#thinking about how protege comes from the french word 'to protect'

[shitpostingkats]

I swear, nothing makes me go bonkers fucking yonkers quite like comparing Athena and Apollos' introductions to the WAA.

When Phoenix asked Athena to come work for the agency, he reached out overseas to get in contact and offer her a job. When Phoenix asked Apollo to come work for the agency, he didn't even mention what the business was called or what they actually did.

On Athena's first day in court, Phoenix showed up and took over for her when she started to break down. On Apollo's first day in court, Phoenix made him an accomplice in crime and almost ruined his career.

When Athena introduces her childhood best friend to the WAA, they get her cleared of murder charges and save a friendgroup. When Apollo tries to introduce his childhood best friend to the agency, he dies before that can even happen.

When Athena returns to the space center, she is greeted by the robots with open arms. When Apollo returns to the space center, he is greeted by the name of a dead man.

When Phoenix sought out Athena as a protégé, it was because he realized how much she was hurting. When Phoenix sought out Apollo as a protégé, its because he realized how much he could be used to hurt others.

[the-darklings]

—𝒄𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒔;

—PART XIII. | COR AUT MORS

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 9.2k+

summary: One look, and you know. 

warnings: you will suffer x 3

notes: hot off the press! Come and enjoy your (almost) bi-weekly dose of suffering. This one is gonna get intense so strap in. As always your feedback and support are eternally appreciated even if I don’t always have time to reply to everyone individually. You’re all amazing for taking the time and helping writers out <33

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 11 | 12 | . . | 14 |

gif credit (x)

A smile twitches across Lucien’s mouth; a fleeting, haughty thing.

“Hello there,” he greets casually with a little wave. “How’s the head?”

Rotating your neck, you snap at the ties around your wrists, testing their strength. Pain flares through your wrists but the binds hold and you sigh, dragging your narrowed eyes to the tall, blonde man slowly approaching you.

It’s then that you notice where exactly you are.

Even through the pounding in your head, you recognise the too familiar warehouse. The drab, cold greyness of these walls where you and Santino where attacked only weeks ago.

Lucien grins at your delayed realisation, at your simmering rage, as he comes to a stop before you. You have to crane your head back to see his elegant features, meeting his stare head-on.

“Their first attempt was so poor that when I heard about it, I laughed,” he reveals knowingly with a small hum, and reaches out, his fingers touching your bandaged ear. He grips it lightly, a promise of pain scraping against your subconsciousness. “I heard you made that attempt look like they were toddlers. Which is why I’m so disappointed now. Frantic and distracted. You made this easy, you see, and I don’t like that. You’re different. What happened to you?”

You jerk your head from his grip, ignoring the sting of pain in your ear.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Lucien pauses, his hand still hovering beside your head. He takes in your laboured breaths and glassy stare with an inquisitive frown, and you wonder if your expression is as wild as you feel. You hate how he’s looking at you.

If your hands were loose you would wrap them—

“Oh. Oh,” he breathes quietly, blinking as if dazed. He leans down abruptly, his dark eyes two bottomless pits. The light in them is feverish. “Look at you. It’s the edge, isn’t it?”

His words rip through you, leaving you gaping before you manage to control your expression.

For a second, it feels like he’s right there with you, at that crumbling edge deep inside you.

It feels so bizarrely violating you almost flinch.

“You’re insane.”

Lucien smiles an angelic smile but the devil lurks beneath those sharp edges. “Sanity is a matter of perspective,” he hums pleasantly, leaning back, his stare still keen. “And I think you know exactly what I speak of.”

You don’t have time for this.

Santino.

John.

The contract.

Something inside your gut hollows out at the recollection.

You need to get out of here.

Right now.

“Where’s dear Mika?” you question sweetly, hoping that provocation will give you a chance as you subtly tug at your binds. “Won’t she get upset you have me all tied up and alone here?”

Lucien sighs deeply, giving you a look of a disappointed parent about to scold their child.

He steps to the side, walking around you and you still immediately, ceasing your shifting as he circles you.

“My beloved is recovering,” he explains unhappily and you don’t have to see his face to hear the frown on it. “Our last meeting was rather memorable, won’t you agree?”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your ear from behind. A beat. Then his fingertips ghost over your left temple. “I’m almost tempted to take your eye and gift it to her. But no...no. I need you hale for our next dance.”

He leans back, stepping into your line of sight again and you grit your teeth.

“Untie me, then,” you goad with a tilt of your chin. “Let’s go a few rounds.”

Lucien tuts, his dark clothes only bringing out the almost translucent paleness of his skin as he leans closer.

“No, you’re not there yet,” he says gently, his eyes inspecting you thoughtfully. “I don’t want this. I want you over the edge. I want to dance in the darkness where we are both equals. Just like we did for that one moment in the tunnels.”

His voice dips towards the end; almost an intimate caress.

But your head only tilts knowingly, and you grin sharply, “Is this the part where you torture me, Lucien? You may not like what’s left behind if you push me over the edge.”

It’s what the Lovers are known for after all.

Their rapid bloodlust.

The pale man shakes his head once, dismissive, but his eyes narrow slightly at the casual use of his real name.

“No, not at all,” he rebukes and takes a step closer, your knees almost touching. “You don’t fear pain, I can tell. You pass it out, just like I do. Who was it, I wonder?” his head tilts. “The one who taught you about the abyss below.”

God, he’s insane.

And you don’t have time for his idiotic ramblings.

The fact that you were frantic enough for him to take you this easily is already insulting enough. There is no one but yourself to blame and now—

Now you need to find a way to get loose.

The binds will hold. They clearly knew better than to leave any room for error. You can’t feel any of your weapons on your person, either.

Your coat, too, is missing.

You blink up at the man before you, wondering if you could possibly trick him into giving you what you want.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter and flash him another cool smile. “They’re both dead now. By my hand. Just like you will be.”

A promise, not a threat.

He won’t rest till one or both of you are dead, and you won’t rest till he’s dead. Him and his deranged girlfriend.

Lucien doesn’t react to your words though.

“Could you kill me, I wonder?” he wonders instead, curious. “I bet it would be like killing yourself.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up—

“We are nothing alike,” you hiss hotly, and this time your self-control creaks dangerously. “Despite what you would like to think. You’re—”

He explodes.

His hands slam against you as his fingers sink into your shoulder blades.  

“But we are. We are!” he practically screams into your face, a loose strand of hair brushing over his forehead. His fingers constrict, desperate, but he manages to suck in a few calming breaths. “The only difference between you and I is the fact that I have made that abyss my home. My throne. What have you done? You crawled back out like a coward instead of embracing it. I can see it. The agony, the hunger, the wishful hoping that one day you won’t wake up. But oh no—no! You do wake up and the cycle repeats again.”

Yes.

The darkness.

The point of no return you had sunk down to after Tokyo, after John, after Giovanni threw you out the D’Antonio estate, ending your protection.

That pit had almost destroyed you.

It has clearly stripped whatever sanity Lucien might have held onto once.

But you chose to fight back.

You chose to crawl back into the light.

Because you had people there who had needed you, believed in you, who had cared about you enough to tell you to fight back. Who told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about your situation instead of giving up.

If it weren’t for Winston and Santino and Ares and Charon and—

If it weren’t for them you would be dead or worse.

You would have become like Lucien.

You had become like him. No matter how briefly.  

The slaughter that had made your name.

The transformation from “John Wick’s partner” and “protege” and “little girl” to The Vipress.

“Do you know about Shódigan?”

The sudden question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you ignore the way Lucien’s bony fingers sink into your skin with enough force to bruise.

His faint French accent warps the word into a curse; hateful and harsh.  

Trying not to show your discomfort, you give him a dispassionate, “Yes.”

The man leans closer till you’re face-to-face but he seems calmer now, his expression serene.

“You know...everyone who has ever found out about it, I’ve torn apart. Slowly. Piece by piece,” he reveals with a faint laugh. “Not because I cared that they knew but because they…they could never understand. But you do. You know what it is to be so desperate and so afraid that you would do anything to live and anything to die.”

“So you think that just because the system failed you that gives you the right to become a maniac?”

Your immediate retort gives him a pause before he reaches forward, cupping your face in his hands instead, the sharpness of his digits sinking into the flesh of your cheeks.  

“You’re not listening—”

You try to drag yourself out of his grip but it only constricts again.

Something dark gleams in his eyes at your struggle.

“Oh, but I am,” you spit out, glaring right at him. “The poor little orphan boy. People tried to help you again and again but you didn’t want it. I bet it was easy to like her after she killed for you.”

Dear Mika. With her clever mind and her pretty face.

But killing one’s parents for some maniac—

“It was,” Lucien admits easily, unfazed. He finally releases his grip on you, stepping back, his head slanting mockingly. “But are you any different, viper? How many have you slaughtered? I bet you delight in it as much as I do. In fact, I know you do. For a split second in those tunnels, you wanted me more than dead. You wanted me to be ruined. Torn apart. You said it and meant it. You see, we are exactly alike.”

For a moment you only stare at each other.

“Too bad the Dragon wants me dead.”

He says nothing, a faint frown twisting his elegant features at the reminder.

You lean forward as far as the chair allows you.

“I will make you a deal,” you begin and lick your lips to steady yourself. “Let me go now. There is something I must do and it’s urgent. But once that’s dealt with…”

You smile grimly.

“Once that’s dealt with, you pick a place and a time. No running, no tricks. Just you and me. You want to dance with me, Lucien? I’m inclined to indulge you. But I need you to let me go now.”

You need to get to Santino.

You need to talk him out of this stupid, foolish, vengeance-seeking plan of his.

Whatever it takes to get to him now, you will do.

John will wait.

But only for so long when he’s being hunted by everyone in New York.  

Only so long after Santino sent Ares and his men after him in the catacombs.

Lucien stalks closer; a tall, looming figure, and you notice how his right palm rests against the spot where you drove your blade into him. His fingertips trace over the spot almost obsessively.

His eyes are pitch black as he smiles faintly.

You see it coming but can’t react to it with your hands bound.

A needle sinks into your neck and you gasp, jerking in your seat.

Lucien grips your hair, pressing his lips against your ear and breathes a handful of words that get lost in the rush of sudden dizziness.

No—

No—

It shouldn’t be possible. You’re the Vipress. You have trained against this.

It—

“—sends his regards.”

Numbness spreads through you at a frightening rate and your head droops to the side.

“Let her know that I have the Viper.”

Inky darkness drags you down and then there’s nothing.

“—they tried to take her during the Hunt but, well, it didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“Because she went to Camorra, dipshit. Who the hell goes up against Camorra?”

“I thought Camorra didn’t like outsiders though? They’re traditionalists.”

“Yeah, well, she befriended the heirs from what I’ve heard. Exceptions were made.”

“So Chicago was—”

A faint sigh slips past your lips as you eyes crack open, your vision blurring.

Your throat is dry, a stale taste lingering against your tongue as you try to blink away the dizziness.

What the hell—

“Woah. How is she awake?”

Footsteps.

A barrel of a Sabatti ST18 digs into your bruised shoulder and you jerk in your seat, your head snapping up to glare at the owners of those two voices.

The duo in typical Dragon tactical suits take a step back.

Your vision blurs and you shake your head again, your eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“The fuck, man?” the shorter of the two demands. “The crazy said she should be out for hours.”

“Will you calm down?” the one with the gun grumbles, shooting his partner a look. His gun lifts and he nudges your shoulder again, keeping the barrel on you. “She’s the Vipress. Makes sense that whatever shit he gave her is not as effective on her. You’ve heard the stories. We’re fine. She’s still out of it.”

The first one shifts in his spot, uneasy. “Man, we should call for backup. Get the crazy here to handle her.”

“She’s harmless—”

You ram into the man in front of you.

“Shit!”

The chair beneath you drags you to the side, tipping abruptly, and you crash to the floor. Pain flares through your side but you loosen your tied legs, slamming your knee into the second man’s groin. The hit throws his aim, a bullet sailing past you and hitting the concrete instead. The man curses, and you spot the second one grappling for his gun.

Your hands—

Shit.

They won’t come loose and you wiggle on the ground, kicking yourself backwards to slide across the floor to buy precious seconds. Pulling yourself away from the chair, you curl into a ball, trying to push your legs over your tied arms.

The first man stumbles to his feet, aiming wildly in your direction—

Crack.

The sickening crunch of a broken neck echoes, ripping through the vast space of the hanger like a bomb going off.

The man collapses like someone simply turned off his motor function, revealing another tall man standing where the soldier once did.

A lit cigarette between his lips, the newcomer aims and shoots the second man before he even manages to get back onto his knees, his brain scattering in a gory mess.

You stare. Wide-eyed and speechless.

“Hector?” you croak out, confused, your voice raspy as you squint up at the looming figure.

The man doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette instead, letting the loose smoke escape past his full lips in small wisps, considering.

“Never thought these dumb fucks will shut up,” he grouses, irritated. “Fuck me. I have brain damage.”

His pale eyes finally drag to you and he stares at you on the ground for a beat. “What are you doing down there? Get up.”

Rolling on your side, you push yourself onto your knees, shaking your head to clear it. Whatever Lucien gave you is leaving your system quickly but everything still feels…mushy.

How the hell did he even manage to find something that would knock you out is beyond you.

“How did you find me?”

“I followed the sound of bullshit.”

You stagger to your feet, glaring at him as you work on the binds on your hands. Hector watches your sluggish movements with a faint frown before exhaling sharply and dropping his cigarette, stomping on it. He steps closer, watching your reaction to his approach. A small butterfly knife appears between his fingers and he cuts through the restraints easily.

You watch the colourful lines of tattoos curving around his neck blankly while he works.

Wings across his throat. You wonder why wings.

“Good old Santi forced me on guard duty,” he says after a moment, the last of the ropes binding your hands falling to the floor. “I wasn’t about to lug your unconscious ass through New York though.”

Santino.

Santino.

Your eyes snap to the windows and you suck in a shaky breath when you realise that it’s dark outside. When you spoke to Lucien there had been a faint pink light emitting through the murky windows. Like dawn. But now, only darkness can be seen outside.

Oh God.

How long have you been here?

How much time has been wasted?

“Where is he?”

Hector pauses, his eyebrows arching at your desperate question. “Shouldn’t you care more about the fact that The Lovers—”

“Where is he, Hector?”

He hesitates. He knows you’re not one for panic. “Relax. Your Little Saint is fine. He’s rushed his coronation, so probably enjoying the company of rich bastards ready to kiss his ass all night long.”

“Call the guard,” you force out, choked, unsteady. “Right now, Hector.”

He rolls his eyes, flipping his knife and placing it back inside his suit. “I told you—”

“He opened a contract for John Wick.”

“So?”

“So,” you bite out furiously. “John will come for him.”

Hector makes a small noise at the back of his throat; rough and dismissive. “John Wick is one man, and Santino is the new head of Camorra.”

Your fingers latch onto his forearm, your nails digging in and he tenses, his gaze sharpening at the threatening gesture.

“It doesn’t matter. You have no idea what John is capable of,” you exhale shakily. “You think you do, but you don’t. This isn’t me looking down on you or Camorra or anyone. But you need to call the guard right now. I need to get to Santino right now or he won’t survive past the next 24hr. If it’s not already—”

Too late.

It could be.

Something cold, downright harrowing, scrapes through your heart at the mere thought.

Hector roughly yanks his arm back, his stare more cutting now, assessing. “I snuck in. But if you want speedy we’ll have to force our way out. The Male Lover has left to check on his squeeze but he will be back soon. He’s expecting someone.”

“Are you asking me if I’m ready to kill people after me?” you wonder bitingly, glancing around for your things.

Hector has that covered though. He offers his earlier knife and a Glock 30S with a sardonic twist of his lips but you grab them without hesitation. While a shitty pistol with 10 rounds is hardly going to be ideal for this situation, it doesn’t matter. You will take what you can get.

“What was—”

You shoot without hesitation but your aim is still unsteady, and the bullet hits the soldier that’s appeared in the shoulder instead.

Hector finishes him off with a single headshot.

His eyes swing to you but you step past him before he can say anything.  

You’ve used this warehouse multiple times, and you move through the space with familiarity, trying to snap yourself out of your daze.

Terror curdles your stomach but you fight it back.

Hector falls in step beside you easily, towering, and you distantly recall that this is only your second time ever working with him.

Neither of you talk. There is no need. You both know exactly what to do.

Kill.

The one thing you’re both best at.

You stumble upon a small group of Dragon’s men moments later, and they’re dead before they can reach for their weapons.

This time your aim is steadier.

You still feel Hector tracking your movements with a critical, merciless eye though.

The sounds of gunfire attract attention as expected, and you hear more footsteps hurry in your direction.

Hector doesn't speak, doesn’t look at you.

He simply moves, and where he goes death follows.

He cuts through the Dragon’s men like cutting through wheat. All murderous, focused intent that’s fascinating and terrifying to watch. He makes death look easy. Effortless.

Much like John, much like you, he has a gift of death—and he knows exactly how to use it.

He grabs one man by the arm, cracking his knee upwards in a too familiar manner that shatters the man’s elbow.

Copycat.

That’s your move.

If you had enough oxygen in your lungs, you would say so. But it’s a bit hard to speak with someone holding you in a chokehold.

Leaning back on your heels, you hook your foot on the man’s ankle, kicking his feet from underneath him. The grip around your throat loosens and you drive a knife backwards, blindly aiming for the liver. The easiest spot to hit from your current position.

The man gurgles, and you shove him backwards, freeing your bloodied blade with a gasp of breath.

The man blindly grapples for the wound, his fingers stained scarlet but it’s too late. He will be dead within minutes. You turn towards Hector and find the man readjusting his crumpled suit, scowling in your direction.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“I knew the situation was bad but not this bad,” he retorts icily, looking you up and down like he’s repulsed. “Slow. Sloppy. Since when do you struggle with simple Dragon goons?”

You stalk closer to him, wiping the bloodied blade against your dark pants. “They’re highly trained—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Hector interrupts, his stare narrowing on you. Bodies lay at his feet. None of them move. “That was miserable to watch. You looked like you were barely keeping up.”

“It might have escaped your notice but I was drugged only hours ago, asshole.”

“What happened to that woman in Prague who took down an entire crime syndicate simply because they took Santino, huh?” comes his harsh question as he marches towards you. “Have you fallen asleep? Died somewhere along the way? Or are you gonna cry how your life is so hard and that’s why you’re so shit lately?”

You know you’ve been slipping.

You’ve been aware of your decline for a while now.

Every person has a threshold. Only so much they can handle both physically, emotionally and mentally. The last few weeks have been a hurricane of one thing after another, hit after hit. An onslaught of loss and pain and confusion. Of being torn at all sides and it’s been eroding you away.

That’s why after the tunnels you had agreed to rest. No matter how much it had demanded from you.

Because everything has been building up and it’s taken a toll on you.

Because that ruthless calm that you have used to shield yourself in the past has been crumbling away lately, leaving you vulnerable.

But you sure as hell don’t owe an explanation to him.

Not right now.

“You know what?” you bite out, your voice a sharpened blade. “Get fucked, Hector. I don’t need your condescending bullshit right now.”

His mouth twists. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he shoots back, bored. “I’m a busy man. You will have to schedule something.”

You almost go for his jugular, then.

Prick. Prick. Prick.

His arm slams into you suddenly, shoving you to the ground and you both roll across the floor as shots ring through the empty space. He turns to face the attackers at once, every move expertly controlled as he aims. Unloading an entire clip at the men who had rushed through the doorway, he glances your way once. Silent communication. Your arm extends, pistol in hand, counting his shots in your head. He draws blank, but the last two men fall by your bullets instead. Easy transition.

Your arm trembles as it hovers over Hector’s broad shoulder and he reloads smoothly, glancing at you once.

“Go.”

Ignoring the stench of death and blood in the air, you glance his way. Hector doesn’t look at you again though.

“Are you deaf?” he demands coldly after you don’t move. “There’s too many of them here. If Santino is really in danger, you need to go now. Besides, you will only slow me down.”

The last part is a purposeful dig that drips with disdain but you chose to ignore it just this once.

“Where?”

His piercing, pale eyes find yours in the dim light. “You already know where.”

Flavio stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You suppose with how you look and feel after the last few days, to him you are no better than an animated dead corpse.

The party is in full swing by now but Flavio is the first of Santino’s security that you have encountered.

You had gotten here in record time.

You’ve left Hector to deal with the Dragon’s men and potentially Lucien whenever he returns. But if anyone could take on the Male Lover, it’s the Camorra’s Devil. Instead, you had backtracked and shot out one of the warehouse windows before climbing out of it while Camorra’s best covered your escape.

Your phone was missing after the explosion, leaving you unable to contact either Santino or John or even Winston.

So you had decided to sprint straight for the Metropolitan Museum where Santino’s coronation was being held. There had been only one stop on the way. A tiny, dingy alleyway located between 66th Street and 2nd Avenue. A safe spot for some gear, namely a pistol with two spare clips and a vial of paralyser with a few sharpened blades. Minimal, but it will have to do. Safe spots dotted along the city was another trick you had picked up from John years ago.

God, you hope he’s safe. That he’s actually listened to you.

But—

That grim look on his face.

The resolute shift of his entire body when he learned about the contract.

You are on borrowed time.

And John is a storm that will tear everything apart without hesitation once it hits.

Still, seeing Flavio and the party in full swing gives you a nearly overwhelming sense of relief.

Because it means that Santino is here and he is safe. For now.

“Where is he?”

Flavio gawks openly, his lips slightly parted before he blinks his surprise away.

“I thought you were in Rome—”

You grab him by the lapel of his white suit, jerking his entire body forward. “I asked you where the fuck he is.”

The dark-haired man in front of you scowls. “Great Hall.”

Your fingers loosen at once, and you stagger away from him and towards your target. Breathe in and out. Sweat coats your skin, your head ringing, and you can’t begin to imagine how bad you must look right now. Still, security knows your face and lets you pass with only a few, startled looks shared between them.

You need to find him.

The Great Hall is full of people. Even without it being a coronation held with former planning, ascension to the High Table is a rare and high honour. Especially when it’s the new head of Camorra that’s being crowned. It feels like all the rich, powerful people in this city have gathered here tonight to pay tribute. A few faces you spot in the crowd are familiar. Presenting different families and seats at the table. Others you have never seen.

You push through them all, your eyes frantically jumping from face to face.

Where are you, where are you, where—

Your shoulder bumps against someone and you stumble, thrown off of your balance for a second.

The woman in front of you is stunning. With glossy pitch-black curls and piercing blue eyes, she stands almost half a head taller than you. Her blood red lips part before a thoughtful look takes over her features and she adjusts her flowing crimson gown with a simple sweep of her palm. Though she easily has at least 20 years on you, she is the type of woman that makes people look twice.

“My apologies, dear, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine.”

Your eyes are already back to sweeping over the crowd and you step forward—

Fingers lock around your wrist and you yank your hand back at once, your eyes cutting back to the refined woman in warning. She blinks at your hostility but doesn’t seem offended as her eyes flicker over your dishevelled appearance.

“You won’t happen to be the Vipress?” she wonders softly, a faint accent lacing her words that you can’t quite place. “I have heard so much about—”

“Look, no offence, but I really don’t have time for this right now,” you cut her off, brushing past her. “Maybe next time.”

You walk away without another word, pushing through the crowd. Few people give you indignant looks when you shove past them too harshly but you ignore them.

Everywhere you look, there are people but none of them bear the face of the one you need right now.

Where are you, grumpy—

There.

It stops you for a few breaths—actually seeing him.

Santino is in his element. Expensive, crisp suit on and charisma oozing from every inch of him as he chats with some woman. Conversation flows easily if Santino deems you interesting enough—which is few and far in-between—but tonight is his night.

He is the sun holding this system together and he revels in it.

A prince finally crowned a king.

You take a step towards him and then another, and as if he feels you drilling holes into him, his head tilts in your direction absently.

His eyes brush over you before he does a double-take.

Like a magnet being pulled, his body swings to face you, his previous companion forgotten as he watches you approach.

The softening of his features hardens with every step.

He tallies the injuries mentally and the look in your eyes makes his own narrow.

You need to tell him a thousand things but the only thing you do manage is a weak, “Santino.”

He meets you halfway, his hands sliding into his pockets as he regards you intently. A shield, an armour.

“Hello, amore,” he greets but his demeanour is cagey, his voice low. He clearly still has your last conversation playing on his mind. But anger can wait till later. “Your head—”

His hand lifts, his thumb tracing over your brow and you hold back a flinch, your face crumpling in pain.

Your fingers latch onto his own when he pulls back, and frankly, you don’t give a shit if anyone is looking and seeing this. Don’t give a shit what they might think—

“Don’t do this,” you breathe, clutching onto his hand desperately. His fingers fold over yours, too, but his expression is hard, understanding blooming in wake of your words. “Recall the contract. If you don’t, John will come for you. You’re smarter than this. You have Camorra. Don’t waste it all now. Let’s get out of here. Go to Paris. Right—right now if you want. Just come with me. Please. Don’t risk everything for some petty revenge, Santino—”

“You would still—”

“This isn’t about him! I’m trying to protect you.”

He pauses at the splutter of your voice, at the way it cracks with desperation, with pain. Those familiar green eyes seem conflicted, heavy, as they track over your face, and he swallows.

Tears burn your eyes, and you feel them spill, at last, trailing down your cheeks. Weeks of pent up emotion manifesting itself in the simplest, most human way possible.

Something about the stiff, unyielding set of his face eases a touch when he notices your tears. You know he hasn’t seen you cry since Chicago. That it’s been years and he simply does not associate such things with you because you’ve rarely allowed him to see you like this.

“Please,” you plead faintly, trying to steady yourself, trying to convince him. “Please, don’t—don’t make me bury you, too.”

The last sentence is a strangled mess but he exhales sharply at your words, his lips thinning into a firm line.

You’ve lost so much.

All you’ve been doing all your life is lose.

Your parents, too many friends.

You’re so tired of being alone.

Left behind. A second choice. Or no choice at all.

So you will demand this. Even if it means you have to make him choose—the one thing you promised you will never make him do.

A simple decision.

Between you and his pride. Between his need for revenge, for more control, over what you want and need.

Santino is silent.

His expression is stony as he peers at you, seemingly lost in thought. But there is something about the light in his eyes that makes a heavy weight form in the pit of your stomach. The guttering dread you’ve felt ever since learning about the contract returns tenfold.

Santino’s hand slips out of your grip.

The soft melody of the party washes over you both as you stare at each other not saying anything.

Perhaps saying everything.

His thumb brushes under your eye, your tears staining his finger and his jaw ticks, his stare stormy.

You know that look.

That look of pride; a look of regretful goodbye.

Your hand presses on top of his, flattening his heated palm against one side of your face. Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head slightly, your fingers trembling.

He’s still warm.

And you are, for the first time in a very long time, afraid.

“Please, you p-promised.”

I will never abandon you.

Another strangled breath rattles out of his chest. Quiet enough that only you hear it.

An uneven breath.

Followed by another.

The melody swells.

Your eyes crack open, your sight blurring.

One look, and you know.

“Very well, amore,” he says quietly, meeting your helpless stare. “I choose you.”

You feel them.

Those words.

They roll over you like a warm wave, momentarily washing everything else away.

He doesn’t look happy to admit this defeat, but he means it.

I

choose    

you

That’s all you’ve ever wanted. All you’ve ever dreamt about. Someone placing your wishes first.

The noise you make—feeble and choked—makes him take another step towards you, barely any distance between you now.

“So you’ll—you’ll call it off?”

He nods once, his mouth twisting into an unhappy line but his stare is earnest as he gazes at you. His fingers keep brushing against your tear-stained cheek, drying the skin but you hardly register the gesture or care about anyone looking.

Right now, it might as well be just you two in this gallery, in this world.

“Yes.”

You almost crumble in relief.

But all you do is exhale, your shoulders drooping as you lean into his touch just for a second.

“I figured I could live with it,” he says softly and your eyes flutter open. “With you hating me. Mhm, perhaps even killing me. But it seems…that I just really want to take you to Paris instead, cara mia.”

His mouth twitches into a slight grin at your huff of laughter.

“It seems my father was right,” he continues, his thumb now tracing over the arch of your cheek, all tenderness. “I am weak.”

“You’re not,” you disagree and give him a smile, even if frayed around the edges. “You did what he couldn’t.”

He did what no one in his family has ever done.

Step over his pride.

Change his mind.

Place something above his own ambition just this once.

Something that even you didn’t think he would ever do till the very last second.

“We could go now.”

His eyes flicker, heated. “Right now?”

You nod.

He leans towards you and for a second you think he will kiss you but he stops himself halfway. His tongue swipes over his lower lip once and he swallows unsteadily.

Looks at you like near isn’t nearly close enough.

“I can get the jet ready to leave in an hour.”

He says it like he’s expecting you to change your mind.

But you want as much distance between him and John as possible until the contract is lifted.

And maybe you just really want to say to the hell with all of this and escape for a bit, too.

Maybe—

“Okay.”

His fingers slide down, brushing against your jaw and neck, lingering on your skin. “Yes?”

You meet his searching, guarded gaze evenly. “Take me away from here.”

His lips part and you can almost feel his shallow exhale. You certainly feel the heat of his stare as he keeps looking over you—like he can’t get enough of it, like he can’t quite believe this.

His lips part—

A hush falls over the gallery.

The music cuts off abruptly.

Your head jerks towards the sound of the parting crowd and something inside you ices over when it reveals John.

Your body twists instinctively at the look on his face. At the darkness of those eyes, scrutinising Santino like a predator does with his prey.

Your John is not here.

The one standing before you now is Baba Yaga.

You take a step in front of Santino.

The Italian places his fingers against the crook of your elbow as if to stop you, but you tug your arm away from him, not taking your eyes away from John.

You just need to talk with him.

Explain that it’s over. Finally, it’s over.

He can rest. Be free.

You both can finally be free.

John looks at you eventually but you can’t quite read his expression.

Santino’s guards are surrounding him but they will be nothing but tissue paper for the man in front of you.

His face is littered with cuts and bruises that tell a colourful tale of the last 24hr but you never doubted him. His skill is seldom matched. You can count on one hand the individuals who have a shot at all.

“Get to the Continental,” you instruct Santino calmly while the Great Hall seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what will happen next. “Find Winston. Call off the contract. Go, Santino.”

He doesn’t get to reply.

Your draw is a second behind John’s.

Screams explode through the air as gunfire rains through the gallery. You shove at Santino blindly, covering him, and John’s attention snaps to the guards instead.

He doesn’t miss.

Four shots, four dead.

Blood spatters everywhere and he rushes ahead, determined, only to be met with a shot at his feet.

John halts, frowning.

You don’t aim your pistol at him. You just need him to stop.

“(Name).”

He practically growls your name, angry and warning, but he doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t want to hurt you, or fight you, and it’s clear in his dark eyes. In the pleading look he’s directing at you—a plea for you to step aside. Let him go on his mission and exact his justice.

But not this time.

“John, it’s over,” you shout over the rush of fleeing people, angling your body to block his way. “Listen to me. Santino—”

He fires.

You wait for the pain to hit but hear a dull thud of a body dropping to the floor behind you instead.

Twisting around, you watch as more guards rush into the room but you hesitate.

A few seem to pause at the sight of you, too.

But John fires twice more—another two dead, just that easy for him—before running out of bullets. The guards scramble and unleash their own gunfire in reply.

You throw yourself to the side, firing back, but purposely hitting legs and shoulders. Enough to wound and momentarily disable but not kill.

Some of those faces are familiar to you.

You can’t—

John has no such reservations though. He steals gun after gun, clip after clip, emptying each with such deadly focus that it reminds you of the man you first met.

No mercy. No reservations. A shadow of a being.

As if he’s truly Death given human form, and there is no escaping him now.

His legs wrap around a guard’s neck and a bullet to the temple follows seconds later. He jerks at the sound of another shot sailing over his head but it’s too late. A body crumples to the floor behind him, and John finds you in the scramble, his stare wary despite the save.

“John!” you scream his name as he rounds a corner, disappearing from your sight and you dash after him. “Stop! John—”

You round the corner, only for him to grab and shove you against the wall, firing at the guards rushing through the hallway and directly at you.

His body heat presses into yours, covering you, and you fire shots too. Even if it makes you feel queasy doing so.

You grab him and his attention snaps to you.

Physically this is the closest you’ve been in years. The irony of it all doesn’t escape you.

“Will you just listen to me!” you hiss at him when he tries to wrench his arm out of your ironlike grip. “It’s over.”

“The contract is still open,” John rasps unevenly, his voice as dark as the look in his eyes. Strands of his raven hair stick to his sweaty forehead but he looks wild. Terrible. Godly. “He won’t stop, (Name). Even you weren’t enough to change his mind. He will never stop. This is who he is and I will finish this. Do not stand in my way. Not you.”

His eyes soften at the last part as he peers at you.

So he has no idea what happened to you.

That you got here only minutes before him.

“Listen to me,” you plead urgently, pulling him closer till you’re face-to-face. “Santino will c—”

A shot whistles past your ear, and John jerks your body to him, turning so that next two bullets hit his back instead. Your arm snaps out, shooting the assailant over his shoulder. This time, you aim for the head.

More guards rush in your direction, forcing you two to split apart and John growls under this breath, previous softness long gone.

He just pushes forward.

You’re slowed down by the mere fact that you make a conscious effort to not kill anyone else. And indeed, most guards seem to know better, only trying to hold you back and kill John instead.

It’s a desperate job trying to catch up with him. He’s barrelling through everything and anything in his path with single-minded focus.

You knock your pistol against an unfamiliar man’s temple and he collapses gracelessly to the floor.

At least he will live.

“Welcome to the Reflection of the Soul—”

You ignore the too pleasant, automatic female voice as the glass door opens and you rush through it. Now only armed with blades. Your pistol became obsolete three guards ago.

“John?”

There’s no sign of the man anywhere. Further into the maze you go, twisting through reflections and strobe lights dancing across every reflective surface to a dizzying degree. The woman keeps narrating the concept of perceiving one’s soul through observation of one’s reflection.

And then.

You throw yourself towards the sound of a distant struggle and stagger onto a floating staircase. Below, you see two familiar men on the floor.

“John, no!”

Roberto.

You sprint down the stairs, your ankles quivering from the strain as you stumble hurriedly downwards, ignoring the other dead body. The two men keep twisting on the ground, rolling, and even though Roberto has both the height and the mass advantage, John is simply another league.

He pushes a gun towards Roberto’s head and this time you don’t waste time with words.

BANG

You hit the floor, your arms around John and he pushes you away, twisting to stand. He relaxes once he realises that it’s you but a gasp of pain draws your attention before you can speak.

Roberto is clutching at his chest, and even beneath the thick beard, you see his features contorting with agony.

“Roberto?” you whisper worriedly, stumbling towards him. You fall onto your knees, trying to turn him over but he shoves you away. “Roberto!”

He stills at the snarl of your voice and his eyes crack open. “V?”

“It’s me,” you reassure him, and watch in horror as dark blood pools from beneath his fingers. “It’s okay. I will help you—just—let me look. Keep pressure on it. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The man groans with a nod. 6’2 but he seems smaller, then. Diminished.  

It takes you another moment to realise that it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Your head jerks to look behind you but John is nowhere to be seen.

“No, no—”

Roberto grabs your hand in his. His face is pale and clammy, but there’s still strength in his grip. “Boss needs you more. Go to him, V.”

“I—I can’t just leave you.”

The man squints at you. “You have to,” he says grimly. “It’s fine. I’m a tough bastard to kill. It’s just a scratch.”

Bullshit.

This level of bleeding suggests an artery was hit.

“Hector is coming. With others,” he adds.

Yeah, and taking his sweet goddamn time.

Roberto’s breaths are deep but laboured and he squeezes your hand again. “Go to him, V. He needs you.”

You nod your head, and wrap both of your hands around his, holding them tight.

“You better not die. You still owe me that poker game.”

The large man huffs a laugh, wheezy. “Yeah, can’t forget about that.”

With one last look at him, you free your grip and lurch to your feet, following the only other exit out.

For a few minutes, you dash through the unknown. It’s so quiet aside from the automated tour guide voice that you begin fearing the worst.

Two more bodies greet you eventually. Both from Ares private guard.

Both faces are familiar and even though you have seen enough death to last you ten lifetimes, something about seeing people you know dead by John’s hand hits you differently.

You force ahead.

A door hisses in front of you.

And another.

Another opens with a gentle whistle.

And you almost fall into the scene before you.

Your reaction is instinct alone.

A blade through her hand, Ares is no match for John’s raw strength.

But with you wrapping your hands around theirs, your joined strength is just enough to still the blade centimetres from Ares’ heart.

Your leg drives into John’s knee and his grip wavers.

He stumbles back a step, and Ares crashes against the glass heavily, silently gasping. Your grip loosens before dropping, and your attention turns to the man behind you.

He tried—

“Don’t touch her,” your voice soft but the fury coating it makes him visibly hesitate. “Don’t forget you owe me.”

John stills.

“I’m calling it in,” you tell him frankly, and block Ares from his sight. “Your life debt to me. Santino’s life—that’s my price.”

His expression goes slack. You know he didn’t expect this—didn’t plan for it.

You can almost feel Winston’s spirit beside you, humming a pleased, “Checkmate.”

John’s eyes lower and you see the weight of this realisation settle onto his shoulders.

Either he lets this go or he risks dishonouring a life debt as well.

Not to some mafioso. Not to some power-hungry man.

But to you.

Quiet shuffle registers in your ears and you tense, your expression dropping as you twist around to slam yourself into Ares.

BANG

The bullet she fired at John sails to the side, hitting the glass above his head instead and you slam her uninjured arm against the wall. You stare at her wide-eyed for a beat. She’s glaring, her mouth bloodied, and the look in her blue eyes is glacial. Furious.

She knows what you’ve done.

Saved John’s life.

And the fresh scratch against her arm begins to bleed at once.

A scratch made by a blade coated in your paralyser.

A blade you were going to use as last resort against John if all else failed.

The effect is almost immediate. Her shoulders drop, her muscles relaxing and you grab her, lowering her to the ground carefully. She glares at you the entire way down. The hand with a blade still sticking through it twitches in her lap and you see her pain even if she can’t vocalise it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I can’t—I can’t let you kill him.”

In reply, Ares’ eyes slide behind you and you follow her line of sight only to realise that John is no longer there.

“I called in my debt,” you remind her with a thin smile and frantically make sure that she’s not injured anywhere else. Grabbing her shoulder, you gingerly cut a part of her suit sleeve off, tying it around her palm to stop any blood loss till someone finds her. “He won’t—he—”

Your voice breaks.

Because deep down you know he would.

John always finishes his jobs. He never fails, unlike you.

John who refused a Marker to stay away from this world would.  

This is who he is and I will finish this.

Unyielding. Grim.

“Santino is at the Continental by now,” you add hurriedly, for your sake more than hers, tightening the knot and Ares’ hand in yours feels heavy. “He’s safe there.”

Winston would never allow a breach of rules on his territory.

Ares pulls her hands away from you, staring at you for a hard, angry moment. The gleam in her eyes makes your stomach twist with fear.

Her hands are clumsy as she starts forming signs, using the very last of her motor functionality to give you only one message.

A slow arch of her tattooed digits.

A stab in your direction with her index finger.

Her sentence completed, she lets her hands fall back into her lap but you feel her silent words pierce you harder than any blade or any bullet ever has.

Just three simple words.  

You stand hastily, your joints creaking.

Then you turn around, and run faster than you have ever ran in your entire life.

Everything is a blur.

Your legs are numb to a point you barely feel them at all. All you do feel is the weight of them carrying you forward, and the spasms of your muscles as you push them harder than you ever have.

He loves you.

Ares words cling to you like a second skin, infecting every inch of your mind and heart.

You round a corner, pushing past a crowd of tourists who whistle and shout after you but you ignore them.

He loves you.

Your lungs are on fire.

Your eyes are dry as wind beats harshly against your face.

Santino D’Antonio. The Smiling Shark. Camorra’s proud heir and now head of a criminal empire near unmatched.  

He loves you.

Since when some tiny, absent part of you deep down wonders. When did that awful, selfish man even learn to love?

You can think of a thousand moments and none at all.

Chicago.

But you should mind it.

Oh, cara mia, I do. I just pretend that I don’t.

Prague.

You came for me.

You’re an asshole, Santino. That doesn’t mean I want you dead.

Naples.

I did it for you. That was me being on your side. I will always be on your side.

Or was it one of many moments over the last few weeks?

I am a patient man. I can wait.

I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.

The Continental appears in your line of sight and you sprint for it so fast, you trip up the stairs, wavering before you right yourself.

The doormen are absent because of the hour and you slam your hands against the door, the glass rattling upon contact.

Charon’s uneasy expression is telling enough as you sprint towards him, barely pausing but he already knows what you need, and provides you with only one word, “Lounge.”

Few guests scatter out of your way as you dash through the hallway.

There. Just ahead you can already see the warm, welcoming glow of it.

But it’s so quiet that even over the sound of your thunderous footsteps sprinting through the hallway, you still hear the faint sound of Winston’s wary voice reach you.  

“Johnathan,” he speaks, his voice laced with a clear warning. “Just walk away.”

But he won’t.

You know that.

You’ve known it from the moment you saw that look on his face when he first learned about the contract.

You’ve known ever since Ares men attacked him in the catacombs.

Maybe even before that.

Maybe you’ve always known.

That dark, burning emotion that filled those eyes every time you have intervened.

He won’t hurt you. Be it because he cares for you or because he doesn’t want to fight you out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness—it doesn’t matter. He could not bring himself to turn his hands on you the same way you didn’t want to turn yours on him.

But that doesn’t mean he will stop.

You’re not sure if he knows how to stop. If he ever has.

John Wick is a man who doesn’t walk away.

He is a man who will destroy himself or everyone else on his path to vengeance.

“Yeah, Johnathan,” Santino says, his voice soft with mockery. “Just walk—”

Your body slams against the bannisters, pain exploding everywhere, and you throw a blade with one, fleeting look and nothing else.

BANG

Stillness.

Such awful, terrible stillness. Like the building itself has released a long shuddering breath and doesn’t dare to inhale again.

The body sitting behind the table slumps slightly.

He loves you.

You don’t bother with the stairs.

You jump right over the bannister, crashing to the floor heavily.

For a moment, you stay there. Unable to stand or move.

Your legs hurt so much.

You can’t stand up.  

Yes, you can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.

Your head lifts, frantically seeking the owner of those words.

Swaying and dizzy, you half-crawl to your feet but you still rise.

Santino.

Why isn’t he—

Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone.

I swear.

John reaches for you, his hand bleeding, but you shove it away from you without looking.

“Don’t you touch me.”

You don’t even shout. There is no energy left in you for that.

Just stillness.

Everything is so still.

“Santi?” you croak as you brace your hand against the white tablecloth, using it for support as you limp towards him. Red stains the white where your fingers touch. “Santi? Come on, grumpy. I’m here. I’m here. I came for you. Santi?”

Your hand lingers over his arm.

Nothing.

You touch his round chin.

His skin is warm.

Nothing.

Arms wrap around you, trying to pull you back and the only reason you don’t push the weight away is because you know that scent—sage, bergamot, paper, and ink with a hint of tobacco.

“Winston, Winston,” you repeat his name in a tiny, devastated mantra. “Help him. Help—Winston. Please, help.”

“Don’t look,” he tells you, almost gently, and somehow this ruthless man sounds the kindness you’ve ever heard him. “Don’t look, little hatchling.”

You ignore him.

You pull away from his grip and grab Santino’s face, turning it towards you.

And promptly flinch at the sensation against your fingers. You pull away as if burned, something hollowing out inside your heart.

The ledge crumbles, crumbles, crumbles—

The darkness below beckons; smiling and seductive.

He loves you.

Your hand turns.

Blood.

. . .

an: 

[carterharcourt]

hey everyone! this is hanna speaking, i hail from the gmt+1 timezone and use she/her pronouns. i'm a quarter of a century *sobs* and i'm working on my residency so my schedule is kind of a mess but fear not, roleplaying is above my social life (but this is socializing too, no?) anyway, i bring my baby carter and now i'll stop talking about myself and give him all the attention.

( jeremy irvine, cis-male ) did you hear how CARTER HARCOURT is applying to columbia university as a SLAVIC LANGUAGES major ?! the 24 year old is living in the CARLTON ARMS. i heard that they got in because they are +SELF-CONFIDENT and +CULTURED, but honestly i think HE can be -SARCASTIC and -MISTRUSTFUL. they’re a real POLYGLOT. oh well, only time will tell if the GRADUATE will make it til the end.  

                                               connections ● stats ● full bio (probably not written yet)

TW: alcoholism, death 

my boy carter harcourt comes from london, england but grew up between london and washington dc

the son of one of britain's top journalists and a museum curator, the eldest of three

his father was a very famous and important journalist who worked for several newspapers as well as a news anchor for the BBC, his work was the main reason why carter spent some time in dc as he was a white house correspondent for the BBC.

regardless of how genius and loved his father was, carter actually loathes him. he was never too present in their lives, and not really because of work but mostly because he spent his free time getting wasted (he was very good to conceal his problem that only his family knew about his alcoholism) and when he did spend time with his family he was a major dick,

from a young age, carter decided he loved words but especially he loved learning languages. by the age of ten he already could speak fluent spanish, french and italian.

disliked school and in a way, he still does as he is mostly self-taught but since she began studying what he likes, he is not so negative about it anymore

wanted to become a tennis pro when he was younger, and he made it to the junior tour but decided to quit that to go to university

attended cambridge where he obtained a degree in linguistics, while he loved his classes he hated his time there as most people only saw him as william harcourt's son and constantly told him how much they admired his father.

tw: alcoholism & death

one year before graduation, his father was diagnosed with end-stage liver disease brought on because of alcohol but he pulled through after he spent some months in rehab (which the people outside his family never found out).

however, once out of the center, he continued to drink non-stop and his health only worsened and passed away one year after his graduation.

months after he was forced by his mother to give out a hypocrite eulogy, he packed up his bags and moved to new york after being accepted into a ma in slavic studies.

he currently is an intern at the united nations where he helps translate documents and conferences

hates to talk about his father, and hates, even more, when people approach him to tell him what a great man he was.

his biggest secret is that ever since the death of his father he had found comfort in alcohol and is starting to develop into a bigger problem

personality-wise, he is the kind of guy that loves talking and loves learning new things out of conversations, he can be either the most starry-eyed idealist or the bitterest of cynics. he can often be considered self-absorb but he would never look down upon others. he can be very sarcastic and sometimes his humor is misunderstood. he enjoys a good party but he is probably also the kind of guy that takes a book to a party in case it gets boring.

&&. connections

So, here are some ideas and maybe someday when i’m not this lazy i’ll make a proper page but meanwhile this will do

any family member; he has two younger siblings (a sister and a brother) and also let's add some cousins to the mix

best friends; gimme some brotps so i can tag and break my brain creating a tag for them

childhood friend; from when he lived in london or dc

enemies; bc i live for the drama ok? and also despite his perfect bone structure, he does have the talent to irritate some people

roommates; he is in carlton arms 

protege: because he's the older brother, he sometimes feels the need of protecting other people.

library buddies; my son spends a lot of time there and listen it's like the breakfast club but in the library and with no detention just studying bc lame.

party/drinking buddy; he loves a good party (living my lack of social life through him lol) or if the party scene is too chaotic for you, maybe they can be just drinking buddies in a quiet bar

friends with benefits; what is a connection page without this one? 

ex-girlfriend; did i mention i am an angst addict? well, now you know. gianna carvahlo

flirtationship; he can flirt in over ten languages, so...

love-hate; hanna, gezz, you are so thirsty for angst. well, yes i am and this is my favorite kind. this could be frenemies too

after reading my best-seller, let me know if you want to plot or like this and i will send you a message

[voice-oftheempire--archived-blog]

HC: Valoren’s Propaganda Team

Edit: Updated to reflect the new addition of Silvarbelle’s character, Cairis. Link to character blog has been provided under the Read More cut. Minor tweaks have also been given to other characters.

               Like any respectable department, Valoren does not work alone as a propagandist. While she serves as “The Voice” and the leader of the Propaganda and “Public Resources and Education” Department (which is just the fancy way of saying she makes other high-up officials look good in propos and makes radio broadcasts about them, or lies for them), there is no conceivable way that she could do her job alone. Instead, she does have a distinct team that she partially inherited from her mentor (well, those that didn’t quit, anyway), and others that she hand-picked for the job.

Koje

They/Them, Male Presenting; ~30

Cold-Climate galra. Floof.

Slightly aloof in personality, but possibly the most devoted of the workers. Rumoured to be tagged as Valoren’s protege and named to take her place as Voice should anything happen to her. Operates almost as her Second in Command.

Has no problem speaking up to Valoren when they feel she is in the wrong and is quick to shut her down if she is stepping out of line with superiors.

Inherited from previous mentor’s team.

Cairis

As played by Silvarbelle. Visit her blog for more in-depth information on the character and to play with her. I encourage it!  This character is not one that I own. She just works for my girl.

She/Her, Female Presenting; 25

Acquired by sheer happenstance -- Koje first vouched for her, which gave her a foot in the door. Valoren agreed to allowing her on the team based on his recommendation and, thus far, has been very pleased with the results that Cairis has yielded for her.

Jostann has unofficially adopted Cairis as her own child and has a habit of babying, spoiling, and tending to her as if she were her own. 

Torvull likes her puns. Torvull shares puns with her. The less pun-enthusiastic may not be so pleased by this development.

Artwork credited to @tiildeath 

Noveena

She/Her, Female Presenting; 19-20.

Has a little bit of floof, but she styles it like one of those french poodles. Pastel colours.

Valoren refers to her as having eyes “set too close together” and ears “too large for her head.” It gives her a very youthful appearance, especially combined with her pastel colouration and her chipper personality.

Comes from a family of wealth and status -- Noveena voluntarily took up a position in Valoren’s department because of idol worship towards the Voice. Valoren hates it.

She is actually an extremely competent worker and produces some of the most gorgeous propaganda posters and artistic edits -- however, Noveena takes hours to do it. The results are immaculate, but time consuming.

Rojeon

He/Him, Male Presenting; 29

Galra based heavily off a peacock. Has soft feathering and plumage that is far too colourful for his own good. Comes from a very warm, tropical climate.

Keeping in the peacock theme, has a bit of an obnoxious voice and is banned from making any broadcasts himself, but could not ask for a better film editor. He has an amazing critical eye and can pull the best angles for the perfect spin on footage to tell a different story.

Is a very cocky individual and a bit full of himself. The rest of the team put up with it.

Inherited from previous mentor’s team.

Jostann 

She/Her, Trans; 30s

Half Galra. [TBD further information on this ]

The “mom” of the team, Jostann is the one that has a tendency to fuss over the team, make sure that they have eaten, gotten their sleep, etc. She has a bad habit of looking at the team as her kids that she must protect -- and will.

Brilliant sound editor. Can make audio transmissions do things that no one else on the team can. Has been able to isolate and fix transmissions that the rest thought were absolutely beyong repair with a few clicks. Saved the program more than once.

Valoren chose her to save her from expulsion due to her crossbreed status. Now that Jostann’s talents have come to light, she is very grateful she did.

Orirn

He/Him, Male Presenting; 40s

Think if Burn Gorman were a Galra. That is pretty much what you have with Orirn.

Codenamed “The Grumpy One” by the rest of the team, Orirn rarely has a kind word to exchange. Usually it’s displeased grunts or sarcastic drawls, but he does the job and he does it well.

As it turns out, the bitterness stems from the loss of his mate a few cycles back. This information is undisclosed to the rest of the team. He actually does care about them and would be one of the first to defend the Propaganda Department if it came to it...he’s just going through a tough time right now. Plus, bitter is just part of his personality.

Born with a mal-formed right leg that was removed and replaced with Galra-tech. His family was poor, however, and he was unsuccessful in terms of military careers and did not receive very good tech. It constantly breaks and has worn down dramatically, forcing Orirn to often resort to using a cane to stabilize himself when walking. It doesn’t seem to slow him down very much, but it can cause him a great deal of discomfort.

Inherited from previous mentor.

Torvull

He/Him, Male Presenting; Mid 20s

Unilu.

The rest of the team had their extreme doubts when Valoren introduced the concept, especially with the stereotype that comes with Unilu, but a good argument was made: with how many arms an Unilu has, think of how many cameras one could operate simultaneously for film propos!

Torvull was an acquisition from the Galran prisons. There might have been an exchange of information, coins, and some blackmail from Valoren and her team for him. Torvull is eternally grateful.

Having said all of that, he is a pain in the ass. He is a smart mouth, wise-cracking, pun-loving, practical joker. Valoren is about three tics from throwing him back into his prison cell.

ART: Located HERE and drawn by @vrepit-sal-special! Thank you~

Lufir

He/Him, Male Presenting; Early 20s

Warm Climate-Based Galra -- Probably a desert clime.

Lufir is the newest addition, and the one that everyone questions because he perpetually messes up. Put a camera in his hands? He drops it. Give him footage to edit? He deletes it. Ask him to make a poster? You’ll find him lying on the floor, crying, with the deadline steadily approaches.

They can’t figure out why she picked him. Lufir can’t figure out why she picked him.

Most that are hired in to work for her tend to only last for a short period. They either buckle under the pressures that she places on them to run the programs, or they can’t handle her at her absolute worst when she is approaching a deadline. Those listed are the ones that have managed to actually stay for the long haul.

[mylockholmes]

Reclaimed Crown  ~ Part 7

Part One   Part Two   Part Three  Part Four  Part Five   Part Six 

Author’s Note ~  Hawk Lane is my my second favorite character from the show The Path. i didnlt want to use Cal Robert (my number oen favorite character) because he’s played by Hugh Dancy and I already Use Hugh Dancy as Charlie’s Dad image is from google it wouldn’t post as a gif for some reason

It had been 6 weeks since she was shot and Klaus had ultimately ended up being traine to be a body guard specfically Lucy’s Body Guard for those times whe her brother Declan was doing other things.  Charlie had just gotten off from work and they were walking through the park towards a news Stand “Oh dear lord. I told you we should have submitted the engagement to the paper ourselves.” she said as she went through the paper after buying it. 

On the front page of the society section taking up the half the Page was the weddign announce with the title 

The Holmes Family would like to announce the impending nuptials of their Beloved Lucero Olivia Anastasia Harridge Holmes to Mr. Charles Alexander McDaniel.

After they get back to their flat “You are the only well adjusted female Holmes.”  he said with a laugh as he looked at the wedding announcement.  he takes her and spins her around and spins her around as Mine by Taylor Swift plays “You are the best thing that’s ever been mine.”  he sings 

She laughs “Charlie you are so friggin adorable sometimes.” she she says the last word teasingly

“Sometimes? i am damned adorable everyday.” he sad 

she laughed “Like when you gave a tour of the morgue to new premed stuudents the other day.” 

two days earlier....

As another person started explaining how the lab worked charlie cut in with “basically run by me and i do everything.”

lucy started laughing as Charlie claimed to be hte one who ran the lab “You’re Molly’s Protege dear. at best when she’s on maternity leave you will be cleanign the equipment.” she stood up “Charlie is just trying to break the tension he;s second  year medical student and he is debating becoming a forensics expert like Dr. Hooper-Holmes. Who isn’t present at the moment because she’s at doctor’s appointment.”  she looked at him “Now let Xavier finish the tour you and i are supposed to be having lunch.”

Xavier smiled “You are hte only Holmes who even bothers to remember my name.”

When they stepped outside they saw Mycroft’s Car “I am taking you out to Lunch.” he stated simply and rolled up the window

They got in his car and she rested her elbow against the window “YOu will not go overboard with my wedding.” she stated 

(gif from @lucy-griffiths-love)

Mycroft sat back “Very well. Just remember because of who we are you only limited by your imagination.”

Charlie looked at him “as long as you donlt take over our wedding.” he said “you agreed not to have us watched.” 

“I agreed to not have you watche when Lucero has body guard. unfortunately Declan and Klaus are both busy with training so I have someone watching Molly and Lucy. Because Molly is  carrying my brother’s child.”

“Lucy, you look a lot better.” Anthea responded 

“Thanks Anthea.” she said “are you still single?” she blushed. “sorry that wasn’t....”

She placed her hand on lucy’s kne after puttign her phone down “Sorry i was just checking your dad’s schedule.  Because he runs background checks on everyone he tebnds to scare them off.”

Lucy giggled “that kind of made charlie a little paranoid when he first found out about it.”  she looked at the two men in her life. her father nad future husband. “Now they get along very welll considering.”

“Considerign the whirl pool of crazy that ios beign a Holmes.” 

“I;d be insulted Sharles. if that wasn’t true but i created my own trouble long ago. in the name of protecting others when i was really protecting myself.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes “this wasn’t my idea.”

“surprise engagement party.”  Lucy said 

Meanwhile at Miranda and Carlton’s House.......

Declan “this idea is insane how do you throw a surprise engagemtn party for one of the smartest people in london.” 

“how did you get those stitches in your forehead.”  

“thatls kind of embarassing.” declan replied “I was assigned to train Klaus and i hit my head on the car door when we were goign to speedy’s for chips and sandwiches after training.”

Klaus “Running his head into a door is the true statement.”

“Pplease don’t tell them the real reason i hit my head on the door Klaus it is embrassing.” Lucy and charlie enter “Hey the guests of honor are here.” 

Lucy “Klaus! Declan!” she hugged them and whispered Klaus “Just ask him out already it so awkward watching you try to pretend you’re not attracted to him.”

Klaus blushes “how did you even know i thhought i was good at hiding it.” 

“Dear. I knew you were different when you kised me in Copenhagen. I just never knew what it was until i saw you i nthe same room with my brother. You two deserve to be happy.” she whispered “sometimes all you need for hte net to appear is to take a leap.” 

Charlie wrapped his arms around her froom the back and rested his chin on her shoulder did you just encourage your friends to aks your brother on a date.”

“yes I did.”

as hte party got wolling Charlie grabs a video camera “Come on Declan, Lucy shows up your pas des deaux. Klaus doesnlt believe that you came in second in charity dance showcase.”  he smiled and kissed her “I love how you want everyone waroudn you to be happy.” 

Her phon rings “wait that;s my phone on three people have the number one of them is here.” she looks at her phone. “i will be right back charlie. “Dad,  the special phone i was given is ringing we need to go outside now.” She amd mycroft step outsid 

1 year ago lucy had been enlisted to assist with an investigation into a a religious group. but it had become obvious that most of the belieers were unaware the leader was putting the group in debt. 

“Jarod, you canlt raid the compound you promised you would wait until i was there. No!” she stated she had promised one of the teenagers i nthe compound she would protect his family. “The Lanes are under my protection.” she texts him photos of Hawk Lane and his little sister. “their mother is the second in command to Cal Roberts and doesn’t agree with what he is doing.”

FlashBack somewehre in United States......at a Meyerism Compound 

“Hi My name is Lucy.” she had been enlisted to make constact with someone in the group but she had sense something bad was about to happen  “Yopu look like you need someone to talk to.”

Hawk looked at her  “I need an objective opinion. You must be from out of town what is that accent?” 

“i have no idea what to say my accent. I grew up, In Maine, i was taught french by stepfather’s mother and i;ve been living in london with my biiological father for a little over a year.” they spent the next two hours talking “Hawk,  I know how it feels to have two sides arguing abour path in life.  My uncle wants me to what he does, my father wants me to do what he does.  All i know is i enjoy taking pictures and I like to travel. Choose the path that makes you happy your family may not like it but they will accept it.” 

While Lucy was undercover at the community sherlock was analizing hte information from Peru. He had already deduced that Eddie Lane was, in fact, telling hte truth when he told Jarod that Steve Meyers jumped off the cliff. 

“Mycroft, it would appeard from my on site analysis that the witness in the village didn’t understand what he saw. because he couldnlt see edward lane. my deduction is that he chose his own death rather than being killed by cal roberts or having the cancer kill him slowly.”

Mycroft “Sherlock, no over reaching. work with only what we’ve been told.” thinking to himself that’s exactly what Lucy said when i had her analyze the information a fortnight ago. I believe she has somehow inherited our deductive reasoning.

Sherlock “Okay. are we goign to call Lucy?”

“no. we’ll blow her cover we need to wait for her to call us.” 

Present Day...... 

IN undisclosed locastion neat london “So, LUcy was tellign the truth you Steve stated you cshould have been the chosen one and jumped to his death.”  Hawk said to his father “I didnlt want to join the movement. I wanted to date ashley and listen to modern music and be happy.” 

He looked over as Lucy walked up “So you were tellign me hte truth but you managed to do withoug telling me everything. Whioch i understabnd.” 

“You;ve only been out of highschool for six months. the testing we gave you, shows you are intetlligent enoiugh to catch up. Your dad agrees that you should be allowed to choose your own path.”

“I am genuinely sorry for the incident involving your mother. My deductions didnlt factor in the possibility that she would jump in front of Cal Roberts. she made it through surgery and she should be fine. IN a few months.” Lucy said

Hawk looked at her “Lucy, it is not your fault stop apologizing for it. I was born into the group and you’re right i should choose my own Path. why are those particular level one agents watching me?”

“Declan volunteered because he knew this was my case. and Klaus is here because he’s my bodyguard when my brother is busy.” 

“but Declan was there when we met last year.”  Eddie looked at Hawk “Declan is your brother.” he said

“How did you figure he was a level one agent. Usually non agents under our protection canlt figure out hte security clearance.” she paused “By the way. i was looking for your ex-girlfriend Ashley and it turns out she qualified for an academic exchange program.  She’s at a school in Callais. Once you are ceared to leave the sae house we can take you to Calais if you want to see her.” she hand him a note.

“this is her handwriting.” his mind drifts back to the first time he saw Ashley. “Thank you.”

“Everyone deserves to be loved for who they genuinely are. Charlie loves me in spite of my  eccentric and troubled family.” 

“I would like to meet Charlie. why isn’t he here.”

“He;s at work and he doesnlt have securty clearance for this safe house. the house i live in with him also Qalifies as a safe house since Klaus is livign there until he finds his own place.”  as a holmes she had learned how to find the loopholes in laws. She hands Eddie and Hawk each paper bags “I know you may not be hungry but these are sandwiches from best sandwich shop in london. Below my uncle’s office at 221B Baker street.”

Eddie “thanks,  i am kind of hungry. If we are exiles i will need work.”

Lucy “as soon as you ar allowed to leave the Safe House Anthea will take you to 221b Baker Street. if i recall correctly Uncle Shezza’s offsice was trashed again and needs to e rebuilt and your file says you’re a carpenter.”

Two Weeks Later “Damn it looks like a bomb went off in this place.”

“You’re probably not too far off on that one Mr. Lane. this place has been bombed three times if  i remember correctly. Sherlock makes quite few enemies in his line of work.” she paused “Once you have estimated the ammount of work. My father will be glad to get you the supplies you require and if you need any sandwiches or place to rest. Mrs. Hudson. the owner of this place is under them.” 

“No need ot pay me, You and your family have done so much for me and mine already.” eddie said as he  popped a buite of food in his mouth. “why is your uncle not here?”

“Because he and his wife and daughter have a house near scotland yard.” 

it woudl take two months to rebuild the flat.... “Good job, Mister Lane. If you want o go back to the states you are welcomed to. and lucero is sorry she couldnlt be here. she and her future husband are tasting cake samples.” 

“Just call me Eddie. Lucy is quite the remarkable Young Woman.” 

“You don’;t need to tell me that. She is my Sister.” Declan Said he checks his Phone and finds he receved a text from Lucy... Star Child is out wandering the city. Find him before Charlie sees him!!

To Be Continued......