" Martin pipes up nervously.

Elias dusts himself off, swings the axe up to rest on his shoulder, and sighs. He gives the archival staff a resigned smile. "I suppose an explanation is in order, then. Shall we?"

Unnoticed, a tape recorder clicks off.

[foxofthedesert]

Arrow FF | DinahSiren | Dears

Blame this on me recently discovering a certain singer from Kazahkstan who abso-fucking-lutely blew me away.  Like, seriously.  I wanted to stop singing forever when I heard him for the first time.  And then I just wanted more and more and more.  He is...transcendent.  And I love him.  And if you are a fan of singing in general, do yourself a favor and dive down the rabbit hole that is Dimash Kudaibergen videos on YouTube.  You can thank me later.

Now, onto the DinahSiren goodness....

Lower back aching from a long day hunched over her desk, Dinah trudges up the hallway toward her apartment upon leaden feet.  

With quarterly reports due in less than three days, she spent the better part of eight hours slaving over them to prevent disaster.  She cannot afford to turn them in late.  To make matters worse, she had spent the previous four hours attending to one crisis after another at the precinct, including a potentially explosive personnel issue that required direct intervention.  Slogging through mounds of paperwork after such an exciting morning made for a tedious, boring, aggravating, seemingly endless afternoon.  

Sadly she really didn’t have any other choice but to grit her way through it.  Can’t give the Brass any more reason to ride her ass over relatively inconsequential issues just because they don’t approve of her affiliation with certain independent policing elements that dared skip out on earning their badges through the soul-crushing mill that is the Star City Police Academy.  So while dotting every I and crossing every T to appease her imperious, condescending, intolerant overlords is not her ideal of efficient law enforcement, she put her nose to the grinder like the good soldier the Marine Corps so methodically produced and got the damn job done.  Or at least enough so that she could cut in time to at least spend five minutes with her fiancee before flopping face first into bed.

It was nearly a quarter past ten when Dinah finally peeled out of the parking lot.  Irritation warred with anticipation as she pushed the pristine, all matching numbers, 427 cubic inch motor on her precious baby girl – a glossy black ‘68 Stingray Coupe Laurel helped her finance as an engagement present – as hard as she could while maintaining safe control.  As it tends to, the gorgeous purr of the engine in fourth gear soothes away some of her frustration.  Some being the operative word since she can’t help but dwell on what she will have to forgo due to the late hour.  A nice, relaxing evening binging Killjoys with her other half would have been far preferable to the scant half hour of snuggling on the couch they would be afforded between Dinah needing to eat something, take a shower, and then decompress from the stress of the day with a bit of meditation.  But...any time with Laurel is better than nothing, so she pressed the gas pedal down a little harder and resolved to make the best of her circumstances just like her Nana taught her.  

Back in the present, thoughts of Laurel cause a crooked smile to slowly light up Dinah’s weary features.  Talk about a wonderful handful of seductive danger, bossy attitude, and limitless passion wrapped in a lithe frame and alluringly decorated with shimmering green eyes and irresistible dimples.  There isn’t much Dinah doesn’t love about the whole package that is Laurel Lance, which goes a long way toward explaining why she puts up with so much trouble and sass on a daily basis.  Sure, she doesn’t take any shit without standing up for herself, but she has never been under any illusion as to who wears the pants in their relationship.  Which is perfectly fine with her. For Laurel, she is happy to slip on the daisy dukes, so to speak.    

Several of their friends think it’s hilarious, and a bit confusing, that she can be such an assertive hardass at work then immediately turn into an enormous gooey marshmallow the second she gets home.  To be honest, Dinah would be a bit confused as well at the diametric shift in her attitude between her public and private personas if she could be bothered to care.  Ten years ago she probably would never have allowed herself to be so soft for any romantic partner, let alone someone as abrasive as Laurel can be, but ten years ago she was a different person altogether.  Instead of hardening her heart, the many losses she has suffered in the interim have taught her to appreciate the fragility of life and to never take for granted how precious love is.  

If there is one thing in her life she is absolutely sure of, it is that she loves Laurel Lance with all that she is and all that she has. And that she can say with equal confidence that sentiment is fully reciprocated only strengthens her resolve to not give a damn what anyone else thinks about the peculiar dynamics of their relationship. So what if she is teasingly referred to as a bottom for the rest of her life?  If that means she’s still with Laurel when she’s old and gray, she’ll wear that label with pride.  External opinions are irrelevant when no one has ever made her feel as safe and happy and fulfilled – and perpetually challenged – as Laurel has and does.        

Ready to melt into strong arms that never fail to soothe away the troubles of a long day, Dinah makes fast work both of fetching her keys from the outer pocket of her suit jacket and unlocking the door.  Once inside the apartment she has shared with Laurel for almost three years now, she tosses the keys in the little ceramic bowl kept on top of a coat wrack just inside for that exact purpose.  Upon surveying the living room, she expects to find Laurel on the couch reading a book while nursing a glass of red wine or watching MMA or British Soap Operas.  Her brows furrow in disappointment upon finding the living room conspicuously vacant.  A cursory glance around the rest of the apartment reveals their bedroom door is open, lights off inside, with a soft blue light flickering in the darkness indicating the room is occupied.  

Worry blossoms unbidden in the back of Dinah’s mind.  Why hadn’t Laurel waited up on her as she normally would?  And why was she sequestered in their bedroom with the lights off doing God knows what?  All sorts of scenarios to explain the oddities fill the void of uncertainty. Is she sick?  Did something bad happen today?  Is she in one of her depressive spells?  Unable to curtail her anxiety, especially over the last possibility, Dinah hastily toes her heels off, removes her jacket and belt, then loosens her tie enough that she can easily slip it over her head without having to retie it.  Freed of those restrictive items, she untucks her button up shirt and deposits the jacket, belt, and tie on the back of the couch on her way to the bedroom.  She’ll tidy up in the morning.  Right now, checking on Laurel is her number one priority.

Arriving at the door, Dinah pauses, bracing for the worst.  Muffled, hiccuping sobs from within send her heart plummeting directly into her boots. Few things in this world are capable of making Laurel Lance cry, most of which are not good at all.  

Oh, God.  Something is actually wrong.      

Rather than burst in and risk scaring and further upsetting Laurel, she first peeks around the door frame only to be surprised, and immensely relieved, to find her worries were completely unfounded.  Instead of being curled up in a ball under the covers and an oppressive cloud of sadness, Laurel is propped against the headboard in her pajamas with her MacBook resting upon a pillow in her lap.  Dinah can tell from the reflection in her black-framed glasses that she is watching a video that is evidently the cause of her currently overflowing emotions.  Annoyingly, Laurel is wearing headphones or else Dinah might be able to ascertain the root of Laurel’s abnormal weepiness.

It is to the backdrop of Laurel sniffling around a plaintive almost mewling cry that she finally steps into the bedroom.  Bloodshot green eyes dart in her direction that tell the tale of a woman whose heart has not been touched by anguish but by something beautiful, something magical, something angelic.  Or rather someone.

Realization dawns on Dinah within seconds and she heaves a dramatic sigh.  

“Are you watching Dimash videos again?” she asks, unable to hide the hint of humor in her voice.  

Ever since Laurel discovered the astounding Kazahk singer, she has been spiraling down a rabbit hole of obsession that is predominantly adorable.  She even joined the official fan club!  And bought them tickets to a concert in LA next three months from now.  Hell, she even ordered a Dears coffee mug and an “I Heart Dimash” t-shirt that she wears in public! Often!  

Frankly Dinah would have been worried about the fanaticism if Laurel wasn’t singing around the house more than she ever has, the sound of which fills Dinah with indescribable joy.  Or if she wasn’t halfway on the bandwagon herself.  Popera is not her cup of tea, but hot damn that kid can sing.  And his stage presence…?  Jesus.  Simply unreal.  

Eyes still streaming tears, hand covering her mouth to contain the cutest little squeaks, Laurel can only nod in response to the question.  The sight of her so affected by the purity and passion behind the music melts away any remaining tension from Dinah’s frame.  

Needing to be close to Laurel, she pushes away from the door and pads in the direction of their bed.  After making her way over, she perches on the side close enough to easily reach Laurel.  

“Babe,” she says, reaching out to brush the tears from Laurel’s damp, flushed cheeks.  “I know you love him.  But why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I can’t help it.  Just look at him, Dinah,” Laurel replies, pointing animatedly at the screen.  Dropping her hand between them, Dinah follows a slender finger to the screen where Dimash, resplendent in a sharp tuxedo, is totally owning the stage and the crowd like he was born for it.  She recognizes the performance instantly as one of her personal favorites.  “He’s an angel.  An actual fucking real life angel come down to earth.  And then he opens his mouth and the literal sounds of heaven come out.  I just...I just can’t….”  

In her peripheral vision, Dinah catches the moment Dimash explodes into a segment where he belts with all the gusto and passion of Pavarotti. Almost immediately Laurel dissolves into another round of overwhelmed tears.

Dinah chuckles, slightly amused and entirely besotted.  To offer some comfort she knows will be appreciated, she slides further up on the bed and arranges herself so that Laurel can tuck into her side.  

“C’mere,” she says, patting her lap to give an invitation that is not refused. After pausing the video, Laurel scoots over until she is halfway in Dinah’s lap, reclining against her chest, head resting against Dinah’s shoulder.  Once she is all settled in and both of them are comfy, Dinah nabs one of the earbuds from Laurel’s ear and sticks it into hers before looping an arm around her trembling fiancee.  She pulls Laurel tight against her for good measure and then presses a kiss into her hair.

“Now then.  We can watch the rest together.  And maybe a few more after if that’s alright with you?”  A dimpled smile is her reward.

“More than okay.  Love you,” Laurel says, then tilts her head to press a sweet kiss to Dinah’s lips before returning her attention to the MacBook and Dimash.

A press of a button later, rich baritone crooning in Russian tickles Dinah’s ears.  Her eyes slide shut involuntarily as the melody washes over her and the otherworldly tone of Dimash’s singing transports her into a realm of pure aural bliss.  All too soon she becomes lost in a haze of profound musical magnificence that reminds her there is beauty in the world worth appreciating, worth savoring, worth sharing with the person she loves above all else.  So that’s precisely what she does.

And what do you know.  By the time the song is over, Dinah is crying, too.  

[narika-a]

No Way Out [Part 1]

||| This work is a collaboration with @kpop–fics, expect the 2nd part from her sometime soon|||

A/N 1: Okay, so for some reason Tumblr really hates this post, so I had to reupload again.

Choi Youngjae x Reader

Genre: Haunted Hotel AU

Summary: He knew he shouldn’t have gone inside in the first place but who would have thought that the building holds so many secrets.

Word Count: 1,269

Youngjae’s POV

I shouldn’t have taken that stupid bet but how was I supposed to know that Yugyeom is actually a very skillful liar. I zipped up the jacket I was wearing. Even though it was summer it was pretty chilly and it started to rain on top of that.

“Why are we here at 5 am in the morning?” I asked them.

“Are you stupid or something?” Jinyoung retorted. “Do you want to be caught by security?”

“Early mornings are the best time to enter this place, there is barely anyone nearby,” Jackson explained.

Even though I was all in for this idea a few hours ago, somehow now, I really didn’t want to go in. I looked at Jaebum.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with me?” he laughed and patted me on the back.

“Not today.”

I sighed and put my hood on. I pushed one loose board off the fence and slipped in. I looked at my friends for the last time before going around in attempt to find a way in. The first floor had bars everywhere and after searching for half an hour, I was beginning to think that this was pointless. I stopped at the front and looked up. Man this building already looked scary. I didn’t know much about it’s history, only that it was supposed to be a hotel and it’s construction began more than twenty years ago. What creeped me out the most was the fact that it was never finished and never demolished due to unforeseen circumstances even though it stood almost in the city centre. I counted the floors. Eleven of them but according to the bet I had to climb to the roof and take a photo as an evidence, so twelve in total. I saw one hole in the wall where I would be able to fit through but there was a camera pointed at it, so the hotel still belonged to someone. I went around it and was about to step on the entrance platform when something stopped me. Maybe it was a hunch or something but I looked up and noticed that there was a motion detector on the ceiling. Thank God! I almost went there. I unwrapped some wires that guarded another entrance. I thought I was finally able to get in but after walking on the inside for a while, I realized there is no way up except the elevators which were of course run down. I guess I have no choice but get through that hole I saw, the one with the camera. If it’s still working the security won’t reach this place so quickly right? I kept my back to it the whole time and somehow, just barely crawled in, ripping my jeans in the process. Great. It was a similar place like the one I was in before, I looked inside some of the rooms hoping to find a set of stairs or something but there was none. Is there any way to go inside this building? I was starting to get annoyed when I heard some noises coming from one of the walls. I put my ear near it and listened. A voice? No. Something more similar to music. I looked around and noticed there’s an opening in the wall but it was pretty high up. I jumped up and tried to pull myself in but my arms quickly gave up. I saw a board prepped up on one of the walls. I set it up, hoping it won’t fall and climbed to the opening. I took the little flashlight I had and turned it on. It was pitch black inside but I didn’t know any other way in but if I jump inside I’m not sure I will be able to get out later on. I pondered for a few minutes thinking of maybe taking some lose boards with me when I hear the same noise again.

“Hello?” I shouted. “Is someone out there? Can you show me the way in?”

Great. I was already starting to imagine things. Was I seriously trying to ask the room for help? When all of a sudden  something fell from another opening across the room. Is that a sign? I decided to just fuck it and jumped inside. I flashed the light on the floor, hoping to find what fell down.  There was a red glass bead laying there. I picked it up. It seemed relatively new. Certainly someone’s. A shiver went down my spine as I remembered BamBam joking that this place is haunted to the core. Nothing but darkness loomed over me. I had to get out, at least out of this room. I pushed something that looked like an old refrigerator to the opening I saw before. I almost fell while going up. The opening looked like a window and I had enough space to sit up. There was light coming from somewhere far away. Outside perhaps? I was somehow relieved I won’t need to stay in the darkness for much longer. I slowly lowered myself down. As soon as I touched the ground I went straight where the light was coming from. I quickly turned the corner and bumped into someone head on. I screamed and fell on my back, I lay there too scared to open my eyes when I heard someone laughing.

“You scream like a little girl,” a woman’s voice spoke to me. “Let me help you.”

I looked at her and slowly took her hand.

“I’m Y/N, what’s your name?” she asked, shaking the hand she was holding. Now that my eyes adjusted to the lighting of the room I could see her clearly. I didn’t want to seem rude by staring but I couldn’t help it. She was so beautiful, almost unreal.

“Hey! Cat’s got your tongue or something,” she waved her hand in front of my face. Embarrassed I quickly let go of her hand.

“Youngjae.”

“So Youngjae what are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same for you?”

“I was just here with my friend, exploring, we heard there is some interesting stuff hidden here-“ she turned around and I looked behind her as well. There was nothing there. She looked back at me confused. “Where did she go?”

“Who?”

“My friend.”

“You should try calling her,” I said and she took out her phone.

“No signal.”

“I meant to call her out. By name.”

“Ooh…” but she didn’t say anything else. Why won’t she call her name? She turned around and started walking in the same direction I came from.

“Where are you going?” I caught up with her.

“Maybe she went out, she always likes to scare me like that. Leaving me behind. She could even be hiding behind one of these corners,” she abruptly stopped and I almost bumped into her again.

“Y-Youngjae,” she stuttered. “The window I climbed through… It’s gone.”

“What do you mean it’s gone?” I got in front of her and couldn’t believe my eyes. What the hell. I ran to the wall that once had an opening.

“Maybe we’re not looking close enough,” I laughed nervously, frantically searching for something that would indicate that I’m not imagining things.

“Youngjae. It’s gone,” she slumped down on the ground.

I looked at her, how can she give up so quickly. I can’t get stuck here. This is not how it was supposed to go. I was starting to panic.

“Come with me,” I said picking her up. “I refuse to believe the entrance just vanished. There must be a way out.”

~ Part 2 ~

A/N 2: At least my part of the story is based on a building that was actually in my city and I had the opportunity to sneak around in it. It was quite creepy but so exciting!!