#mayhaps ill work on that project again this year...

[voidedjuice]

Hilja

[ardentmuse]

Rogue Choices - Prologue (Kingsman x Reader)

Kingsman - Harry Hart x reader, Eggsy Unwin x Reader, Merlin (Hamish) x Reader  (you decide!)

Summary: As a new agent, Arthur gives you your last big assignment before you are approved to run missions on your own, only this time you get to pick your partner. And who says you can’t mix business and pleasure.

Wordcount: 5.8k (and this is just the intro!)

Warnings: fluff, sexual tension, talk of violence

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

(Note: I started this a long time ago but had to pause because Twine was doing weird things. It’s meant as a fully interactive piece, but I think we can make it work here on tumblr and AO3 with different chapter links. So I’m putting it out into the world to see if you all like it!)

PROLOGUE

Two strong raps on the door grant you a gentle, “Come in.”

As you turn the handle and enter, the smell of old books and polished wood fills your nostrils. Arthur’s office is a proper executive space. Shelves are lined with old tombs that must have been passed down for generations. The rich, plush Persian rug is worm upon the edges from years of use, but still draws the eye with its vibrant reds and subtle blues. Two large and striking leather wingbacks rest before a sturdy walnut desk, at which sits a patient Arthur, who doesn’t even bother to lift his gaze from the files before him as he hears you enter.

“Agent Kay, please take a seat.”

You do as you are bid, leaning back into the worn leather to take in the countenance of you boss. He seems tired, the grey hair of his eyebrows coming together as he squints at the documents before him. But even with the slight bags under his eyes, he is still the image of a proper gentleman. His collar is expertly pressed and his turtle shell glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, just as you imagine Churchill’s might have.

After a few moments, he shuffles the papers aside and levels his eyes with yours.

“It seems you received the memo that I needed to see you?”

You laugh, “Your assistant nearly tackled me as I left lunch.”

“Eager kid, that one. He’ll make a good agent someday, too,” he muses, and then with a wry smile adds, “Much like you.”

“I’m already an agent, Arthur.”

“But mayhaps a good one given time,” he says, his eyebrows rising ever so slightly in challenge.

You haven’t been a secret agent long, having earned the title only a few months prior. The selection process to join the Kingsman was grueling to say the least, but you had been Arthur’s hand picked candidate. Only upon your recruitment did you understand just how much Arthur, a second father to you in so many ways, had primed you from your youth for this very role you doesn’t even know existed.

But nothing, not even Arthur, could have prepared you for the stress of being a Kingsman agent out in the field. Taking down the world’s most harrowing criminals, dismantling sex trafficking rings and stopping terrorist attacks takes a toll on the mind and body. Death is constantly right beside you, a single word or a single misstep enough to reveal your identity and get you killed. The work of Kingsman is highly classified, incredibly dangerous, and outside the bounds of traditional justice. You are a ghost, a guardian angel just outside the realm of men, leaving only vague notions of what could have been: a newspaper headline, a five o’clock story on Radio 4, a traffic jam or a flight delay. Ignorance is bliss as they say, but you now know the dark underbelly, the secret of which is the source of bliss for so many.

You sigh and hold your hand against your thigh to stop yourself from fidgeting. The shoulders on your suit, the well-fitted tweed of our Kingsman uniform, seem to tighten as Arthur continues to stare at you, waiting for your protest.

“What are you getting at?”

Arthur laughs as he pivots in his chair and presses on the spine of a book behind his desk. Instantly, the two shelves pull forward and slide to the sides, revealing an entire wall of flat screens and holograms projecting outward. You can’t make out all the details but the lower corner contains a building schematic and the top right shows the animated, scowling face of whom you can only assume is your organization’s latest target.

“Andrej Jankovic. Former Russian operative now based in Cyprus, leading what we’ve learned is the largest money laundering ring in the world. We’ve been tracking him for months, but,” he stops talking to focus on the movement of his fingers, swiping away spreadsheets to pull up live surveillance footage of the target, “As you can see, he covers his tracks very well.”

You watch on the screen as the man sips coffee in a small café. Four different cell phones lay out before him, concealed under the newspaper through which he flips lazily as he takes in the sea just outside the window. He is younger than you expect for such high crimes, with not a wrinkle in sight upon his face. His dark hair is long and flung haphazardly to one side but his facial hair in contrast is shaven with precision, just outlining his harsh jawline. He is striking in that brooding sort of way, long Roman nose and chiseled muscles. You might consider him handsome in a different life where your mind isn’t trained to notice the harshness of his brow or how quickly his eyes narrow with disdain each time someone new enters his vision.

“He is certainly… something,”

“Killed three people just yesterday for using checks,” Arthur throws your way as if that is something to marvel.

You swallow, still not comfortable with just how common death is in your new line of work.

“He’s ruthless and calculating, incredibly thorough and uncommonly intelligent. We’re never going to catch him with paper trails alone. There won’t be any. And simply taking him out leaves the whole rest of the corrupt network up and running. We need names.” Arthur swivels in his chair so he is facing you once again, resting his elbows upon the wood of his desk with a thud. “And I think you can get them.”

“Wait, really? You’re trusting me with this?”

You feel your jaw go slack. Biggest money launderer in the world, and Arthur thinks you can handle it? These past few months have felt like a probationary period, working alongside other agents, cleaning up their messes and assisting in communications and research. Your field time has been limited to sitting in corners of crowded rooms, observing more senior agents doing the hard work.

Arthur raps his fingers against the stack of papers before him.

“I think he’ll take kindly to you. If our intelligence is correct, he’ll be most susceptible to your…”

“Charm?” you insert.

“At least more than that of any other agent,” Arthur confirms. “Now don’t misunderstand me. It is not my intention to send you out alone. You will need a partner. Consider this your last test before I set you loose, Kay.”

Arthur picks up papers before him, writes quickly on a post-it that he places on the top of the stack, and then thrusts his arms forward to you.

“You have until tomorrow night to select a partner and review this research material. The jet leaves Friday.”

He doesn’t have to dismiss you with words. The way he pivots his body back to the screens behind him is signal enough that your questions will only be addressed after you thoroughly review the case.

And so you stand and make your way back into the labyrinth of the Kingsman manor to begin to wrap your mind around your new mission.

Just as the door closes behind you, a voice calls almost directly into your ear.

“Our mighty leading givin’ you a hard time, there, newbie?”

With a shocked puff of breath, you pivot on your heels to see the broad chest and shoulders of Eggsy just inches from your face. He is reclining casually against the doorframe, his arms crossing over his chest matching the cross of his ankles, all casual and cool. The cheeky grin upon his face, showing you those pristinely white teeth, lets you know your startled response is exactly what he was hoping to see.

“You’re never as alone as you think you are, my love,” he purrs with a rub of his palm into your shoulder, stilling the jump of your body at his appearance. “Rule number one of this spy gig.”

His deft hands make calculated movement against your collarbone, each brush bringing just the tip of his fingers against your pulse point, as though trying to discreetly test how much his proximity is impacting you. Your body goes stiff at the sensation, not in fear or discomfort, but in confusion. Eggsy smiles that disarming smile of his. He leans forward, his mouth finding a place beside your ear.

“You know, I think I still have quite a bit to teach you.”

The feel of his breath combined with the gentle graze of his nails against your throat make your breath hitch, goosebumps running down your chest. You hate how clear your responses are to these sorts of flirtations and so you divert your gaze to the place where the tips of his oxfords are pressed against your shoes.

At your lack of response, Eggsy drums his fingers across your shoulder, tickling you. You laugh and pull back slightly, enough to actually take in his features: his jaw, sharp and square and his skin kissed with just a tint of sun, his blue eyes glowing with humor behind his glasses. And with that last realization, you sigh. He is right. You are never as alone as you think, especially at Kingsman, with those silly glasses recording almost every interaction for Merlin or whomever to review at their convenience.

“You know, it seems everyone thinks I still have much to learn.”

Eggsy gives you a quick slap on the back, pulling his body fully from yours.

“That’s what big boss man is on you about?” he says as he begins walking down the hall, leading you out of the offices spaces and back towards the communal agent quarters. “Ill-timed joke, then. My bad, love.”

As you turn the corner into the grand stairway, you notice the chasm between your bodies. Eggsy is two steps in front and his feet light, tossing a look back towards you as he continues his talking, as if he wasn’t just holding his body only inches for your own, running his calloused fingers across the sensitive flesh of your neck and raising your blood pressure, not just giving you dazzling smiles and teasing your earlobes with his hushed breaths. That is Eggsy, flirtation and friendship, on and off, hot and cold, and always just enough honesty in his eyes in those moments to make you question which is the act.

After a long walk through parlors and the kitchens, laughing about your dogs and the antics that came out of the latest team meeting, you find yourself standing in front of the control room with the majority of your tension about your mission lost somewhere in the depths of your brain.

“Now this is where I leave you,” Eggsy says.

You turn with a huff to your friend.

“Why didn’t you tell me Merlin sent you to find me?”

The corner of Eggsy’s mouth turned upward in that too-seductive half-smile he had perfected somewhere between you first meeting him and right now,

“You’re much more fun when you aren’t stressing about work.” His eyes scanned from your body, slow and intentional, until his gaze came to rest on your lips, now just slightly parted from his clearly heated evaluation. He smiled at your response. “Much more fun.”

You shake your head at him, always the tease.

“You really believe I would have had you laughing after Arthur had you down if your mind had also been churning on what Mr. Stoic McSeriousface wanted with you?”

You pout. Eggsy knows of your friendship with Merlin, the tech head for your organization. You know he is just trying to get a stir out of you.

But before you can answer, Eggsy moves forward. You step back and find the door pressing against your back.

“You’re going to be the death of me with that pout, you know.”

After a silent beat between you, the air growing thicker as you stare each other down, Eggsy leans forward, raising his hand the way he sometimes does to brush stray hairs from your face. But instead, his hand moves beyond your shoulder, making contact with the wood of the door. He knocks hard and heavy.

“Enjoy being bored to death, peaches,” he whispers to you before slinking down the hall.

Eggsy turns the corner just as Merlin opens the door to his workspace. You take note of his expression as he looks down the hall. It really is stoic, but when his face sets upon you, it immediately changes into something soft and inviting, encouraging even.

“Kay, glad you’re here.” He opens the door a little wider and then continues, “Come in.”  

“Good afternoon, Merlin,” you say as you move into the tech space, Merlin following closely behind.

You throw yourself down on the vintage Eames lounge chair that sits in the corner of the room, placing your stack of papers on the floor as you allow yourself the joy of reclining deeply into the headrest.

Merlin pats the footrest as he passes by, inviting you to relax. He moves towards his desk, computer, and all the hundreds of gadgets that are organized upon the shelves beside.

“So, what do you have for me?” you ask as you follow through on Merlin’s request to fully recline yourself. “Details on Jankovic?”

“Yes, and no,” he says, not meeting your eyes. He takes a seat and begins typing away.

The rhythmic ping of keys give you a moment to truly observe the man before you. Merlin is a striking, almost imposing, figure in appearance. He is tall and lithe, in complete control of each moment, in a way that conveyed a refined elegance to some and a rigid intent to others. His face is a masculine stone, like a sculpture of a Roman general, piercing in its seriousness. But he brings life to the features that you love: soft hazel eyes, busy dexterous hands, and a smooth Scottish accent that makes even the sweetest words from his mouth sound husky.

After a moment, he continues on, “Jankovic has a well-trained team and multi-layered cyber systems. His security, virtual and physical, is nearly impenetrable. I do believe I have found a few exploitable flaws, almost all of which require work on the ground to hijack. If we don’t go that route, I have managed to mirror the controls for the security system at the hotel he owns in Limassol, so I will be able to be of assistance once you land.”

You stand and move beside his desk. He has months of logs, meticulously organized and color-coded and tabulated, certain sections highlighted in red, denoting times of lower security or routine system upgrades. His work, just like him, is precise and detailed.

You lean down over his shoulder to take in the schematic of the hotel, several floors of suites and an entire rooftop entertaining space. Your mind conjures images of the ocean and soft sand beaches that are visible just below, the salt air and the setting sun filling your slowly numbing senses as you sip on your second cocktail and a stunningly handsome man runs his hands down your spine to the soft of your back.

But the strong scent of cedarwood and bergamot that you know to be Merlin bring you back to the present. Or maybe it aids in the fantasy.  When he reaches over to rest his hand on your back, pushing you forward slightly to watch the tiny dots he is pointing at with his other hand, you know where your mind got those ideas in the first place.

“I’ve discovered some patterns here that I think we can exploit, unless of course you decide making your presence known to the target is a better option.”

His fingers never leave your back as he speaks.

“Stealth or charisma,” you muse, “Just like a video game.”

“If so, your video games are quite limited,” he laughs. His fingers slide across your back as he rolls his chair to the other side of the room. You feel the absence most acutely.

“I’d hope there’d at least be some intelligence or combat in these skill trees of yours.”

His fingers run over the lock in the shelving. You hear a click and then the draw opens to reveal a pristine case containing three weapons you have yet to see, each encased in foam and glass like priceless works of art.

“Perhaps some lock-picking?” he turns and offered you a smile.

“I’ve definitely maxed out my luck, at least,” you say with a tilt to the draw of weapons, each more beautiful than the next.

“And enchantment, if I may be so bold,” his words are to the drawer of weapons and not your face, but your mind fills in his devastating lip bite and the thought has you melting and feeling the shyness creep over you.

The silence hangs between you two as Merlin flicks the lock on each case.

Finally with a deep breath, he says, “My latest prototypes. You’ll need all the protection you can get on this one, Kay, so take your pick.”

“Can’t I take all of them?”

Merlin turns and shots you a look so deadly, you feel the air leave your lungs.

“And risk you losing all my hard work? Never.”

His eyes are piercing yours, wearing you down, but you try your best to hold your ground.

“I’m quite trustworthy, Hamish,” you say with a gentle bit of your lip.

“First names, now? You jest, my dear,” he says with a narrowing of his eyes that let you know he likes the words more than he wants to admit. “Now pick.”

You feel the weight of the weapon in your hand, bouncing it a little to get comfortable.

“This one. I like this one,” you say finally.

Merlin shuts the drawers and turns to you. “And it likes you, too, Kay. Very fitting.”

You can’t help but smile at his praise. Eggsy is wrong, you know. Merlin isn’t so much serious as he is careful about his work.  You enjoy the lightness he shares with you, even if it is intercut with professional talk.

“Thank you, Merlin,” you say as you holster the weapon and grab your papers.

“You’re welcome.” Merlin’s head already back in his computer and typing away.

As you reach for the door, he calls you once more.

“And Kay?”

You turn to offer him your full attention and are struck by how serious he looks, the hard lines of his face all completely turned to you and his chin dipped in a soft reverence that you hope is reserved for you alone. His voice takes on that husky quality as he breathes out the next words.

“I know you’re a little overwhelmed right now, but you are among us for a reason. You’re a capable agent, Kay. Please don’t forget that.”

For a man who often shrugs off sentimentality, he manages to find just the right words to build you up and make you smile. You feel a tiny wave of pleasure course through you, easing a bit of the weight from your shoulders.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. With a curt nod, the sweetness of the moment lost, he returns his eyes to the screens beside him.

You sit in the study, the fire roaring beside you, as you pour through each meticulous document that Arthur gave you. Just skimming these papers alone is going to take you all the way to your flight and then some, and that doesn’t include the time you need to devise a plan, select a partner, and prep for execution. But none of those other things can happen until you wrap your mind fully around your mission. And if that means sitting here well into the morning, transcribing and memorizing and organizing, then that is what you are going to do.

You hear the clink of porcelain upon the table beside you. A mug of tea is now perched among your discarded notes, the steam cloud in the lamplight.

“Thought a pick-me-up might be in order,” Harry, your mentor and fellow agent, says above you as he moves to the other side of the room, carrying his own mug and his own papers, though his take the form of the news, several morning editions stacked together, a few in languages in which you weren’t aware Harry had proficiency.

With the flick of his wrists, Harry opens the top paper, but unlike his usual routine of reading through the headlines and major political scandals, Harry turns towards the back, folds the paper in half, and pulls out a pen from his jacket pocket.

You take a long sip of the tea he provided you, and are pleased to discover it isn’t his usual nighttime blend but a proper English brew, one that will provide you enough caffeine to get your through this work. If Harry is anything, it certainly is thoughtful.

You work in silence for fifteen minutes or so, Harry’s long legs elegantly crossed as he relaxes himself against the couch. He drums the end of the pen upon the tuffs of the Chesterfield. You can’t help but think about how, in the past six months, you had already fallen into a pleasant routine with these men you called your colleagues. Lunch with Eggsy, briefings and shooting practice with Merlin, and long nights, just like tonight, sitting beside Harry and working in companionable silence. With Harry, words are rarely needed. He is a man whose company creates an aura of calm that penetrates even the most intense of moments. The few missions on which you have accompanied him were smooth, efficient endeavors; they left you feeling confident and poised even by comparison to arguably the most poised man you have ever met.

“Attractive, eight letters, third letter is most likely a ‘g’,” Harry asks into the air.

You lift your head from a giant list of innocuously named shell corporations to consider his question.

Engaging? Magnetic?

“Hmmm,” he muses, scribbling upon the paper, “Thank you, darling.”

You only get a few more minutes of silence before he is piping up again.

“Unstable, six letters, last letter ‘y’.”

Wobbly? Flimsy? Shifty?

“Perfect,” Harry whispers over his swift pen strokes. The roar of the fire by now was dying down, the pleasant crackle of embers scenting the room in hickory and smoke. You find yourself fighting the exhaustion that is coming over your body at the sheer comfort of your company and the ambiance the room provides.

Not thirty seconds pass by before Harry is calling your way once more.

“To proceed, four let-“

“Harry, are you trying to distract me from my work or is this crossword collaborative?”

Harry folds the paper shut and places it firm upon his lap. His eyes shift upward slowly, from your feet to your eyes, pausing upon the stack of papers spread out around you on all sides before he finds his way to your face. Harry’s lips curl into a soft smile, one that is made all the more precious by the way the fire’s reflection upon his face. He rubs at the bridge of his nose as he debates his words.

“I wouldn’t call it distracting as much as helping,” he finally decides, picking up the paper as he takes soft steps towards you.

Soft, that is the best word to describe Harry. Gentleness and patience and softness are what you associated with him most. Sure, you have seen his skills, watched him turn into a ruthless hit-man as the situation called for it, powerful and strong and confident. But the instant the bodies laid still before you, Harry’s steps grew light again. As he reached out his hand in serenity, kindly lifting you to your feet, brushing debris from your hair and asking in a whisper if you are safe.

“I’m not so sure how not doing my work is going to help me do my work,” you say as Harry pulls the footstool out beside you to sit. His back is perfectly straight despite the lack of support and you wonder if you body would ever be trained with the same precision as the seasoned agents you so admire.

“You’re thinking too much,” he says. He sits the newspaper down on top of your papers, covering up all your notes and drawing your focus to the absence of notes on his actual page. Nothing exists in the boxes, only in the margins and you notice how peculiar it appears.

“See, darling, this is you right now, taking each individual note and trying to assess it alone. If I went bullet by bullet through this crossword puzzle trying to figure out what it meant by every single word clue or question mark, I would have half the puzzle wrong.”

Harry is leaning over the newspaper now, his head awfully close to your own. The fluff of his brown curls are brushing lightly against your forehead. Despite the tickling, you don’t pull away.

Harry’s voice is low, requiring you to lean in. He wants this proximity. For what purpose, you don’t let you mind assume.

“Some clues like this one,” he says, pointing to 20-across ‘Author Silverstein,’ “Are easy to solve without context.” His hand moves to write the first bit within the puzzle: ‘shel.’

“But others,” he moves his pen to point at 4-down, ‘To proceed,’ and the three words he has written beside it: sail, toil, and till. Somehow his brain did the puzzling work of realizing long ago that the ‘l’ in ‘shel’ was the necessary fourth letter. “ Others require much more context.”

“And even still, some may seem to require context,” he says, pointing to the clue, ‘display of glee,’ which had nothing scribbled beside, “But actually require none at all, just experience and foresight.” And with that note, he moves quickly to the tiny space to which the clue corresponds and without checking anything else, writes ‘jig’ in large, bold, capital letters.

“Now how do you—“ you went to protest, but Harry interrupted you.

“Because it’s always jig. I know it could be ‘hah’ or ‘lol’ but it isn’t. It is always jig. There aren’t many other ways to get ‘j’s into the puzzle. Do a few crosswords and you don’t even have to finish reading the clue. That and emu. And Nave. V’s are tricky buggers, too.”

You sigh, “But I don’t have the experience to see the ‘j’ and the ‘v’ in our spy work yet. I just see the Silversteins and the capitals of France and the 2017 Best Picture winner.”

Harry’s hand reaches out to rub against your knuckles, comforting and supportive, “But, darling, you do. Every puzzle has a theme. Every target has his preferences. Find what is distinctive, what is rare. Trust your gut to see what doesn’t fit, what needs to be there because it can’t exist any other way. “

Harry lifts up the newspaper, revealing your workspace once again. He links his fingers with yours as he allows his free hand to run along the stack of papers before you.

“Scan,” he says, slow and emphatically. He lifts the stack like a book and flicks, one page each second with a satisfying click and swipe.

The first few pages go by with a blur. By the tenth, you are pulling out only a handful of words, though those words seem to make a story anyway: Ancoria, Konstantinos, $9,999, Ltd.

“Stop!” you say upon the sixtieth page or so. Harry’s hand grips yours a little tighter, sending a warm jolt down your spine. You see him smile out of the corner of your eyes at your apparent discovery.

“What do you see?” he asks, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in. The rough wool of his jacket brushing against your bare arm is a pleasant contrast to the smooth skin of his palm that still pressed firmly into your own.

You use your free hand to point to the third transaction line.

“All the previous shell companies had Greece mythology names. Scylla, Nyx, Calliope. But this one is Roman: Decima. At least I think it is,” you bit your lip a little realizing this may be a stupid thing to call out, “But even if it isn’t, it doesn’t seem right. This also seems to be the only shell company for which we have names of the board of directors.”

Harry takes his pen and circles Decima with three big spins. He underlines each of the names listed on the board below and pulls the paper out of the stack and up to the top.

He draws his hands away from yours to close the pen and collect your stack together once more. He plops the newly assembled stack before you and makes to leave you. But as he stands with one knee against the footrest upon which he had been sitting, he hovers his body over you, his proximity doing little to help with the already intense heat of your skin from the fire. He leans forward and grazes his lips gently upon your forehead. As he pulls away, his hand finds your chin and he meets your gaze.

“That’s my girl,” he says with a smile before turning and walking swiftly out of the room, his newspaper abandoned to your pile.

With a renewed vigor, you dive deep into the papers, determined to see the odd inconsistencies that might provide context for the more common practices. As you continue to sip on your tea, you notice the cup had refilled and rewarmed itself. You never heard Harry enter the room at all.

The following morning, you wake with the sun. Little sleep had happened in the past day but you feel refreshed regardless. The long hours you had put in the night before resulted in quite a bit of relevant information and three distinct methods for tackling Jankovic, each with its merits and its challenges. But you are feeling confident for your meeting with Arthur, at least you were last night. This morning, you need to eat your breakfast and review your notes before providing your supervisor with your planned course of action.

You lift yourself from the plush comfort of your bed, the biggest benefit of spending the night at the manor, and walk towards your desk, which now is a much more organized collection of research: three distinct piles with three hand-written mission plans upon each.

You pull the blanket along with you, cocooning yourself as you sit at the desk and review your plans.

The first is a traditional approach: the honey-pot. In Andrej’s personal history, he has displayed a clear preference for your physical features. And even more, he has had no steady partners, just a series of lovers, all of whom were affiliated with other men simultaneously. In your time at Kingsman, it had already become clear that the type of people you took down got enjoyment out of breaking more than just the law.

Eggsy is the perfect partner for this plan. His flirtatious personality and social skills mean he can easily convince a group of people that you are a couple. With the gala at the hotel on Saturday, all it would take is a little skin and some well-placed winks on your end for Andrej to want to tempt you away from your handsome partner. And while you entertain Andrej’s attentions, Eggsy would be open to sneak into the depths of Andrej’s personal estate and gather what information was needed to take him down. Sure, this plan puts you right in the belly of the beast and therefore in the most direct line of danger, but it also gives you the best chance to adapt to new information and go with the flow.

The second plan is significantly less risky but requires more planning. A covert invasion of his security detail and hijacking of his automated banking systems would provide you all the information you needed to tear down the entire network. With Merlin’s mirror, you could cut down power to the hotel, sneak into the basement offices undetected, and bug and download what you needed. With Merlin, this plan could be flawless, with you using your combat background to take down the guards and his tech skills ensuring a full system overhaul without a trace. You would still need to get into the hotel, and the gala would work as a good cover, but unlike the honeypot, your goal would be to blend in as much as possible. It may not be the most glamourous plan, but it would certainly be the most efficient, and not to mention the most intimate, sneaking through darkened corridors and keeping as close as possible to avoid detection.

And finally the third plan would require approaching Jankovic directly, posing as British investors seeking to hide funds overseas, hoping to utilize Jankovic’s existing network to hide quite a bit of money quickly. And you’d be willing to pay for the services. You need credentials, as Andrej is a skeptical man, but he is also not the type of man who can pass up a quick cash opportunity. You could approach him at the gala, enquire about his services, and find out much from the horse’s mouth, supplementing what he tells you with the information would be able to mirror from his phones once you had him in the room with you. And in this, Harry could truly sign. A master of the art of blending in among the oddest of crowds, Harry could easily pose as the financial head of your organization, partners in crime in the truest sense. You wouldn’t have to steal anything in this plan. Andrej would give it freely, though it would require near perfect coordination between you and Harry.

As you add notes to the margins of your stacks, you look over at the post-it Arthur left on your files yesterday: Regroup noon, tomorrow. If you don’t leave now, you will be late. You throw on yesterday’s suit, scoop up what papers you need and rush to Arthur’s office.

The door is open when you arrive and Arthur is seated upon one of his couches, cutting into a perfectly roasted chicken breast as he beckons you forward.

“Discover anything useful?” he says after a swallow. He lifts his cloth napkin to his lips and waves out the door behind you. Pushing past you, his assistant cruises inside and grabs his plate with a nod before leaving.

Arthur waves a hand to the seat in front of him. You take your sit and go to speak, but before you can say a word, Arthur lifts a finger.

“Before you run me through the details, whom should I request be joining us for this briefing?”

“Um…”

And that’s a wrap for the prologue! Please let me know in the comments which route you’d like to me to work on first. :) 

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[missusk]

Can you hit us with some good Cherish Ball and Dream Ball action? I'm super curious, lol

hahah I love the way you phrased this i will def hit u with the good stuff

Cherish Ball (best pokemon memory):

tbh idk if this relates to like, IN GAME moments or just stuff SURROUNDING pokemon. BUT I’m going to say it’s the second one, get ready for the mush. My favorite pokemon-related memory is a succession of memories with my dear friend Sam 🥰 we both got into Pokemon swsh early this year (/kinda late last year) and I started writing my first ever pokemon story (Pecha Berries, it’s my nuzlocke one on Ao3 if you’re curious)(it’s the story that got me back into writing again actually). Sam & I were roommates for a long time & I moved away and I really missed her, but we got to connect on the phone almost every week/every other week because she was beta reading my story. It was so wonderful being able to talk w her so often about a project that I was working really hard on, and hear her affirmation and feedback. It also gave us a chance to catch up multiple times a month, which is something I really needed (esp as quarantine started). && also geek about pokemon like the huge massive dork nerds we are. If you’re reading this, I love you so much Sam!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰 (and ill call u on sunday)

if it IS in-game moments then I’ll say it’s when I caught my first (and only) shiny pokemon: a Machop!! During a nuzlocke run too. nice.

Dream Ball (dream pokemon team):

(wipes tears) ok phew now that the mush is over MAN OH MAN i’ve been pondering this question since the day i was birthed into the pokemon world. after much deciphering and painful exclusions, I think I’ve finally gotten it down to 6. mayhaps one day ill properly doodle my dream team like a real artist but for now I'll use this dorky little trainer card lol

Team: Arcanine (ace), Altaria, Luxray, Meganium, Galarian Rapidash, Mudsdale

but aahhh even as i post this I’m not sure.... there’s so many good pokemon..... some strong runner-ups were Flygon, Ampharos, Lilligant, and Dragapult.

[faunusrights]

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 18

IN THIS EPISODE OF ROBLOX OOF NOISE:

“Yes.” Glynda couldn’t hang up, not without: “I’m—I’m sorry. About what I—”

“It’s alright. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay—” The feed cut. Softly, Glynda said again, “Okay.”

GLYNDA DISCOVERS WHY BEING CINDER FALL SUCKS

do u know how hard it is to wake up and play animal crossing whilst knowing this chapter looms over yr shoulder,

OKAY HERE WE GO

She was fidgety; even Cinder mentioned her pacing, shooting a critical eye her way. Glynda sat, intent on stillness; moments later, Cinder mentioned her bouncing leg.

i LOVE it when a chapter calls me out just right out of the gate hahaha who gave u the right

"Really?" How long had they been doing that? How long ago had Cinder noticed? "Should I stay?"

cinder: maybe i should tell glynda abt that /see glynda pacing a dent into the floor cinder: ooooooor i could. NOT give her an excuse to bully them for something to do,

On her way down the street, Glynda couldn't help but stare at the car, its tinted windows revealing nothing within. As she passed it, she kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting an attack or something. But nothing came of it.

HJGDFSGSDFHKGHJDF GLYNDA,,,,,,,,,,, can u imagine being in the white fang, and sittin in yr fuckin. TINTED WINDOWED like BULLETPROOF CAR and yr sat on yr ass watching out for cinder “dumbass” fall and suddenly glynda goodwitch, The Top Bitch, comes out and starts GLARING YR CAR DOWN,,, like ah. i think she knows we’re here. hrm. hm.

i would just like. drive to mcdonalds and get some nuggies at that point.

She had a clutch of flash-images and a wash of emotions and impressions, the raw materials of memory, stored as-is without refining. She was quite used to that—most of her missions were hazy and rough in her memory, mere sketches of events.

i cant wait for glynda to become a vlogger if only so she can actually have physical proof of whatever the fuck happens whenever she goes out and about. get her a go-pro.

It told her: despite her restlessness, despite the arduous journey here, and despite the way Vale seemed to call for her from somewhere beyond the horizon, she felt quite content to be where she was.

the difference having a gf has huh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, u got a whole ass home (being cased by the fang) a real nice city to live in (its floating and atlas wants yr number) a bunch of unread msgs (from a [redacted] who [redacted]) and its a nice day!!! its all coming together. but probably not for very long,

(i got very distracted at this point making a line graph for the animal crossing stalk market so here we go, x2 edition,)

That meant the nightlife would soon begin. She had never liked crowds; too many people, too much input at once. It was hard to focus, to be comfortable.

/chefs kiss

autistic glynda did u kno: id die for u,

Since she’d blocked Ozpin’s number, there was no chance of receiving anything directly from him—but there was still a moment of pause each time she checked her Scroll, as if expecting his smiling face to appear somehow.

OH YEAH LMAO SHE DID THAT SHIT HUH,,,,,,,,,, i still cannot BELIEVE that happened. GOD. cant wait for this to bite her entire ass right off her body,

By the time she reached the top landing, Winter had replied: “I wasn’t aware that you had additional support on this mission, Professor. I will need their full name and Hunter’s license number.”

To answer Cinder Fall and she doesn’t have a license, but she does have several warrants for her arrest felt like inviting Winter to question not only her integrity, but her sanity as well.

SDHGJFKSKGHDJFGJHDKF i cant say what makes this funnier because 👈😎👈 but HOHOHOHOOOOO could u imagine the fallout if she did just, say that shit. if we just went and fuckin said it like it was no biggie--

Finally, Glynda let her shoulders relax, exhaling deeply, like she would before rushing a Grimm. She wrote it plainly: “The clearance is for Cinder Fall.”

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

MA’AM WHAT THE F U C K

winter rn:

She’d just have to wriggle her way out of having to talk face-to-face, then return the game to a field she felt slightly more comfortable with: text.

okay this is so funny to me cause i just keep thinking of her sending ‘no reason’ to oz. a MASTER of textual conversion. un fucking PARALLELED in this field, UNRIVALLED,

Glynda tossed a look at the door as well, her mouth pulling into a line; what if Cinder came outside? What if—

Could Winter track her exact position using her Scroll signal? She minimized the projection of Winter’s face and hurried off in a random direction the instant she hit the bottom of the stairs.

i LOVE these two because this is the first time we’ve rly seen glynda like. Actively do smthng to defend cinder in this sort of way? she’s been pretty passivve abt letting cinder take the lead when theyre together but on her own shes thinking of all the contingencies to make sure winter cant find cinder and u know what. thats gay. what will u do for yr not-gf when yr talking to someone who would kick her ass in a hot second,

also im TAKING to grab choice lines here to comment upon but honestly this next section is SO GOOD that im rly struggling to find a line to encapsulate how much i am LOVING this convo. i cant say exactly WHY im loving it because again thats 👈😎👈 BUT KNOW THAT THIS IS VERY GOOD FOOD AND I AM ENJOYING IT. and im also enjoying this line a lot

Winter’s voice was decisive: “Professor, if you hang up on me, I am flying to your location—tonight.”

winter: if y’all dont shut the fuck up back there i am turning this car, city, and continent AROUND,

It was the same thing, over and over: people didn’t understand her and she didn’t understand them. It was an exercise in futility that only gave her grief. In the end, she gave up on trying to explain herself. She resigned to being wrong, to always being wrong, even when she knew she wasn’t.

OOF OKAY WHAT THE HELL IS UP W/ THIS FIC AND CALLOUTS. HUH??? ME BITCH!!! I FEEL THAT!! AND IT SUCKS,

/reads the next bit

oh are we donning our tinfoil hats? we’re donning our tinfoil hats.

It was so easy. Glynda didn’t stumble over her words even once; didn’t waver. She was built for doing harm. Her anger burned hot and clean; it excised all the hurt like a malignant tumor.

Maybe she really had learned something from Cinder—channeling her frustration, her guilt, her pain, all of it into anger like this was something Glynda was new to. But it felt good. She leaned into it, letting it take the reins; the distressing memories vanished like wisps of smoke, vaporized by the heat of her wrath.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS god this is. SO EXCITING. i also love it when ppl rub off one one another its my FAV thing in the WORLD and this anger is. WOO. this anger is. DANDY. its also a very short-term burst of pleasure glynda so enjoy that hollowed-out whoopsie feeling that i sure get when i Blow Up,

“She butchered my friend!” Winter snarled, the camera shaking as she slapped the desk. “She butchered my friend in the streets like he was cattle! And I have done everything in my power to help you! Everything! To keep her from doing the same to you, and you’ve blown me off or lied or—” Winter’s voice snagged. “And now you tell me—you accuse me—”

It was early evening in Umbraroot, but it must already be night in Atlas. The shadows revealed the unclean angles of Winter’s face: the bruises of exhaustion under her eyes, the lines of stress at the corners of her mouth.

im sorry im just copy-pasting wholesale at this point but OH this is GOOD. i cant rly explain. like. the difference-- because you’d think from the og version this is just a bit more flavouring right? its like getting a bit of hot sauce on yr chicken wings and yr like ‘okay it adds smthng but its not like a side meal’ BUT IT IS A SIDE MEAL this is like a whole basket of fuckin. cheese-baked fries. winter DESERVES this screentime she DESERVES to have presence in this fic and OH does she USE IT im LIVINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Glynda wanted anger. She wanted fire and brimstone. She wanted a fight.

What she got was the glisten of tears on pale lashes. A hand covering Winter’s trembling mouth.

The ashy taste of remorse in her throat.

THERES THAT HOLLOWED-OUT WHOOPSIE FEELING!!!!!!!!!!!!! THERE IT IS RIGHT ON TIME. its like CLOCKWORK,

She didn’t have anything. Nothing against that. The possibility that Winter might truly care what happened to her had been so insignificantly small and easy to trample. She had forgotten about the losses Winter shouldered the moment Cinder had whispered inheritance.

it’s just like clockwork,

also this chapter feels lengthy but maybe its just cause i got distracted with animal crossing so ill have to do a wordcount check at the end

/checks

no its lengthy this is a thicc one,

“I know,” Glynda said. “I know. I know how this sounds. But she’s the only person who makes me feel like—like I make sense.” In her mind, Glynda lay in the darkness of Cinder’s bedroom, watching the glaze of streetlights along her lips as she said you.

you,,,,,,,,, we,,,,,,,,,,,, our,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, its all that gay shit,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that Cinder Fall is a tremendous liar. She could convince you it is raining in Vacuo, given enough time. Two years ago, I was working on the Argus base, where I met her as a client; she told me she was a merchant seeking entrance into Atlas—she had all her documents in order, her entire persona set up, and she sold it perfectly. She was flawless—and all of it was fake. She gave me no reason to doubt her. She was—”

Winter cut herself off, abruptly. Then: “Once I was comfortable and safe, she burned down my office and murdered my friend.”

YES,,, SLOWLY THE LORE PIECES TOGETHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! winter is once bitten twice shy, but mayhaps we mean,,, once burnt,,,, twice shy,,,,,,,,,, hrmmmm,

Glynda told Winter everything.

OH MAN,,,, we’re really getting this messy fucking trio up in this bitch i am SO excited. i am THRILLED. here! we! go!!!!!!!!!! also i said it before but again im so glad winter gets to Be Here for this. sure this has nothing to do w/ her destiny or w/e but shes here now. shes in the uber. she waiting outside.

The dying potted plant Glynda had spotted last time on the back wall’s shelf had been replaced with a new one; this one’s leaves were beginning to shrivel at the ends.

dsfjhhkljsdf side note: is this like that scene in finding nemo where all the new fish see the niece and go ‘oh no we’re gonna die’ but instead its plants getting taken into winters office? they go ‘im sorry, mate, but once you go into her office, you come out TOTALLY dead,’

okay so this whole convo happened and if i try to pick one section ill end up picking it all AAAAAAAAAAAAAA im dying out here. WINTER BLEASE,,, BELIEVE THAT SOMETIMES CINDER CAN TELL A HALF-LIE. A SORTA-TRUTH. A SEMI-HEMI-DEMI HONESTY,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

How different would that mission have gone? How different would her life have been?

She found herself saying, “He had so many chances to tell me. Instead, he let me think I was reckless. That I was a danger to other people. I stopped working in teams. I didn’t have many people in my life to begin with, but afterwards was worse. He saw to it that he was all I had, and he let me think it was my fault.”

ROBLOXOOFNOISEDISTORTEDWITHDELAY.MP4

OOF!!!!!!! O O F!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! honestly OOF that shit HURTS BITCH!!!!!!! thats BANANAS. WILD. im also loving (hating???) the increase of painful glynda lore and honestly everyone feels like they have So Much More that builds them up and im THRIVING off it. im also suffering for it.

With the video feed closed, Glynda could see she had new notifications. Missed calls. From Cinder.

Glynda’s stomach lurched. She stowed her Scroll before she could think about them.

At the mouth of the alley, she could see the shape of Cinder’s apartment in the distance. She stood there for a long time, staring, uncertain what to do with her hands, unsure what to do with her heart. Her jaw flexed. She remembered the tears on Winter’s lashes. The friend she’d lost.

Glynda took her first step toward the apartment.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA and so the soft domestic shit ends. but nowhere near as explosively as id thought???????? HUH. H U H. must b because we’re gearing up for smthng honk honk honk

ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. this chap was SO good its astonishing (despite the [several] times i got distracted by animal crossing rip me). WINTER!!!!!!!! BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!! i cant believe this disaster trio is coming together. also cant wait for glynda to tell cinder the shit she just pulled. oh no,

(also the wordcount was 5,931. just in case u were curious)

[ardently-faithful]

The end of nobility.

Not many copies are made of this open letter; just a few, smudgily printed, are submitted to influential personages within the House of Lords and the House of Commons, with perhaps two or three extra for displaying at common gathering-places in the city of Ishgard. The one posted at the Forgotten Knight is tacked, perhaps pointedly, over the latest angry woodblock from the counterrevolutionaries.

It is quite long, and it opens as follows:

To both parliament and to the people on the street, I beg you to allow this humble servant of Halone to speak his thoughts.

I love my country, and I would not insult the heights of our culture, our engineering, and our learning by accusing it of stagnation – but that it has long suffered from corruption is the disturbing truth, one even plainer to those of us who have spent time within the nobility and the Church than to those who have ever stood without. Therefore we must acknowledge that, no matter what we each may think of the circumstances that brought us through this revolution, the opportunity it has brought for self-examination and reform is a blessing. The Ishgard we live in today is more open and tolerant than it has ever been before, and our new Parliament may yet prove a vehicle for advancing our people’s prosperity and happiness to new heights.

But there is one facet of our new government that fills me with unease, enough that I must protest; and even as I know that aught I have to say will be immediately dismissed as the whining of the disenfranchised elite, as I am both a long servant of the Tribunal and a nobleman who, as a consequence of the order of his birth, is barred from participating in the new legislature, I shall still try to express these earnest grievances I have carried from the earliest years of my service, in the hope that some person of like mind exists to hear my pleas and act upon them in a way that I, a man now ill, old, and feeble, cannot.

It is the House of Lords – less its membership full of bright and virtuous souls earnestly working for Ishgard and more its enshrinement, as an institution, in the laws of the new Republic of Ishgard – that concerns me.

For a thousand years the accepted truth was that we who are called the “highborn” traced their descent from the four High Houses of King Thordan’s most loyal knights. And by right of this descent from the Architects of Ishgard, the noble houses claimed the leadership of Ishgard in every area, alongside vast privilege on the basis of that leadership. Of course the Archbishop – highborn and carefully selected by the High Houses – steered our country, and servants of the Church drawn from all classes stewarded its laws and punishments, but outside the Vault and especially outside the Holy City, the nobility has controlled the day-to-day lives of those “below” it, for better and, more memorably, for worse.

Today the story told is that the ancestors of our noble families were traitors and warmongers, men to be condemned for beginning the Dragonsong War. And we know that their descendants’ vices and abuse have spread our bloodlines through all of Coerthas, even to those families we dare to call “low”. The founding fiction of our highborn arrogance thus has been exposed – and so the privileges we receive today we enjoy merely because our fathers did, our control over vast portions of Coerthas’s land and wealth maintained because we hang onto it – and defend it with house knights recruited from tenant families subject to our whims.

The Church has been humbled; its capacity for abuse of our people has been greatly curtailed. In contrast, the circumstances of the highborn have not much changed. In the Vault, we must share leadership with the elected members of the House of Commons – but in some sense this is not new, as the heads of the houses have always had to defer to the Church, an institution whose membership has long been made up of both nobility and commoners. But outside the Vault, life in the counties and baronies proceeds much as it ever has, if relieved from the pressure of the War and subject to the worsening pressure of the Calamity; lords still rule over their subjects, still own the farms and manufactories and enjoy the cream off their profits, still march their miniature armies back and forth to ensure their orders are obeyed.

Even as one who has enjoyed a life made easy by the privileges given to – not earned by – any babe who can boast of his lofty lineage, I must say that this is wrong – and it is even more wrong to write this state of affairs into the statute-book of our new Republic with the thought that, because this is how Ishgard is today, it is how Ishgard must continue to be.

If we truly believe that what makes our birth “higher” than all the rest of Her children is our proximate descent from men who betrayed and devoured their draconic overlords, how can we then cite that birth as grounds to sit above all other Ishgardians and claim, as our share of Coerthas’s bounty, the largest part?

Many of my fellows will protest that we now do not – that now the House of Lords stands on equal footing with the House of Commons and thus all people of Coerthas have an equal say in their country’s governance. I say that if this is not a lie, it is self-delusion.

It is problem enough to draw half the government from a tiny minority of families, giving deference to the even smaller number of patriarchs who control them, and to leave the entire rest of Coerthas to compete for representation in the other House. Far worse is the folly of calling this government an equal one when the members of one House control – following the humbling of the Church – nearly all the coin, land, livestock, machinery, and men-at-arms in the nation. To say that the everyman who sits in the House of Commons is equal to the Count or Baron who owns his home and his workshop, controls his livelihood, and casually wields the power to conscript his sons and station them anywhere is an insult.

In short, the continued existence of a highborn caste in Ishgard, after its ancient justification has been debunked and appeals to tradition in every other part of our society have been rejected, is an injustice we should no longer tolerate.

And yet any man of sense recognizes that there is no way to rectify it immediately. For even were it declared from a high seat that henceforth, there shall be no nobility, those words would be but words if the wealth and power of Coerthas remained in the same hands, and same lords would continue to rule under different names; and there is no hope of stripping that wealth and power from those lords without creating a great civil disturbance, if not outright war, and seeing Her land afflicted with yet more violence and suffering, which is aught that I, for one, could not bear to see again. And, furthermore, I acknowledge that many are persuaded by the argument that the highborn, raised and educated to be landlords and war-leaders, are better-suited than the unwashed masses to the business of government – even if I am not wholly convinced of it myself. But what I do believe is that there is no way that we mortals may hope to see Halone’s equality enacted on this earth, peacefully and fairly, in a single generation.

For that reason do I issue this challenge to you – o Lords who decorate your ermines with reformist credentials – o men and women who need no longer bear the insult of your honorable births called “low” – o children of Halone whose faith in Her justice runs deeper than convenience:

Let us see, 200 years hence, the end of nobility.

With time, with the debates of learned men and women, with experiment and with piece-by-piece reform, I at least believe that we can see this arbitrary division of our people ended peacefully.

It has been said that money is power not only in the south but here as well; so let us see Ishgard’s wealth divided more equitably among its citizens. Let us overcome the very natural impulse to provide the best possible life for our own children in favor of recognizing that we are all Halone’s children; let us make as many opportunities for our neighbors’ children as for our own, and, yes – mayhap even hand over our coin directly, if our wisest advisors decide it is best.

It has been said that the common people of Coerthas lack the education and experience that would make them statesmen as effective as firstborn sons of lords are, supposedly, guaranteed to be; so educate them. We in Ishgard have our native-grown pedagogical traditions, theory and practice formed by centuries of experience; let us draw upon that wisdom when we expand schooling so it may reach all Halone’s children.

It has been said that if the High Houses cannot be deprived of their knights and garrisons, for without them the far-flung corners of Coerthas and the towns and villages still struggling along would be left defenseless; so let us see the Counts’ personal armies integrated into Ishgard’s army. As the Temple Knights were once called upon to serve the Archbishop and the Holy See before any other lord or faction, let our future knights be truly Ishgardian and swear their swords to the nation above all.

It has been said that we need the nobility, that wealthy and privileged few, because, now that the Church has lost control of its coffers, there are no others who are as poised to become patrons of charity and care for the needy and deprived; so let us see an end to deprivation, so that the charity we need today will no more be needed by the morrow’s morrow. Let us plan to feed the poor of the Brume and beyond not with handouts of bread from capricious benefactors but with the safe and dignified work for which so many are desperate; let us provide them with the support they need, through housing, sanitation, and medicine, to live life well and as they choose. And while it is true that this project more than any other will, mayhap, take far more than two centuries – if we are unwilling to begin today, our children must wait that much longer to see it done.

To my highborn brothers and sisters who think themselves, as I think myself, the allies of reform: I pray that you do not intend to call your duty to Halone’s justice done exactly at the point where your own power and influence stops increasing and begins to decline, nor to stop uplifting your lowborn friends when that means you and your family begin to sink. For it will be by your consent to see your own fortunes divided, your ambitions thwarted, and your children given lives less comfortable than yours that Ishgard will be able to attain equality without civil war. To shrink from pain and loss is natural; to covet good lives for your most beloved ones is even more so. But to shrink from our duty here would make us cowards; let us not pretend that self-sacrifice is only for the battlefield and make peace our excuse for becoming fat and idle aristocrats.

To my lowborn brothers and sisters, for you are just as much so: I pray that you do not give way to highborn excuses for stalled progress and insist, patiently but firmly, that each turn of the heavens bring our beloved nation closer to its most perfect form. May the Fury give you and your children the unceasing strength to hold us to account, and by so doing, set us all free.

Years it will surely take, but we must start now, lest the work be pushed on to our children, our grandchildren, and our great-grandchildren, till the dream of an Ishgard united in true equality fades and the potential of this moment lost.

And by the Goddess, let it not be lost – for I know no nation which, after such long suffering, deserves Her ruth like ours.

Yours in Her service, H. Inq. Rosaire Ledigne

[auvoixauldier]

Fear-Themed Headcanon Questions

(by Horrific Memes)

Spiders: Does your muse squish bugs or put them outside?

He’d hate to admit it, but he jumps at the sight of them. His first instinct isn’t to SQUISH! Though, he prefers to bite the bullet, cover them with a glass, and chauffeur them outside.

The Dark: Did your muse sleep with a nightlight as a child?

Not unless he was reading past his bed-time, the darkness is one thing Auvoix actually doesn’t fear.

Snakes: Would your muse ever keep an unusual/exotic pet?

Perhaps, Auvoix quite enjoys all living things for their forgiving and non-judgemental nature. From Chocobo to Grenade, so long as it doesn’t pose a violent threat, I could see him warming up quickly to something scaly. 

Blood: What’s the worst injury your muse has ever had?

Auvoix is rather green to the world, his sheltered past has kept him mostly unscathed. He had a run in with severe dehydration due to leaving his health unattended to for a company project years ago, but nothing in the realm of blood or war.

Clowns: Does your muse prefer comedy? Or horror?

Comedy, most definitely. There are certain aspects of horror that Auv can stomach, but he prefers a good sense of humor over fear tactics.

Mirrors: What is your muse’s least favorite thing about their appearance?

Any resemblance to his father, his untameable cowlick. In terms of meeting his relfection, his scramble for his own identity often makes him feel out of touch with his appearance.

Tight Space: Does your muse ever feel that they’re not living up to their own potential?

All of the time. Auvoix knows there is someone who exists outside of the business-chiseled zombie his Father had constructed - a talented and outgoing bard, a man of many friends, but he’s not quite sure how to be him.

Closet Monsters: Does your muse hide any aspects of their personality/life from others?

Life? Mostly his home-life, unless pried. Not because of a grand trauma that must be hidden, but simply because his past of monotony and regret follows him regardless, and he’d rather not dwell about it with others.

His personality is a plethora of stifled emotions and hidden idiosyncrasies. There is a side of the old-tongued businessman that hopelessly shadows his father that still lingers, even when he doesn’t want it to  - and the side of his anxieties and unsurety of life that turns him into a nervously babbling mess. It depends on the situation that measures which qualities you’d be exposed to.

Crowds: What does your muse think of big cities?

Bad. Bad. Bad. He had always day-dreamed of a successful life of his own in a city outside of Ishgard, but his poor social skills (outside of meetings and clients) & general naivete leave him ill-equipped for the bustling crowds.

People are great. Just not in such large quantities.

Death: Name one thing your muse has lost that they wish they could get back.

While he knows he wouldn’t dare take his old position in life back, he does miss his stability: education, future, and career. And even as much negative he has to say about them, he does miss his family.

Ghosts: Has your muse ever seen something they couldn’t explain?

Not anything of interest. Perhaps Gil being deducted from his employee’s wages, must’ve been magic! Or more realistically, his father conducting his casual acts of employee larceny.

Needles: Does your muse have a strong stomach?

Not in the slightest, Auv is easily startled, disgusted, or nauseated from the smallest of unpleasant things.

Curses: Does your muse believe in good/bad luck? How about karma?

No. Though naive, Auvoix is hardly superstitious, and has a “believe in what you can see” philosophy when it comes to his belief system.

Heights: Is your muse a risk-taker?

Depends on what you consider risks. Auvoix often doesn’t challenge the norm’s idea of danger, but pushes himself to experience new things outside of his comfort zone.

Solitude: Name 3 things your muse couldn’t live without.

His music, work to keep him busy, a break in the routine

Fire: Would your muse rather be very cold, or very hot?

Very cold. Winters in Ishgard had forced him to grow quite the tough skin.

Failure: Has your muse ever given up on an important dream?

If you were to ask Auvoix a few years before he had left his family company, he’d be mortified at where he is now. In the past, Auvoix had a linear goal just within his reach: To be like his father, to successfully run the company as he did, and if another impending doom like the Calamity was to ever brush his rule: to rebuild Auldier Spicing even taller than ever before... But eventually his day-dreams of a life outside of the business became reality, shattering the reality and structure he had always known.

Abandonment: How would your muse win back someone who left them?

Lots and lots of apologies.

The Unknown: Is your muse a philosophical person?

I’d say so, nothing of a profoundly deep thinker. But aware and anxious of the oddity of his existence, his sense of self and identity, purpose and morality.

Auvoix deals with a lot of existential issues, but again, doesn’t know how to deal with them.

Boogeyman: What position does your muse sleep in?

Any position he can fall asleep, so long as a blanket is covering his head.

Falling: What does your muse think about falling in love or commitment?

He doesn’t think much about it, as he doesn’t feel much romantically towards others. He knows, even if he was to, that he could barely sustain a healthy relationship with anyone.

Change: What was a turning point in your muse’s life?

Though it was a gradual thing, most definitely his realization that the business wasn’t for him. This changed everything about Auvoix’s life - from ridding him of a profession and family, to changing his entire personality from a businesslike stiff to discovering his inner self. Even if that inner self is a bit cumbersome and awkward.

Disease: What does your muse do on a sick day?

Curl up. Hate everything. Force through a book or a distraction of some sort.

Number 13: Does your muse believe any superstitions?

“ No. Though naive, Auvoix is hardly superstitious, and has a “believe in what you can see” philosophy when it comes to his belief system.  “

Noise: Name one sound your muse finds absolutely unbearable.

Lots of talking - all at once.

Insects: Name something your muse finds gross or annoying.

Blood or injuries particularly make Auvoix uneasy.

In terms of annoyance, running into Elezen who force through their old tongue appear pretentious to him, even though he can be found guilty of returning back to the old habits of “How are thee, my own acquaintance! Mayhaps I could assist you?” - Hypocrite!

Dolls: Has your muse ever collected something?

Never while residing with his parents, but after acquiring his own space outside of Ishgard he had found quite a comfort in taking new and odd things back home with him to inspect and collect.

Getting Old: Would your muse rather live 50 years loved, or 200 years alone?

He could deal with fifty years unloved, even. So long as he isn’t alone. 200 years of complete solitude would render a very unhappy Auvoix.

Social Phobia: Does your muse consider themselves an outgoing person?

Auvoix is a social butterfly trapped within the confounds of a clumsy, agoraphobic mess. He yearns to be like those who can approach Hydaelynly experiences with confidence and strength. Instead he mumbles and stumbles when speaking to those he wishes he could befriend.