#whats like a fun fact about him..... he has several identical dress shirts ties and khakis because he likes dressing in the exact -

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

It’s the Man’s birthday!!! Which means that yeah I’ll talk about him finally

The Man is the titular character of Man Swears Forever, my big work-in-progress story! He has an actual name, but I like calling him the Man and that's what he is called for 90% of the story. His name is very easy to find if you do a little digging because it's not like an active secret.

The Man is the type of person who likes it when things are in a particular order. Certain things must happen at certain places at certain times of the day for a certain duration, people should move about their day minding their own business, no questions asked, no kinks in the machine, no nothing. He has a colourful past but in the modern day he'd much rather forget about it all and focus on the now instead, with a lovely small circle of people close to him and his life's simple joys. He becomes annoyed or angry very quickly if things don't go according to plan, sometimes explosively so. Unfortunately for him, stories don't tend to have everyone having a good time all the time... and there's untouched pine forest in North Ostrobothnia with his name on it.

He's a little bit weird in places but he's cool <33

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Forest Fires || Geralt x Reader || Pt. 8

Summary: Now that you’ve made it to the Temple of Melitele, the hunt for the Princess Cirilla begins—with an unlikely team at its head: A Witcher, two and a half sorceresses, one Huntress, and a Priestess of Melitele.

Word Count: 2,645

Warning(s): None for this chapter.

A/N: Alright, so I know this chapter is a lot of setting up for the next few chapters, but I actually really had fun writing it, so I hope you all enjoy it!

If you enjoy my work and want to check out more of it, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, comment or message me and I would be happy to add you 😊. Also, I do have a ko-fi page now, and I would really appreciate if anyone is able to give a little; it would really help me out with this whole transitioning careers and still pay off medical bills thing. But of course, the best way y’all support me is just by reading and sharing my work. I appreciate it more than I can say. 

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 ||  Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7

The Hunt Begins

You are surprised when you wake up to early morning light filtering through the windows; it had been afternoon. You don’t even remember the last time you’d slept so long. There was always so much to do back at the cottage—there was never time. Well, that, and the fact that even hunting all day and then taking care of everything else when you got home was less exhausting than opening one single damn portal. All those years of being a sorceress—of it being your entire identity—and you’d still forgotten how damn exhausting using magic truly is.

You sigh, kicking back the covers. Even with the evening damp still lingering in the air, you feel too warm. The Witcher laying beside you is likely contributing to that factor, but you wouldn’t dream of kicking him away. For some reason, you are surprised that he is there, even though you realistically shouldn’t be. Perhaps you just imagined him staying up all night planning things while you were lazily sleeping away, but you are happy to see that he is sleeping. You have no idea what the future will bring, but you are certain that you’ll all need the rest.

“Good morning.” The Witcher’s soft, low morning voice pulls you from your thoughts. You smile slightly, turning to look at him, eyes drinking in the familiar sight of the white haired Geralt of Rivia. His hair is pulled loose, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and sleepy. You’ll never get enough of the sight, you’ve decided.

“Morning,” you mumble back. You are frustrated at the way your voice sounds; all tired and scratchy and haggard. While you certainly feel much better than you did the previous day, your body is still catching up.

“Did you sleep well?” Geralt asks, his amber eyes all warm and full of concern. You are simultaneously touched and annoyed by it. Though, you suppose, there are worse things than someone being concerned for you.

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yes. I hardly remember falling asleep at all.” You’ll have to remember to thank Yennefer later. The tea must have worked wonders. You don’t remember waking up covered in sweat, trapped within a nightmare, either. Finally, you ask, “What time did you go to sleep, Witcher?”

“Late,” he grumbles a response. You raise your eyebrows in a question, which he picks up on right away. “We’re not the only ones trying to track down the girl.” Obviously.

The girl. You sigh at the use of the phrase, even though you couldn’t bring yourself to call her anything else.

“Do we know who else?” You ask, pushing yourself up into a sitting position but making no move to actually get out of bed. But you’re already prattling off possibilities before he can answer you, “Nilfgaard, obviously. And I bet the bounty on her head is pretty high. I’m sure the elves are looking, too. Lara Dorren’s blood and all that.”

Geralt just nods gravely, confirming your suspicions. “There’s also a mage,” he adds, “Vigelfortz.” You don’t bother to ask how he is certain of this specific information. Yennefer would know, you suppose, even if she had turned away from the Brotherhood years ago like you had.

“Nilfgaard wants a marriage with the blood heir to the Cintran throne. The bounty hunters just want money from the highest bidder—which I’m guessing is also Nilfgaard. The elves want Dol Blathanna back the way it was… So who is this mage working for?” Honestly, it was too early to be having this conversation, but you brain won’t let you focus on anything else.

“That’s the thing,” Geralt mutters, lifting a hand to play with the ends of your hair idly as he continues, “Seems like he’s working for himself. Yennefer is with the Brotherhood—Vigelfortz cut ties a few weeks before Nilfgaard sacked Cintra.”

You can already feel a headache coming on. None of it makes any sense—you only remember Vigelfortz from your late days at Aretuza. He hadn’t stood out much then. He was just another mage—not even a court mage, if you remember correctly. You look at Geralt, “He used to study antiquities, old civilizations and buried secrets or whatever.”

“Buried secrets?” Geralt asks, propping himself up on his elbows. Your eyes scan his scarred chest for a moment before finally meeting his eyes.

Definitely not the right time, you tell yourself.

“Yeah—he’d work on archeological digs and things.” The memories start to flow back faster than you expected them to. “And he taught at Ban Ard,” you add. “Probably about the same subjects.” Your mind is spinning at a dizzying speed. What the hell would a scholar want with the girl?

And then it snaps into place.

“The gir—Cirilla is supposed to have the blood of Lara Dorren.” Geralt looks at you, confused, as if he is still trying to catch up. “An ancient bloodline that supposedly possesses great power.” To be honest, you’d thought the whole thing was bullshit; some made up fairy tale. It might be just that; but to someone like Vigelfortz, you are certain that it isn’t.

You watch Geralt’s face harden as realization washes over him, “So he’s just trying to collect another ancient secret.” His words are tinged with the same disgust that you feel. It hurts, thinking about the young girl being pursued by several parties, all wanting someone from her—wanting something she may or may not have and certainly didn’t ask for.

“Fucking mages,” you hiss, voice dripping with venom. Granted, this was just one mage and however many worked with him. Though, you are certain the Brotherhood has its own reasons for hunting down the girl. If you know one thing, it is that the Brotherhood hardly does anything out of good will.

“Treating a human like a fucking old vase,” the Witcher’s warm amber eyes have turned cold as he stares off toward the window.

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment, broken only by the sounds of people speaking outside and the wind blowing through the open windows. When you saved the Witcher’s life in the woods that day, you had not expected this—some crazy suicide mission across the Continent to find a missing princess and, what, save her from the grasps of evil?

“Maybe Yenna’s found something,” you say, mostly just to fill the empty space. If the woman you reunited with yesterday is anything like her past self at Aretuza, it was unlikely she’d slept at all. Once she was focused on something, there was no deterring her for any reason. “She’d know more about Vigelfortz than me. I haven’t had contact with the Brotherhood since before I left Nilfgaard.”

And now, the thought of facing them again filled you with dread. You’d failed your duties as a court mage, failed to protect the girl when you had the chance, and failed to report to the Brotherhood about any of it—letting them think you were dead for the last eleven years.

You stand up and stretch, grimacing at how sore your muscles are for no particular reason, and also at the fact that you are still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Before we go ask, though, I need to bathe.”

“No time,” Geralt grumbles, glancing out the window at the sky. “We’re to meet down in the hall at seven.”

You huff, running a hand through your tangled hair and looking down at your filthy clothes.

“They brought up clean clothes.” Geralt points to a neat little pile folded atop one of the old dressers. You sigh, as you pad over to the dresser, wishing you’d have woken up an hour earlier. You’d like nothing more than to scrub all of the last few days off of you. But, you suppose, clean clothes will have to do for now. Thankfully, upon further observation you see that they are not much different from the clothes you were already wearing.

You’re the soft material of a shirt rumple in your fingertips, studying it for a moment before offering Geralt a small smile “At least they aren’t making me dress like a nun.”

You are shocked by the soft seriousness in Geralt’s gaze as he looks at you for a moment before finally saying, “You’d look beautiful in anything.”  

Despite the circumstances, the response still makes color rise in your cheeks. You offer him a soft smile, before deciding to finally slip out of your clothes and pull them on. You don’t bother to go behind the dressing screen—it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t seen all of you already.

Just as you are tucking the loose tunic into the high waisted, you feel Geralt creep up behind you, wrapping a strong arm around your middle. You sigh, tilting your head back to rest against his shoulder as he presses his lips to the place where your shoulder meets your neck. The kiss is slow and careful, as if the two of you have all the time in the world to just stay in this room with one another.

Unfortunately, you don’t.

Geralt gives you a small squeeze as he presses his lips to the side of your forehead with gentleness that conveys an unspoken promise—everything will be okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll do what must be done. We’ll live.

At least, those are the thoughts that flood your mind, even if you don’t quite believe them. It seems a little foolish for the two of you, Yennefer, and whoever else is involved in this particular search party to go up against all of those others; especially the Nilfgaardian Empire. It seems stupid for anyone to go after Nilfgaard—and yet here you are.

***

Despite the fact that hunger had been absolutely clawing at your stomach for some time now, you are finding it difficult to make yourself do something as mundane as chew and swallow. The food looks and smells delicious, but everything seems to turn to ash in your mouth.

The table, though quite large, is empty save for yourself, Geralt, Yennefer, and the woman that you’d been introduced to a half hour before—Mother Nenneke. You can’t help but feel dread creep up on you even stronger as you pick up the mug of hot coffee with fresh cream and swallow it down. There are entire armies looking for Cirilla—not to mention scary mages and at least a few bounty hunters. All of those people, and four of you.

“Triss Merrigold has also promised aid,” Yennefer says, cutting into the silence. You catch yourself wondering at how it was as if she’d read your thoughts for more than a few seconds before you remember that she likely is.

You’d read Geralt’s mind yesterday, for only a moment, and yet you’d forgotten that many sorceresses did that all the time. You didn’t tend to do so much—mostly because you were afraid of what you’d find in those thoughts. It wasn’t as if you were well-respected in any circles; you’d rather not hear about it.

Mechanically, you put up the magical barriers they’d taught you about all those years ago, a wall around your thoughts. And yet, when you do, you do not feel anything pushing against the barrier. Perhaps she hadn’t been reading your mind, after all.

“So that brings the grand total to five.” The worried words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, drawing three pairs of eyes to you. You chew on your bottom lip nervously.

“Less people means less of a chance of someone turning on us or letting something slip,” Geralt points out, in the middle of devouring some sort of omelet.

“Exactly,” Yennefer remarks.

“Three sorceresses, a Priestess, and a Witcher—seems like a find team to me.” Mother Nenneke is much warmer than you’d imagined. She even says the words with a small grin. It just… was not how you imagined a Priestess to be.

“Two and a half sorceresses,” you mumble, taking another large sip of your coffee.

Yennefer laughs, tilting her head back as she does so. “Oh, Y/N, you act as if you’d really died.”

You find yourself smiling lightly as you look back at the raven-haired sorceress, shrugging. “I may not have died, but I certainly haven’t used magic,” you sigh. Brief flashes of the previous afternoon threaten to bubble to the surface of your mind, but you push the thoughts down.

“Alright, then we’ve got two and a half sorceresses, one archer, a Priestess, and Witcher,” Geralt says, a sly grin also appearing on his face. “Even better.”

You suppose it is true—you learned to hunt silently and efficiently. Though the thought makes your stomach turn, you suppose those skills would be equally useful against people… And perhaps better. As evidenced by the fact that you literally had everyone convinced you were dead, it was a lot less… attention grabbing.

Despite feeling relatively reassured by this, you still find yourself anxiously drumming your fingers on the table.

“But how do we even know where to start?”

At least you are feeling more comfortable, so talking doesn’t make your throat want to close anymore.

Your eyes land on Yenna first, for some reason expecting that she was the one who had the answer—but it is Mother Nenneke that smiles. A slow, almost mischievous smile that has you watching with bated breath, waiting to hear what she is about to say. You can tell by the gleam in her eye that it is important.

“We ask Iola the First.”

Geralt’s eyebrows tick up in recognition, and Yennefer nods gravely. You, on the other hand, have no idea who this, apparently very impressive, woman is. That fact is evident on your face, but the other simply carry on with their conversation, earning an annoyed glance in Geralt’s direction from you.

“Doesn’t she need something that belongs to Princess Cirilla? If she’s going to… you know?” Geralt asks, eyes narrowed in thought as he looks intently at Mother Nenneke.

“Yes,” Yennefer cuts in, “And we’ve got it.”

“What is it?” You are surprised at how quickly the words slip out, and how eager you are to learn exactly what it is. Some of your annoyance has melted away, as you’ve figured out at least something about the mysterious Iola the First. She must have some sort of visions—you’ve heard stories of Priestesses being gifted with things like this. Though, you have to admit, you thought it was mostly bullshit. But if Yennefer and Geralt both trust her, you are suddenly finding yourself putting more stock into the rumors.

Yennefer turns, gingerly pickup up a green cloak that you hadn’t noticed draped over the high back of the chair next to her. You don’t bother to ask how they know its hers—you suppose that isn’t important, but Geralt seems more curious than you yourself are, because he asks precisely that.

“She was seen at two refugee camps following the attack on Cintra, always wearing this cloak.” You can’t seem to take your eyes from it, extremely drawn to the clearly very expensive and well-made cloak.

“The cloak was found in the forest, just outside of Brokolin,” Yen continues, “And Triss confirmed with the dryads that Cirilla had been there and stayed with them for a time.”

Everyone at the table has their eyes thoroughly fixated on the cloak in Yennefer’s hands, likely all thinking the same thing—there is no sign of blood on the cloak, meaning the chance that she is alive is quite likely. Though, the thought that the girl is now out wandering without even a cloak to keep her warm makes your chest tighten uncomfortably.

It is Geralt who finally breaks the silence, turning his attention to Mother Nenneke.

“Right,” he clears his throat, “Let’s go speak with Iola.”

***

To be continued.

 Taglist:  @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @jesseswartzwelder @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @lazilyscentedwerewolf  @valkyriepuff @dark-night-sky-99 @pantrashtic @lilred254 @cilorawr@blackravena​ @keithseabrook27 @danielarlington @salmonbutter @godsaverosemary  @little-miss-emmalie @hookahpop @ayamenimthiriel @toenailclippingz @ultrahviolent @afterthenightprevails @kathhdd​ @squirrel-saloli @afittingdistraction @holyhumorliteraturelight @curlyhairedandconfused @nikolanna​ @dontforgetthepieh​ @superconfusedandreadytorumble​ @keithseabrook27​ @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @sinnamon-bunn​ @sallyp-53​ @superconfusedandreadytorumble​

[onlyjihoons]

demon!jihoon

a/n; very much inspired by jihoon's demonic lenses he wore here?? and this prompt!i would also like to thank @hwinkinghwi for the demonic(?) moodboard hehe,,,happy early halloween!

jihoon is one of the most cunning demons

he would actually use his ungodly looks to his advantage to get his way

almost everything his goddamn face will make people give in/compromise

sometimes he uses his evil to help kids out

like, he sees a kid being bullied at a playground or something, he would give retribution by shoving sand down the bully's shirt??

(i have no idea how demons work so please spare me)

but other than that jihoon is pretty cynical

when he disguises himself as a mortal, he looks normal, until you look at his eyes,,,

theyre a light blue

they arent even contacts, like theyre just his eye colour

people just believe his lie that those are prescription contacts LOL

jihoon is being notorious for the senior who uses his looks to get through anything and everything

but not his grades lmao

so he's two years older than the kids taking their college entrance exam

basically he just wasted 2 years of his life in school

but he just wants to live off fellow demon!seongwoo,, so he just, doesnt study and goes to school

but seongwoo found out about it,, and made sure jihoon spends his legit last year in high school or jihoon would be ugly in his next life LOL

you're a senior in high school, trying to make the best out of your dying grades

you do know jihoon, but avoid communication as you're an angel

like legit,, angel

you were an angel thanks to your mother, who was involved in the heaven

and she wanted you to live a sin-free life as much as possible

ok now back to avoiding jihoon

why avoid communication?

for a simple reason;

you had a crush on him

and the rule of thumb your mother bestowed upon you was

"you can date anyone but demons"

and you were well aware jihoon was a demon, as your halo(which was invisible to the eyes of mortals) were blinking whenever jihoon would be near you

and you just didnt like the idea of dating a handsome asshole

fun fact: jihoon used to be an angel until he was involved in the 101, which made him evil

you knew jihoon relatively well due to the fact he used to be an angel

he was your childhood friend

always protecting you and looking out for you

your crush on him developed even before he became a demon, and didnt falter even when he wasnt a angel

but the both of you grew distant as your mother would warn you not to play with fire

you were taking a media studies elective as a subject and there was a coursework you had to do

which involved acting w a partner of the opposite gender

and to your luck, jihoon was the only student in the class who took media studies

not knowing anything between the both of you, your teacher assigned the both of you as partners LOL

to make things worse, the story was

romeo and juliet

how ironic lmaoooo

meaning, you had to kiss jihoon

or rather, jihoon had to kiss you

because your teacher chose the last scene, which had the least lines, for the both of you to "ensure your distinctions"

and the both of you just had to bite the bullet and take it because you'd want to graduate from school quickly and attempt to wash the sins of kissing jihoon away by doing more good things in college

while jihoon just wanted to get this thing done and over with

you told your mom about it, she was okay with it, but she still warned you not to fall for jihoon

though, your dad is a demonxangel

its a given that you and jihoon had to stay after school to run through the script

and every time you and jihoon renact the last scene, your breath hitches in your throat and you hiccup

or on days where you just burst out laughing and accidentally spit on jihoon

he actually wasnt that mad about it because 1. he knew how hard it was to keep one's composure in a kiss scene WITH THEIR CRUSH

2. he just thought you were cute

despite jihoon not kissing you for practices

which you were thankful for or else you cant sleep at night

until,,, the day of the assesment

everything went fairly smoothly, and the dreaded kiss of life was very soon approaching you

you thought jihoon wouldnt kiss you like he did in practices

bitch you thought

he kissed you on the lips and you were trying your best not to shoot your eyes open in shock

and of course,, the kiss of life received a standing ovation from the teachers who were really impressed

because most students dont actually kiss lmao

so you had to drag jihoon aside after yhe assesment and he had that stupid smile on his face

"cant you see i like you???"

you were stunned and also happy

but you had to keep your promis to your mom

"im sorry jihoon, i cant be your girlfriend"

boy he was shocked because he was never rejected

"why?"

"because," you bit your lip, contemplating wheter to tell jihoon

"because??"

"angels and demons cant be together," was all you said before leaving jihoon hanging

you and jihoon never talked until,,, halloween

which, you decided to go as yourself to your friend's halloween party at universal studios

you wore a plain white dress,, and wore a halo headband

pretty basic and simple but you really didnt care and just tried to dress nicely

apparently her parents rented the whole theme park for a private party lol

your friend was asking why you didnt bring jihoon along as your "plus one"

and you just shrugged,

"shit happened and we arent really talking anymore"

she got the hint immediately and stopped mentioning jihoon

meanwhile, jihoon was also dressed as himself

his hair was dyed a lighter blonde and wore a v neck black button up w ripped jeans,,,,,, and wore a choker on his neck too

basically all-black and looking good as heck

when he arrived every girl turned their heads and were shookt

like he barely needed to do anything to look THAT good

"a demon" was what he replied,, but he was laughing inside as people dont know his real identity

he was just enjoying the atmosphere of halloween where people dressed up and didnt care if their make up was shit,, its halloween anyway

he was just chilling and walking around w fellow demon!baejin when he saw someone carrying a girl in a white dress,,,

and that girl in a white dress seemed too familiar...

that when it clicked and he had to abandon baejin to save you

when he stopped the figure holding you, he ripped off its mask and revealed someone he wouldnt expect

lai guanlin

"guanlin, what are you doing?"

"i..i can explain--"

"explain what? drugging y/n and bringing her somewhere to hurt her?!" 

at this point jihoon was really really angry, his irises turned red

"who made you do this?”

“i can’t tell you--”

“im severing all ties with you if you dont tell me.”

“okay okay! seongwoo-hyung made me do it,, he just wanted to mess with you. nothing poisonous was fed to y/n! i swear!”

jihoon could only sigh and roll his eyes, as he motioned guanlin to come closer to him

and when he did, he twisted guanlin’s ear, making the younger groan in pain,,, while still holding onto you LOL

“help seongwoo-hyung again and not only your ears would be red,” jihoon snapped, as guanlin helped to load you on jihoon’s back

jihoon was contemplating where to bring you to,,, in this state where you were fast asleep

he decided to bring you back to your home

of course, with you on his back was pretty crazy

people were staring at him, thinking that he got a girl drunk lmao

but some people were noticing how cute he was and he’d just blush and try to hide his face??

meanwhile you were still sleeping, and jihoon made your head lean on his shoulder

and it was quite a scene bc a literal angel leaning on a literal demon’s shoulders??? p sadistic but cute at the same time

he knew the exact route to your house because it was almost like muscle memory,, he always came over to your house during the weekends when the both of you were childhood friends

when jihoon knocked on the door he was pretty nervous to how your mom would react

“y/n youre--jihoon?”

“sorry you have to see this, but y/n got drugged by someone... i saw her and i had to save her”

“ah, i see...” your mom was weirdly happy that no one but jihoon saved you??

“her room is the last bedroom to the right...” your mom pointed, “i think you should stay over, it’s quite late.”

“but i don’t have any clothes...” jihoon smiled nervously 

tbh how is he not tired after holding you for so long;)

“its fine! daniel has some clothes he cant wear anymore, you can use those.”

casually slips in olderbrother!daniel

jihoon was reminded of the times where your mom would take care of him p well, he was so touched that her heart didnt change over the years despite being a demon himself

“thank you mrs y/l/n, please rest early too!”

thats when your mom muttered something about him calling her mom

“excuse me?”

“yeah i will sleep soon, when daniel comes home.”

as jihoon entered your room, it was clean, and like a typical teenage girl’s room, with fairy lights and wall decorated with polariod pictures

after he settled you on your bed, he looked around your room and spotted a picture of the both of you amidst all the polariods

it was the both of you during your freshman year,, he took you to smoothie king because you were having a bad day

he smiled, but then sighed at the thought that your mother didnt allow you to date demons

but she was liking him so much she wanted yall to get married right there

all he could do was kiss your forehead and ruffle your hair

when he was about to leave he felt something tugging on his arm

“don’t go...” 

you were sleeptalking lmao

jihoon hence slept at the side on your bed, while holding your hand

the next morning, you woke up to a weight on your hand, and you saw a blonde head 

you were surprised so you screamed

and you woke jihoon in the process

“w-what”

“what are you doing here?”

“well...” jihoon scratched his head sheepishly 

“...”

“what-- y/n! i know im a demon but no, i would never do that”

“then?! what are you doing here, in my room, in your...outfit”

“because you told me to stay??” jihoon raised his eyebrows

shit he heard that, you cursed internally

“but thank you for saving me.” you blushed

“that’s it?” jihoon smirked, “no thank you kiss?”

“what?why?”

“because you are mine.”

shit i cringed so hard but smth jihoon would say tbh

“but my mom--”

he then interrupted your words with a kiss, which worked

“i can bet you my life saving that she is peeping at us right now,” jihoon whispered

and yes she was, peeking at the both of you and you could see her punching the air in victory

dating demon!jihoon is just like dating a huge fluffball

and takes revenges on your behalf if anyone dares to hurt/offend you

but sometimes hes hella r u d e 

like randomly flipping his hair and winking

and whenever he trips,,

“i think i fell for you”

like p l e a s e  s t o p

still has the innocence in him despite being a demon

like lighting up in front of candy

and buying you stuff in a non-evil way

your mother openly supports your relationship with jihoon

like 

“yes yall my son in law is jihoon,, isnt he handsome??”

and you had to shut her up everytime she starts talking about jihoon

sometimes you wonder if she forgot that youre her child and not jihoon

overall, a relationship most wouldn’t expect but still ship together

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Lostcauses Fic: Chrome

This is for @flecksofpoppy​ who pointed out that while there's plenty of fan art of those leggings, they really deserve some fic.  Also for @fullmetallizard​ and anyone else who has grown to love Levi Ackerman’s fabulous fashion disaster.

“You’re not going out wearing that!”

Levi gapes at his flatmate aghast.

“Wearing what?”  Petra’s looks down at herself, nose scrunching into a little frown.

“That!” Levi waves his hand vaguely in his friend’s direction.

“You mean these?”  Petra peers at her shiny silver leggings, frown turning into something a bit more apprehensive.  “Why? Do they make my ass look big?” She cranes her head over her shoulder in an unsuccessful attempt to see her petite bottom.

“What the fuck? You’ve barely got an ass!”

“What’s wrong then?”

“Looks like something a twelve year old girl would wear.”  

“No it doesn’t!” Petra huffs.  “I’ll have you know this jacket came from a chi chi little boutique in the West End and the leggings are from a really cool Japanese outlet online.”

“I don’t care where they’re from,” Levi snorts dismissively, “I’m not going out with you looking like that.”

“And who made you the fashion police all of a sudden?”  Petra pouts, sticking her chin out defiantly.

“Just saying…”

“Just jealous more like.”  Petra sniffs haughtily.

“What the hell would I be jealous off?”

“My lovely new leggings!”

“Fuck off.  I wouldn’t be seen dead in that fashion disaster.”  Levi replies, clearly horrified.

“Ooh get you Mr Style Icon.”  Petra cast a sarcastic eye over Levi’s black jeans and equally black t-shirt. “You know Levi, for a gay man your wardrobe is awfully straight.”

“Fuck you.”

“Y’know, I can kinda see you in these.”  

Petra sidles up to Levi and waggles one shiny leg in front of him.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re no fun.  Anyway, I don’t care what you think, I think I look hot.”

“Mutton dressed as lamb more like,” Levi mutters under his breath as Petra turns away to pick up her bag.

“I heard that Levi Ackerman!” Petra whirls around and prods Levi hard in the chest. “Right, if you’re so convinced that this is such a fashion faux pas why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

“What the hell are you talking about Pet?”

“If I can pull wearing my fabulous new leggings tonight, you have to wear them to the club next weekend.”

“No fucking way.”

“Don’t worry honey,” Petra smiles sweetly, patting Levi on the cheek “I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about if I look like mutton.”

The clubs is as busy and noisy as might be expected for a gay club on a Friday night and Levi can feel a headache starting as soon as he steps into the dark, strobe lit interior. He makes one circuit of the dance floor with Petra before retreating to a quieter area at the back of the bar.  He’s promised his friend he’ll stay for one drink at least.  By the time he’s finished his drink, Petra has already disappeared into the crowd with a tall person wearing glasses, a wild smile and messy hair tied up in a pony tail.  Levi pulls out his phone, shoots her a short text message telling her he’s leaving and to call a cab to get home, then he makes his way out of the club, sighing with relief as he exits the hot noisy club into the cool night air.

Levi wakens late the next morning; he doesn’t work on Saturdays so there’s no hurry to get up, though his desperate need for tea forces him out of bed just after nine.  The flat is quiet and peaceful, perfect for a relaxing Saturday morning. Levi is on his second cup of tea when he realizes that the flat is altogether too quiet and that he has no recollection of hearing Petra coming home the night before.  He hastily reaches for his phone and, sure enough, there are three messages from Petra sent at four in the morning.  The first is a blurry selfie of Petra and the messy haired person he’d last seen her with at the club.  The second reads going home with Hanji, going to make cocktails & toast & cheese. don’t wait up!  The third message, sent a few minutes later simply says i win ur turn next wk. It takes Levi a moment to figure out what it means but when he does, his stomach drops.  Fuck.  Petra pulled. He’s lost the bet.

It’s Sunday afternoon before Petra stumbles back to the flat, still wearing the silver leggings and the smuggest grin Levi has ever seen in his life.  

“No.” Levi states flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Absolutely fucking not.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Petra chirrups before collapsing onto the couch and demanding coffee, blankets and crap tv.

Levi does not intend to give in without a fight.  He dedicates every spare moment of the week thinking up any excuse that will allow him to wriggle out of the bet with his dignity intact.

“I’m skint.  I can’t afford to go out this weekend.”  He tries on Monday evening.

“No problem”, Petra smiles sweetly, “I’ve just been paid.”

On Tuesday morning he tries coughing unconvincingly.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go out on Friday, I’m coming down with a cold.”

“No you’re not,” Petra snips without even looking up from her cereal.

“How the fuck do you know, Nurse Ral?”

“Because,” Petra waves her spoon at him, “on the vanishingly rare occasions you do actually get ill, you always deny it.  Honestly Levi you one of these guys who’d stand there with their arm hanging off claiming it’s only a scratch.”

She does have a point.  

“There’s no way I’ll get into your stupid fucking leggings,” Levi protests on Wednesday, “they’re way too small.”

“Nuh uh.” Petra sticks her head out of the bathroom where she’s dying her hair. “These leggings are made of the stretchiest fabric known to mankind, I’m sure you’ll manage to squeeze your ass into them sweetie.”

“It’s not my ass I’m worried about…” Levi mutters darkly.

“But what if I rip them?”  He pleads on Thursday, desperation giving way to despair.

“Rip them? Hoping so see some action are you?” Petra smirks.  God dammit she can be annoying sometimes. “Well if they come down in a blaze of glory so be it.  They helped me pull, maybe they’ll work the same magic for you!”  She reaches across the couch where they’re sitting and ruffles Levi’s hair.  Levi wishes for death.

By the end of the week Petra’s almost supernatural ability to get her own way wins out and Levi regretfully concludes that he will either have to move out and find a new flat, possibly even adopt a new identity, or suck it up, and wear the fucking leggings.

Saturday comes around with swift and awful inevitability and finds Levi standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, gazing at his reflection with abject horror.  After several false starts he has regretfully concluded that the only way he is going to be able to wear Petra’s hideous leggings is if he goes commando. That still doesn’t make getting into them any easier.  Petra has offered to help of course but he refuses to let her into the bedroom on the grounds that he is half naked and she refuses to stop laughing.  

“Oh come on Levi,” she had pleads from the other side of the door, “don’t be a baby, there’s no need to be shy. You know I’m not remotely interested in dick, yours or anyone else’s!”

It takes a great deal of undignified maneuvering to worm his way into the leggings but once they’re on, Levi can’t help admitting that they feel rather nice.  The fabric is fine and stretchy and the metallic surface feels smooth and cool to the touch.  However it’s when he turns round and looks in the mirror that the full horror of the situation really hits him.  The leggings hug every curve and cleft of his nether regions, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.  In fact the silver sheen actually seems to accentuate his assets, highlighting the outline of his dick, the cheeks of his ass.  

“Fuck.” He groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Leeeeevi!” Petra pleads, between fits of giggles, from the other side of the door, “come on, we’ll be late, you can’t stay in there all night.”

Shaking his head, Levi grabs the longest shirt he can find from his closet then, taking a deep breath, he opens the door.

“Oh my god! Petra squeals, eyes round as saucers. “Oh. My. God!”

“Right, fuck this,” Levi snaps retreating back into his room and attempting to slam the door.

Petra is too quick for him though.  

“Uh uh, no you don’t.” She catches him by the arm and drags him back out into the hallway with surprising strength for one so small. “No, no, no.  We made a deal.”  She wags her finger sternly at Levi. “Right now, stand there.”

She plants Levi firmly on the spot and walks around him to admire the view.  By the time she’s facing him again her gleeful grin has been replaced by a small pout.

“Damn, Levi, unfair.”

“You’re telling me this is unfair?”

“No, it’s not fair, these leggings look better on you than they do on me.  How the hell do you do that?”  

“I look like a fucking oven ready chicken,” Levi mutters.

“Oh don’t be such a drama queen.  It’s a gay club, silver leggings are practically dress down for a Saturday night.  Come on, time to go.   I told Hanji I’d meet her at the club just after eleven.”  She tosses the black satin jacket at Levi and, ignoring any further protests, ushers him out the door.

Petra is right of course, amongst the lycra and sequins and booty shorts, Levi’s silver leggings are far from the most flamboyant thing on the dancefloor.  In fact the only person in the club who sticks out like a sore thumb is a tall blond guy propping up the bar who’s wearing an electric blue suit, complete with white shirt and red tie.  I mean, who the fuck wears a suit and tie to a gay club on a Saturday night?

Levi doesn’t have time to check out the conspicuous blond before Petra is dragging him onto the dance floor. The DJ is on top form tonight, mixing up the usual high-energy trash with something a bit heavier, a bit more bassy.  It really hits the spot.  As Levi looses himself in the music and the euphoria he can’t help noticing that the silver leggings allow a certain freedom of movement and he’d be lying if he didn’t notice the admiring glances cast his way as the lights shine of the skin tight silver fabric.  

By the time Levi fights his way off the dancefloor almost an hour later he’s dripping with sweat and gasping for a drink.  He makes his way over to the bar and is shouldering his way through the throng when he hears a voice at his ear.

“You look hot.”

Levi turns around to give the stranger his best death glare and finds himself looking up at the blond in the blue suit.  The very tall, very gorgeous blond in the blue suit.

“Subtle,” he drawls sarcastically.

Not remotely daunted by Levi’s fuck off attitude the man throws his head back and laughs.

“No, I meant hot as in you look like you need to cool down, though now you come to mention it…” He grins and there’s something wolfish there that intrigues Levi.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

Levi sweeps a swift appraising eye over the man. Talking of hot…

“Sure,” he shrugs.  “Just water.”

Levi retreats to a relatively quiet corner away from the bar and the man returns shortly afterwards with carrying a gin and tonic and a bottle of water.   Levi gulps down the cold water gratefully.  He can feel the man’s eyes on his throat as he swallows and when some of the water trickles out of the corner of his mouth to pool in the hollow of his throat, he doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’m Erwin,” the man says, as Levi lowers the bottle from his mouth.  His eyes follow the trail of water sliding down Levi’s throat.

“Erwin…” Levi draws the name out over his tongue.  “So what’s your story?” He nods in the direction of the man’s suit, one brow raised in query.

“Excuse me?”  The man looks confused for a moment.  “Oh! You mean this?  The suit? I was at a work colleague’s wedding.  The maid of honour was trying to pair me off with the best man, some lanky guy with a ratty little moustache, so I thought it was time to make my excuses.”

“Not your type huh?”

“No,” Erwin replies, and there’s that predatory glint in his eye again, “not my type.”

Levi lifts the bottle to his lips again, drinking slowly.  Erwin’s eyes never leave his face.

“I like your leggings,” Erwin comments as Levi caps the bottle and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No not at all.  Chrome is very next season.”

“Chrome…what?” Levi stutters. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Chrome accents,” Erwin explains as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “They’re going to be everywhere come spring.  You’re way ahead of the curve.”

Levi eyes the man flatly.

“And you know this how?  What are you, some kind of stylist, or designer or shit?”

“Me?  God no,” Erwin laughs,  “but I do work for a publishing company that has a lot of fashion and lifestyle titles in its portfolio.  You just pick up on this kind of stuff.  Apparently chrome is the next big thing.”

“Chrome huh?” Levi deadpans “Not sure it’s really my colour.”

“Oh I don’t know. It accentuates…” Erwin pauses, letting his gaze track slowly down over Levi’s body and back up to his face, “the colour of your eyes.”

Levi snorts, but really, he was just thinking exactly the same thing.  The man, Erwin, has the most impossibly blue eyes he has ever seen, which are only highlighted by the electric blue of his pristine suit.  It’s a winning combination.

Now Levi is a man who appreciates good grooming. To say that rough trade is not his thing would be the understatement of the century, however there is something about that immaculate blue suit, the neat side swept hair, the man’s clean fresh cologne, that brings out a primal urge in Levi to see the handsome blonde completely wrecked and ruined. The thought sends a bolt of heat straight to his groin, making him fidget uncomfortably.

Blondie, of course, notices.

“Are you all right there?”

“These things are fucking strangling me,” Levi mutters, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.

“They are rather,” Erwin coughs politely, “form fitting.”

“Form fitting?”  Levi can’t help choking back a laugh.  “You have no fucking idea. I nearly did myself an injury trying to get into them. Fuck knows how I’m going to get them off.”

“Well if you need a hand, I’d be very happy to oblige,” Erwin replies without missing a beat.

“Fuck.  You’re really not subtle are you?”

Erwin leans in, and when he speaks again, Levi can feel his breath hot against his cheek.

“Says the grown man in the silver leggings and the satin jacket.  Shall we go?”

Levi answers by fisting his hand in the red tie and dragging the man down for a long bruising kiss.

They’re already half way to the door of the club when Levi stops.

“Hang on, I need to text my flatmate.”

He pulls his phone from the pocket of Petra’s satin jacket.

I’m off Pet, see you tomorrow

Going home already?  Petra texts back immediately.

Maybe.  Maybe not.

“omg! u pulled? did you pull?  did my leggings work their magic again?

Fuck off.  

Levi snorts out a laugh.

“Something funny?” Erwin asks.

“No, just my stupid flatmate. Come on lets go.”

Before shoving his phone back in his pocket and following Erwin out the door, Levi shoots off one last text.

PS I’m keeping your leggings

[rylanfashionsx-blog]

What Takes Place When Male Do Not Comply With Masculine Clothing Norms at Work?

Every early morning, men make a seemingly mundane yet crucial choice: what to use to work. The majority of pull out some variation of the charcoal, navy, or black match from their closet. Some may add their own twist: a polka-dot pocket square or vibrant socks. This probably isn't unexpected. In Britain and North America, the fit is the most culturally accepted kind of workplace wear for males. What do we make of the males who turn down the solid-color match and choose for, state, an embellished jacket and sequined leggings? This concern is not as minor as it may appear. I have discovered that the method we answer it has crucial ramifications for how men feel at work, and likewise influences organizational cultures in ways most supervisors may not think about. Fifty males in between the ages of 22 and 78, all working and residing in and around Toronto, Canada, welcomed me into their homes and gave me a tour of their wardrobes. While some of these men grabbed a navy fit and white button-down shirt for work, lots of did not-- making clothing choices that defied manly appearance standards when dressing for their jobs. It's more common in the arts and style markets, however men likewise pick to dress fabulously in expert companies. Unless you work at a style magazine or a cabaret club, these codes mostly adhere to dominant gender standards that aren't especially welcoming to guys who wear womanly styles. Fabulous males police their clothes to prevent "masculinity predicaments" at work: circumstances where their behaviors and appearances are in contrast to the dominant concepts about what it implies to be a guy. Their stories highlight both how guys make clothes options for work and their everyday experiences of using attires that challenge masculine standards. These guys represent the variety of demographics, professions, and clothes styles in my sample. Mark. The closet in Mark's bed room offers a glance into his three-decade profession in financing. The 50-year-old has been collecting matches, bow ties, and scarves in yellow, orange, pink, and other rainbow shades because he started working for the bank in the 1980s. Mark's privilege as a white man or as a seasoned professional does not protect him from routine jabs and jeers at work. Reviewing these all-too-frequent encounters, he keeps in mind one time when he wore a sparking yellow satin bow tie. His manager passed him in the hallway and jokingly asked, "Do you have some sort of audition?" Mark remembers being shocked at the remark because he "had on a blue sports jacket, gray trousers, and a white t-shirt. This yellow bow tie. It resembled, 'You're strange.'" Although Mark has seen more straight men as his bank "rocking color" over the previous decade, it is typically limited to socks and neckties. His vibrant clothing continue to "make individuals uneasy" because he is "stepping beyond the border of the blue fit, blue tie, white shirt." To avoid being the target of jokes and stares, he'll frequently tone down his workwear. Drawing on his self-described "gender-more" visual when putting together attires, the black 30-year-old blends traditional men and women's clothes pieces into a single look. He will layer a women's sequined top under a men's leather jacket, for example, or a basketball jersey with maroon faux-fur pants. Nigel's usage of clothing as self-discovery and education has actually not constantly been met fanfare from his principal. Pulling out a set of fluorescent pink tights from his closet, he remembers pairing them with a sequined halter leading one morning for work. His instinct was that "this is not expert," therefore he used a sports jacket on the top because "sports jackets change whatever." His principal, nevertheless, pulled him aside at school because she thought the clothing was "unprofessional" for the classroom. While Nigel describes that his principal was "actually sensitive" in how she handled the discussion, it nonetheless triggered him to give his work attire a double take-- "I've got to examine what I wear." Richard. Forty-seven-year-old Richard shares a closet with his better half, however his clothes take up 2 of their three shelves. The physician of Scottish heritage has a fondness for blending strong prints and patterns, and also takes pleasure in wearing fitted shapes. He will tone down his outfits based on whom he is meeting that day. When Richard is invited to offer a talk to other doctors, he "intentionally wears a coat that is less fitted and looks more traditional" because he does not desire his design to interfere with the credibility of his presentation. His fellow physicians are "mainly an older generation," and Richard thinks they hold more standard views about guys's clothing designs. Although blazers are common men's attire, dynamic prints and body-conscious cuts are not. Richard's care over whether to interfere with masculine dress codes originates from his colleagues' reactions to his clothing. When Richard wore a sports jacket, t-shirt, and incorporate varying tones of red to a personnel meeting, a male coworker said: "I want I could pull of using that sort of clothes." Even though Richard dismisses the experience as "a pretty small thing," he still remembers that "I wasn't wearing stiletto heels or something, however a comment was made about it," which he viewed as "a push on my expression"-- causing him to rethink his clothing options for work. Harry. It has actually been 5 years considering that 53-year-old Harry finished his gender confirmation surgery. The Caucasian professor's everyday wardrobe includes lively nail polish, sequined accessories, and shirts with homemade queer graphics. He designs these womanly pieces along with more masculine ones, such as tennis shoes, dark denim, and navy blazers. Through these wardrobe balancing acts, Harry describes that he has the ability to "wear a way which allows room for me to fine-tune that identity, which can come through me being perfectly assembled in the match, but then still tell some that I'm trans." Harry's balancing acts sway towards fabulousness when he is fulfilling or teaching with students. However, his outfits edge toward more masculine dress standards for essential work occasions. When Harry was shortlisted for a leadership position, he chose to use a white dress shirt and gray company fit, sans fun nails or accessories, due to the fact that he desired to resist transphobia and fit into the employing committee's assumptions about "who is a leader, who is accountable, what that kind of individual appears like." According to Harry, "suits are an expression of procedure and a kind of severity that fits into conventional systems of what's serious and who is major."

[planarchaosproject]

Portal Saga: Chapter Four

 Attack on Kami

"Sir," one of the soldiers barked, getting Rinok's attention, "we've found a prisoner. She claims to know you."

"She?" Rinok raised an eyebrow.

"She won't tell us a name or where she's from. She just showed up limping and wearing ragged clothing, but she said if we showed you this you'd know who she was." The soldier opened his hand, revealing an intricate etherium comb.

"Ah, I had wondered when she'd find me." Rinok smiled. He turned his attention back to his tent. "Vilhelm," he called, "get dressed. We have a friend for dinner."

Rhyne jumped out from wherever he'd been hiding. "Dinner?" he asked enthusiastically, visibly salivating.

"Ugh," Rinok groaned, rolling his eyes. "No, Rhyne, we have a guest, not a meal." He continued grumbling under his breath, "Honestly you're worse than the Kolaghan."

Rinok made his way across the camp without waiting for Vilhelm. The vampire was still inefficient about putting on his armor, in all likelihood because he wasn't fond of covering himself from head to toe. No matter, Vilhelm would have his time alone with the Voidcaller later.

"Ash, how have you been? Wreaking havoc, I assume?" Rinok asked bombastically. Ashleigh looked up at him with a haggard hollowness about her. Maybe it was because she was tied to a post and guarded by several large men armed to the teeth.

"I've been better, Rinok. You have no idea just how long it took me to find you."

"And why would that be?"

"Well, I gave you this idea, didn't I? It's only right that I join in the fun." She smirked, cracking her chapped lips.

"You're not here for the artifact?" Rinok asked, confusion plain in his voice.

"Of course not. What would I do with it? Give it to Odom so he could give it to a dragon? Eternal destruction is my forte, darling, why wouldn't I want to join you in an interplanar quest to bring about total war?" Ashleigh forced a laugh, hoping Rinok would be to blinded by his own hubris to see through her. Vilhelm, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter.

"I suppose you could bring in another demographic," Rinok mused. "And I am stretching command pretty thin. Rhyne doesn't tend to follow directions well."

"I do have experience working in a laboratory, and some military background. Did I ever tell you about the time I served under Oona, Queen of the Fae?"

"The necromancer's fairy wife?"

"Before her exile, mind you. Besides, you could use someone with my expertise. I have a history with demons and if you want to drag people into a war, the best way to do it is with demons."

"That seems reasonable. The oni would add another layer and if you know as much about them as you say, you could prove useful. I'll have Vilhelm determine whether or not you'll be allowed to stay. I can't have you running off to Brock or any of his little friends, now, can I?"

"What about me determining usefulness?" Vilhelm asked, straightening his helmet.

"Oh, just spend some time alone with Miss Voidcaller, here, and get back to me. Men, we can leave them be for now. She's harmless." Rinok and the guards left them there.

"Nice mask, Vilhelm. People here haven't ever seen a vampire before."

"You can drop the pretenses, Ashleigh. I know you're here for the artifact."

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend, but I prefer other shiny objects," she said. "Besides, you want this to fail."

"How did you…" Vilhelm trailed off, hiding the fact that she'd impressed him. "Improvisation really is your strong suit. You smooth talked Rinok the same way he does to the troops, and now you're turning my own methods on me."

All she did by way of a reply was wink.

"So, if this venture is to fail, how would you ensure it? I need at least one walker death guaranteed, preferably Rhyne's. Rinok is still useful to me."

"Anything can look like an accident, Vilhelm. I'll promise you one death, no guarantees on more. My policy is no refunds, either, especially if there are necromancers and/or divinities involved. You get me the artifact, I'll get you a dead planeswalker."

"You get me a dead planeswalker, you can have the artifact. Rinok's own natural abilities have made it obsolete."

"Deal."

0000000

"The best points for us to strike while the Orochi are focused on the nezumi are here and here," Rinok pointed to two spots on the map of Jukai forest. "There's a path that leads to a shrine deep inside. That's where we plant the oni weaponry and burn the shrine to the ground."

One of his men interjected, "Sir, that might cause spirits to be involved. Okina is the heart of the world."

"Isn't that the point?" Rinok asked smoothly.

"These might not be little spirits. The Myojin themselves could appear!"

"Nobody has seen one of them in centuries," another soldier countered. "They could have all died just like the dragons."

"Yosei still lives," the first man said. "I've felt his presence myself."

"Let the Kami come," Rinok said. "We'll be prepared."

Ashleigh and Rhyne stood in the corner, her dressed in dark blue armor and he in his customary traveling gear. They stood in mirrored positions, crossing their arms and listening intently to Rinok briefing his commanders. They bore identical expressions of conspiratorial glee. A bow was slung across Rhyne's back, the arrows in the quiver wrapped with prayer slips to banish spirits back across the barrier. The mission to Jukai would be covered by Rhyne. Rinok had better plans for the Voidcaller. Together they would lure out the patron Kami of the Soratami to drag the highborn cloud dwellers into the battle that was beginning to rage down below. A fabricated war between the Orochi and Nezumi had already broken out and showed no signs of stopping with the coming winter. Humanity led the charge against the Akki, who were also fighting the Nezumi over a perceived insult by refusing to lend their aid. Once the Orochi became involved in a conflict with the Akki, their forces would be stretched too thin to continue protecting the Jukai forest. The strike against Okina would be simple enough that Rinok could leave Rhyne to it.

Ashleigh caught Vilhelm's eye from across the tent. He nodded subtly. She was to allow this mission to go off without a hitch. If Rhyne were to get himself killed, it would be in an attack on one of the holiest places on Kamigawa. Her interference might not be necessary at all, which she couldn't allow. Not if she wanted the artifact. Vilhelm would get his dead planeswalker, she could guarantee that, but which of them would die was a trickier thing altogether.

PRESENT DAY

A gong sounded somewhere in the cloud city of Otawara surrounding the Oboro palace. Narset ushered Tamiyo and Genku's children back inside the house, telling them to go play while she found their parents.

"Why do we need to go back in?" Rumiyo cried.

"Weren't you just complaining about it being cold?" Narset scoffed playfully, lightly jabbing the Soratami child in the ribs.

"That tickles! Stop it!" Rumiyo shouted, leaping away from her mother's friend. The other children followed her down the hall, Nashi trailing behind unable to keep up with their bounding steps.

Narset sighed contentedly. The little nezumi boy had been so shy when he first came to Otawara as Tamiyo's adopted son, but he was adjusting. Other children and their parents still gave him disparaging looks according to Genku. Centuries, possibly millennia of prejudice against the nezumi didn't seem to help. Humanity considered them a nuisance along with the akki. Narset couldn't help but agree with that assessment. Akki were similar to the goblins back on Tarkir, and most were loyal to Kolaghan. They were a shrill, overzealous group that reveled in destruction, just like their dragonlord. She shuddered at memories of Clan Kolaghan's cannibalism, just another manifestation of their lack of a code of honor.

She rounded the corner to find the door to the room she'd left Genku and Tamiyo in with Kyari and Brock wide open and a space open around the kotatsu. Three teacups remained untouched.

"I take it that things didn't go very well?" Narset asked.

Kyari sighed. "It can be incredibly frustrating to deal with him. He's so stubborn." She scooted back and got up. "You weren't gone long."

"A gong sounded somewhere, I figured it would be best if I let Tamiyo and Genku know."

"What did it sound like?" Tamiyo asked.

Narset thought for a moment. "Fervent. Someone was banging on it quickly, prolonging the note."

"It couldn't be the alarm," Genku said. "The Soratami have had nothing but peace for years."

Kyari's eyes widened and she grabbed Narset's wrist. "We're too late."

"What do you mean?" Genku asked.

"I spent months tracking down Brock. Time I should have spent trying to warn you all about Rinok, but I thought he'd want to come with me." Kyari dropped Narset's wrist and rushed outside.

A human in the city of Otawara should have stood out like a sore thumb, so Brock never would have gone outside of Tamiyo and Genku's house. Kyari reached out and searched for any disturbance in the plane's natural flow of mana. Planeswalkers in particular tended to be noticeable deviations, carrying the emptiness of the blind eternities within themselves. She scrunched her nose and shut her eyes tightly, expanding her search radius until she found something that wasn't flavored with the lake country of Tarkir or the serene face of Kamigawa's moon. Brock pulsed like a signal fire in Kyari's extra sense, and he was hiding in a far corner of Tamiyo's cloud garden. Magic imbued stones floated just under the surface of the clouds that had been artfully arranged into a variety of shapes. Kyari stepped lightly, feeling her way across the garden and regretting leaving her coat on Shandalar. Beads of moisture began collecting on her clothes and dark hair, making her shiver in the winter air. Thin boots, leggings, and a light shirt were not practical for cold weather, or high altitudes.

She rounded a corner and found Brock sitting on a stone in a vain attempt to meditate. His breath didn't even produce the white puffs that spewed from Kyari as she shivered a few feet away.

"What is it with you monks and never being cold?" Kyari asked, stammering around her teeth starting to chatter.

"I grew used to the cold on Tarkir," Brock said, opening one eye. "What do you want? Did they send you?"

"No. I sent me. Brock it's too late. We're too late."

He opened both eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Rinok's already here. Don't you hear the gong?"

"I was busy focusing," Brock said. He heard it now, though. The note was being held with regular pulses to prolong it.

"Well unfocus," Kyari said. "Rinok's here."

"How are you so sure he's here?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"Kyari," Brock sighed, "you have to provide evidence."

"Okay. What has gotten into you?"

"Tamiyo never acts without taking everything into consideration. We don't know Rinok is here for sure, so we have to make sure."

"I can't believe this," Kyari said. "I literally cannot believe what I'm hearing. What even are you doing right now? Regressing to the point where you're trying to get mommy and daddy to love you again?" Kyari reached out with her magic again, letting the extra sense examine the mana flowing around Brock. It was still roiling underneath, but Brock had somehow created a smooth, hard shell around himself. "Sweet Karametra that's exactly what you're doing."

"Well what are you even doing?" Brock countered.

"You sound like a child. Sure, I don't break this out often, but you know I've been able to sense mana flow around creatures since I started planeswalking. I didn't do it on Xerex because, honestly, there wasn't much for me to work with, but maybe I should have, because then I might have been able to tell this was going to happen if you ever came back to Kamigawa."

"You were also too focused on your damned hydra," Brock said harshly.

"Can you stop with the hydra? I was responsible for a being that chose to be with me, forgive me for being so concerned with its well-being." The sarcasm in Kyari's voice bit into Brock. "Sorry if caring for my companion got in the way of whatever you were trying to do."

The gong kept sounding. Brock clenched his teeth and balled his fists. "Kyari, you just need to go. This isn't your fight."

"Oh, it is my fight, Brock. I have friends here too. The Orochi, Tamiyo and Genku, among others. When I first met Rinok, I was here. He tried starting his war before, and now he's got a way to destroy not only a world we both have ties to, but we gave him the ability to do so."

"Children," Tamiyo called from the back of the house, "I need you to come inside quickly. Something horrible has happened."

"What is it?" Kyari called over her shoulder.

"There's been an attack. The ruins of Minamo have been desecrated, a kami has been gravely injured, our patron."