“When A God Speaks, Heed Him.”

A servant dips a large wooden bowl into the water and pours it over his shoulders. The warm liquid streams down his back in slow, deliberate rivulets, soaking the taut lines of his frame. He resists the urge to flinch, his body remaining a fortress of discipline even as the water clings to him, heavy and suffocating. He breathes steadily, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm, though his jaw tightens imperceptibly.

Another servant approaches, her hands steady as she begins to scrub his back with a rough cloth. The fabric drags against his skin, not harsh enough to cause discomfort, but persistent enough to draw his attention. Her touch is firm and impersonal, yet Bi-Han feels a flicker of unease. He has endured far worse than this – pain, blood, the sting of frostbite – but this is different. This is not a trial of strength or endurance. It is a ritual of submission, a surrender to ceremony and duty.

“Forgive me, Grandmaster,” the servant murmurs, her voice soft and deferential. He does not answer, offering only the faintest nod. Words feel unnecessary, even unwelcome. He focuses instead on the sensations around him: the warmth of the water, the coarse texture of the cloth, the faint echo of dripping water in the chamber.

When the servant steps away, another moves to his side, carrying a small bowl filled with fragrant soap. She dips her fingers into it, the motion precise, almost reverent, before stepping behind him. He feels the first tentative touch of her hands in his hair, and his body stiffens instinctively. Her fingers, damp and slick with soap, thread carefully through the long, dark strands. She works the soap into his scalp with practiced ease, her fingertips pressing gently, massaging circles into his skin.

The sensation is… strange. The pressure is neither unpleasant or painful, but it unsettles him. He feels the warmth of her touch seep into his scalp, spreading outward like ripples in still water. Her fingers move methodically, untangling knots and working the soap into a rich lather, but Bi-Han does not relax. He hates the intimacy of it, the vulnerability of standing here while another person tends to him. His heart asks why, but his mind can’t explain

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to block out the intrusive sensation. The servant’s touch is gentle but firm, her fingers gliding through his hair with a care that feels unnecessary. He knows this ritual is not for him but for the image he must project – the leader of the Lin Kuei, draped in ceremony and control, even when he wishes to reject.

The water splashes softly as she rinses his hair, pouring warm water over his head in careful increments. It streams down his neck and shoulders, trickling in sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of her touch. His hair grows heavy, slicked back against his skull, and the servant’s fingers follow the flow, combing through the strands one last time to ensure no trace of soap remains.

The silence stretches, broken only by the quiet ripples of the water and the servant’s steady breathing. Bi-Han does not speak. He stares ahead, his dark eyes fixed on the far wall, his expression a mask of cold indifference. But beneath the surface, his thoughts churn. The weight of the coming ceremony presses against him, heavy and inescapable, like the heat of the water surrounding him.

When the servant finishes, she steps back, bowing her head. “You are ready, Grandmaster,” she says softly.

He remains still for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches for the towel draped over a nearby stand. The soft fabric drags against his skin as he dries himself, the motion mechanical, practiced. He does not look at the servants as they gather the basin and bowls, retreating into the shadows like ghosts.

The water clings to him, dripping from the ends of his hair, pooling at his feet. It feels like a reminder, a tether to the ritual he cannot escape. Bi-Han straightens, the familiar rigidity returning to his posture. Whatever vulnerability the bath has tried to impose on him, he refuses to let it linger.

He takes a breath, slow and steady, and steps out of the basin. The air feels cooler now, the warmth of the water already fading. He is dressed and prepared, but the weight in his chest remains. The ceremony awaits, and with it, the union he has no choice but to accept.

For a brief moment, his eyes flick to the mirror across the room. The man staring back at him is draped in finery and ceremony, but beneath it all, he is still Bi-Han, Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, unyielding and cold. He turns away from the reflection without a second glance. There is no room for hesitation.

The time has come.

The grand hall of the Lin Kuei compound is almost unrecognizable, not being the host of a large event in years. Red and black silks drape from the rafters like waves of water and shadow; it gently shifts in the cold air. Lanterns hang above and proudly emit soft glows on the stone walls. Faint hazes of incense fill the room, curling into the air before disappearing. Bi-Han stands in a corner of the hall, wrapped in elaborate reds and silvers – designed by only the finest Lin Kuei tailors. The heavy layers almost feel constricting, trapping him in the hall. His hair, still slightly damp from earlier, is tied back in a sleek bun, held together by a soft ribbon. He looks around, seeing his Lin Kuei and carefully selected allies stand in rows, faces obscured by masks.

The doors at the end of the far end of the hall creak open, and all eyes turn to Shang Tsung. He saunters in with practiced grace, his eyes locked forward. He’s draped in deep, commanding reds, trimmed with golds so bright they almost glow. Shang Tsung wears his outfit with pride, while Bi-Han suffocates in his clothing. His hair is perfectly combed, falling in beautiful waves around his shoulders, and his eyes illuminate with hidden emotion. He smiles faintly as he approaches Bi-Han, a smile that does not come close to reaching his eyes. The Grandmaster remains stone faced, watching as Shang Tsung closes the distance between them.

The ceremony begins without preamble, the officiant stepping forward – a Lin Kuei elder, his voice low and steady, his eyes avoiding his Grandmaster’s as he recites the ancient words that will bind the two in marriage. Bi-Han stares past his future husband, staring at the decorations Shang Tsung asked – no, demanded to have hung in the halls. “You expect me to wed you in such a drab room, Bi-Han? Do you wish for me to wear rags, too?”

The day continues, moving into a tea ceremony. A small table is brought forward, bearing a porcelain teapot and two cups painted with dragons and phoenixes. Bi-Han kneels first, his movements sharp and precise, pouring the tea with a steady hand. He offers the cup to Shang Tsung, who takes it with a slight bow. Their fingers brush together, and the feeling lingers in the air. Bi-Han eyes Shang Tsung, his eyes not revealing if the touch was intentional or night. The sorcerer follows suit, quickly pouring tea and presenting it to Bi-Han with glamour that feels more like a performance than a genuine act. Their eyes meet again as Bi-Han accepts the cup, Shang Tsung tries to pick at Bi-Han’s thoughts, but if Shang Tsung can be unreadable, so can Bi-Han.

Next comes the exchange of vows, spoken in low, solemn tones. Bi-Han’s words are regal and somewhat dull, each syllable spoken with the calculated cadence of a Grandmaster, not with the heart and soul of Bi-Han. In turn, Shang Tsung almost sings his own fraudulent speech, his voice rich as he promises undying loyalty and partnership – words that would normally be reserved to a lover. Bi-Han easily picks up on the amusement in his tone, as if this were a game; it makes Bi-Han’s jaw tighten.

The final act is the binding ritual, a Lin Kuei tradition symbolizing unity. A length of red silk is brought forward, its surfaces embroidered with silver carnations. The officiant wraps it around their hands and ties a knot with deliberate care. The silk feels cool against Bi-Han’s skin, and cools the flames that internally burst when the warmth of Shang Tsung’s hand met his.

“For the strength of the clan,” the officiant says, his voice echoing through the hall. “May you two move as close as a shadow, and twice as silent.”

“As close as a shadow,” Bi-Han repeats, his tone cold.

“And twice as silent,” Shang Tsung drawls, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

The knot is tightened, binding them together, and the two realize this is the point of no return. The room falls silent and the weight of the moment presses down like a physical force. There’s no fooling anyone that this ceremony is one of love, even ignorance can see the heartlessness in the room. Then, as the officiant steps back, applause deafens the room. Shang Tsung turns to the crowd, grinning at the sight of Lin Kuei soldiers bowing before them. Bi-Han tries to remain still, though his hand can’t help but flex against the silk as if testing its strength.

Rice wine signals the end of the ceremony, served in a goblet etched with symbols Bi-Han doesn’t care enough to look at. Shang Tsung wraps his fingers around the cup first, tilting it toward his now husband in a silent toast before taking a sip. Bi-Han takes the goblet from him and drinks without hesitation, not hiding the fact he downed the rest of the wine; it burns as it drags down his throat. He doesn’t realize that the officiant has removed the silk that tied him to a mistake, he only thinks about how he craves something stronger than wine. Bi-Han sets the cup down, silently giving the attendees permission to leave.

The guests begin to disperse, and soon the newlyweds are left to themselves. They share a glance – their faces both sport blank looks, silently competing to see who looks more dead inside. Uncomfortable silence tries to grow like disgusting mold, but is killed by Shang Tsung.

“I can tell you care not for grandeur, but a smile would not have killed you.”

Bi-Han’s jaw tightens. “You received the wedding you demanded; false happiness was not in our agreement.”

Shang Tsung huffs and closes any gap between the two, pressing their bodies together and wrapping his arms around Bi-Han’s neck. Bi-Han tries to step back, but is held in place by Shang Tsung locking his arms in place, though the force itself is dull – they know Bi-Han could’ve walked away if he truly wanted to. Their eyes meet, and Shang Tsung is able to fully drink in Bi-Han’s details; faint crows feet rest at Bi-Han’s eyes, prepared to grow deeper with age. His nose is crooked, perhaps hinting at past injury. His eyes aren’t as high up Shang Tsung previously thought, the two almost being equal height. He feels Bi-Han stiffen, but makes no effort to move.

“I do believe it is customary to consummate our marriage,” he purrs.

Bi-Han darts his eyes around to see if any stragglers remain in the hall; he accepts to play Shang Tsung’s game once their privacy is confirmed. His hand snakes up to remove Shang’s from his body, and he does his best to restrain a smirk.

“I have concubines to satisfy me, your service is not needed.” And with that, Bi-Han turns to leave the room, leaving a surprised Shang Tsung behind, who calls after him, his voice dripping with irritation.

He is not the biggest fan of clutter. If you are less organized than he is, he’ll often nudge your products to the side, making some room for himself. He never says anything about it – until something topples over. Then you’ll get a quiet, “too much nonsense.”

Bi-Han almost carries his tension like it’s his most prized possession. When you get him to relax in the bath with you, you can easily see his muscles relax. The first time you massaged his shoulders, he let out a deep, appreciative sigh. This might be his favorite part of bathing with you.

After particularly rough days, Bi-Han will sit in the bath for ages with a glass of wine in his hand. It’s his way of avoiding the outside world while he clears his mind. You are the only person allowed to be around him during these days. He doesn’t want to speak, he doesn’t even want to think. He just wants your hand in his while he pretends you two are the only people in Earthrealm.

Speaking of hands – Bi-Han’s hands are scarred and calloused from years of kombat, yet his touch is surprisingly gentle. If you have a hard time reaching a certain spot on your back, he’s already moving to take the task over for you, scrubbing your back clean, though touching you as if you’re made of glass.

After bathing, Bi-Han dries himself off rather quickly (minus his hair). If he notices you’re a bit cold after getting out of the warm bath, he’ll toss his towel over your head without a word. If you playfully grumble, he just shrugs and hides a smirk.

He has long, thick hair and dislikes how long it takes to dry after a bath. He used to wring it out with a bit too much force, until you stepped in and told him to stop being so rough with himself. You start to dry it for him, and it becomes your standard because you dry his hair faster than he does (or so he claims).

-

The bathwater ripples as you sink against Bi-Han’s chest, his cool body contrasting the warm water. His arms make their way around your waist, pressing you tighter against him. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut; a rare moment where he is just Bi-Han, your Bi-Han. Not Grandmaster.

You reach up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair, combing through the locks and twirling them around your fingers. He exhales, slow and steady, his body relaxing just a bit more. His hands gently squeeze your skin in response to your movements.

“You are making me soft,” he murmurs, the quietist you’ve ever heard him speak.

A small smile makes its way to your face. “Good.”

You are one of Sindel’s children. To everyone’s chagrin, you act unbecoming of an Outworld royal. You often sneak out of the palace at night, drinking in taverns until the sun rises.

Your most recent development has been sleeping with whomever you can get your hands on (and who you know can keep their mouth shut) the royal blacksmith’s son, one of your chefs, and a few military guards. All you cared about was scratching an itch.

Time passes on, and you eventually met your match. Someone who is determined to be the best you’ve ever had.

-

The night is silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the air. The Lin Kuei temple stands in stillness beneath the pale glow of the moon, its stone walls cold beneath Bi-Han’s calloused fingers as he walks along the outer corridors. His footsteps are soft, quieter than the night sky. The chill in the air bites Bi-Han more than usual. It feels more…suffocating. Old habits lead him through the halls, muscle memory leading him down a familiar path. When he, Kuai Liang, and Tomas were boys, they would walk these very paths, avoiding the watchful eyes of the Lin Kuei elders just to get a moment of respite. Those elders are gone, and now Bi-Han – Grandmaster Bi-Han – is the watchful eye. He ensures no threat steps foot where it does not belong.

A ragged breath.

Bi-Han’s legs still, ice climbs up his fists. His senses sharpen as he pinpoints the sound – an uneven rasp, followed by a rustle, just beyond the courtyard. His instinct screams at him to react, but just before he can form a fighting stance, a force slams into him with unnatural speed. The impact shoves him back, his body slamming against the stone wall. Several thick fingers wrap around Bi-Han’s throat, not tight enough to strangle, but firm enough to keep him in place.

His eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of his attacker – the hollow, corpse-like eyes of the biggest pain in his ass. Havik.

“You bore me, Grandmaster,” Havik huffs, his voice dripping with mock exasperation. “I expected a challenge, I expected a fight.”

Bi-Han’s hands ball into fists at his sides, more ice forming on his body. “You enter the Lin Kuei temple uninvited. Leave.”

Havik cackles, a sound similar to a grown man choking, something Bi-Han wishes Havik would start doing. “Uninvited? You should be delighted I chose to visit my greatest ally.” He leans in, his breath hot against Bi-Han’s skin. “We have business to tend to, after all.”

Bi-Han’s scowl deepens, though he does not immediately strike – something Havik picks up on. He searches Havik’s cloudy eyes, trying to figure out the man’s intent. A threat? Provocation? Or something else entirely?

One finger digs into Bi-Han’s throat, then two, three, four, and five. Havik experiments with different pressures, waiting for Bi-Han to grunt, push him off, slap him – anything, but nothing happens. Havik can tell Bi-Han will have finger-shaped bruises on his throat the next day and the thought makes his heart race. His chest heaves, heavy breaths cut short by wheezes and coughs, Bi-Han glances down to see one of Havik’s ribs out of place. Havik inches forward, closing the distance between the two. His free hand grips Bi-Han’s waist; his nails scrape down the armor as they make their way Bi-Han’s–

Bi-Han’s fist collides with Havik’s face, the impact giving Bi-Han his much needed personal space. The sickening crack of bone echoes through the surrounding area – Havik’s jaw snapping out of place.

Silence fills the area, then is killed by the sound of Havik laughing; a deep, guttural cackle, one that shouldn’t belong to a man with a disfigured jaw. Yet there he stands, laughing and wheezing through the pain, his head tilting as his hands grasp at his face. With a disgusting pop, his jaw is snapped back into place, Havik sighs as if he was shaking of a minor inconvenience.

“There,” Havik groans, feeling all the blood in his skull rush south. “There is the man I was waiting for.” His eyes darken with something primal; his heart pounds in his chest, making his body twitch with each thump. “Hit me again. Harder.”

Bi-Han’s expression morphs into something unreadable, but satisfaction manages to flicker in his eyes. Not at Havik’s perverted enjoyment – no, that disgusts Bi-Han, irritates him – but at something else entirely. He shifts his stance, arms loose at his sides, no longer pressed against stone.

“You are a freak. Your mere presence perverts the Lin Kuei.”

Havik’s hand travels south, palming the bulge stirring to life behind his loincloth. “Keep going.”

Irritation is evident in Bi-Han’s face now. He huffs and walks away, no longer interested in the conversation. His feet are heavy against the ground as he quickly makes his way back to his bedchamber. Havik’s following him, of course he fucking is, and it only makes Bi-Han walk faster. Not a single soul needs to see a useless corpse following him like a puppy.

This song and dance is familiar. Bi-Han and Havik have been rehearsing for ages:

1. Havik gets under Bi-Han’s skin.

2. Bi-Han “runs” away.

3. They both end up in Bi-Han’s bedchamber.

Havik pounces the second the door closes, pinning Bi-Han to the wall. Bi-Han wants to complain, tell Havik that his bed is right there and that he’d rather be fucked on a soft matress rather than the floor, against the wall, over a desk. But it doesn’t matter, Havik won’t listen, nor does Bi-Han care enough to truly say anything.

Bi-Han quickly sheds his clothing off, something he refuses to let Havik do. He watches as Havik rips his loincloth instead of unwrapping it like a normal person – yeah, Bi-Han enjoys having his clothing in one piece. Havik spins Bi-Han around and presses him against the wall. A cap is unscrewed, and moments later a slick finger makes its way in between Bi-Han’s legs.

Bi-Han grunts as the finger works his way inside of him, reaching deeper than his own fingers have ever gone. He rests his head against the wall, feeling his self control slipping away. He bites back a groan as a second finger pushes inside. “Are you allergic to building tension?”

“My hand engulfing your neck built tension. Your fist against my jaw built tension.” Havik exhales, the sound similar to a death rattle. He peers over Bi-Han’s shoulder and sighs at the sight of Bi-Han’s dick growing stiff; a third finger squeezes inside. “My fingers losing circulation inside your body is building tension.”

Havik’s fingers make their way into Bi-Han’s hair, pulling his head back and forcing his back to arch. His fingers press inside just a bit deeper, and a low moan spills out Bi-Han’s throat. Bi-Han squeezes his eyes shut, groaning again as he feels Havik’s excited gaze burning into his skin. The heat only cools with each thrust of the three fingers inside of him, their relentless attack pushing him into the depths of hell, to a place only Havik can take him, a place only Havik can drag him out of. He sinks further into Havik’s purgatory; his nails dig into his palm, scratching and drawing blood, bracing himself for the moment he falls apart.

But it doesn’t happen.

Havik brings Bi-Han back to earth by slowly sliding his fingers out of Bi-Han’s hole, grunting as he snaps a misshapen finger back into place. He grabs Bi-Han’s wrist in one hand, a bottle of oil in the other, and quickly walks over to the bed. He ignores Bi-Han’s annoyed glare as he pops the bottle open and lubes his dick.

Bi-Han needs no instruction; he climbs onto the bed and lays on his back, spreading his legs. Havik quickly follows, throwing his body in between Bi-Han’s legs. He places his arms on either side of Bi-Han’s head, caging the man in between his hands. He, too, needs no instruction – his eyes stay firmly planted on Bi-Han’s as Havik fills him.

Bi-Han’s breath comes in slow, measured exhales as his body stretches around its newest intrusion; his pulse betrays the impassiveness on his face, hammering against his ribs once Havik fully pushes himself inside. The air between them is thick – charged with something dangerous, something too difficult to name.

“You tense like a man bracing for war,” Havik muses, curiously tilting his head in an almost unnatural manner. His hand wraps around Bi-Han’s throat before slowly making its way to his dick. “As if you do not crave my touch, Bi-Han.”

Bi-Han growls low in his throat, choosing to ignore the way his cock twitches in Havik’s hand, aching to be stroked. “Remove your hand, or I will break your wrist.”

Havik groans in response – Bi-Han’s threat only serves to arouse him more. His hands move down to grip Bi-Han’s waist, anchoring him as Havik sets a frantic pace, driving into Bi-Han with rough thrusts. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, mixed with Havik’s grunts and groans. It’s sick, downright disgusting – the way Havik fucks Bi-Han like a dog in heat. Not caring about the bed slamming against the wall with each thrust, nor the noise level of his groans. All he can focus on is how Bi-Han’s ass practically chokes his cock. He spits in his hand before wrapping his fingers around Bi-Han’s dick again, stroking in time with each snap of his hips, desperately trying to force more reactions out of Bi-Han.

Bi-Han snarls and surges forward to remove the hand working his sensitive dick, but Havik is faster, quickly pinning his wrists above his head.

“You do such lovely things when you’re at my mercy, Grandmaster,” Havik cackles. His hand moves faster, twisting on the upstroke, and his eyes nearly burst out his skull once a choked moan escapes Bi-Han’s throat. “You resist so beautifully, pretending that you hate this, hate me.”

Another low moan makes its way out of Bi-Han and his eyes snap shut. He does hate this, hate Havik, more than anything. Hatred is safe, familiar, something buried deep beneath him. God, the way Havik follows him wherever he goes; the way Havik fingers him, frantically trying to find any spot that’ll make his eyes flutter shut; or the way Havik patiently waits for Bi-Han to adjust to his size, though his chest heaves with shallow breaths, desperate to start moving – it doesn’t feel safe, not comforting like hatred. This feeling – the unbearable tightness building in his abdomen, Havik attacking all of his sensitive spots – feels safer than hatred, yet more dangerous, and it makes his brain melt. There’s no point in fighting it anymore; Bi-Han finally stops holding back his moans and blissed out grunts.

Havik doesn’t let up, not when he finally has Bi-Han where he deserves to be – writhing and groaning under him. He leans down to drag his teeth along Bi-Han’s throat, softly biting the sensitive skin and sending a shiver down the man’s spine. Havik sighs in approval when a pair of trembling legs wrap around his waist, silently begging him to keep going.

“Gods,” Bi-Han hisses, his eyes snapping shut, his jaw tightening.

His muscles are taught, coiled with tension as his orgasm approaches. Bi-Han feels trapped, paralyzed as his body braces for impact. Havik’s hand continues to stroke his cock, this time with feather light touches, pressing just lightly enough to make him aware of every nerve beneath his skin. The gentle touches contrast the ruthless thrusts, the pace never faltering. The bastard was playing with Bi-Han, testing how much he could be played with before he fell apart.

Havik is warm, almost uncomfortably so; his presence is like a lit match too close to Bi-Han’s skin, threatening to char. He chuckles against Bi-Han’s throat, adding another layer of heat. “There it is,” he purrs, feeling Bi-Han groan and spill into his hand. “Now, was that so painful?”

Bi-Han softly moans in response, his legs trembling as he’s fucked through his release. His head feels numb, his body weak. His shaky hands drag over Havik’s ribs, slow and relaxed. A soft gasp leaves his mouth when Havik slows his pace; Bi-Han looks at him with half lidded eyes. Havik returns the look with his own satisfied gaze, bringing his hand up to lick the cum off his fingers. “I want to see how much louder you can get.”

Bi-Han prefers to be on top. He just feels the most comfortable if he can control the pace. He also enjoys seeing how much his partner trusts him, allowing him to guide the two in pleasure. Bi-Han isn’t opposed to giving up control, or taking a more ‘50/50’ approach, but it won’t happen immediately. Some time passes before Bi-Han feels comfortable with switching up the status-quo his mind established.

He doesn’t have a favorite position. Not in the sense that he has zero preference, he’s never thought about what he likes…he’s more of a ‘doer’? Idk if that makes sense. He tends to stick to missionary because that’s what he’s used to. Bi-Han also likes being able to look into his partner’s eyes while he moves in and out of them.

Noise level? Bi-Han is quiet, almost completely silent. He’s too focused on the moment, on making his partner and himself feel that he forgets to…actually feel good. His partner will have to remind him to relax, that at this moment he is Bi-Han, not Grandmaster. Then he’ll slowly melt into his lover’s body, allowing himself to grunt and groan freely.

Subtle touches really get Bi-Han going. He’ll tense up if he feels his partner is touching him “too much.” Not because he’s uncomfortable, he’s just not used to it. Bi-Han appreciates it when his partner starts with gentle, teasing touches to build the tension. He goes crazy when his partner gently drags their nails across this body, it’ll make him groan louder than normal.

Length??? Bi-Han is probably 6 1/2 – 7 inches, decent girth. Nothing crazy, sorry 10in lovers. He’s a little veiny and a bit more sensitive down there than most. Handjobs are okay in his book, blowjobs are lovely, but he prefers to make himself useful by burying himself inside his love (or having them inside of him).

Decently thick load; Bi-Han cums for a while and always gives his partner a thick load. His eyes flutter shut and his brows press together. His breath is shaky while he catches his breath. Strands of sweat-slick hair stick to his damp face – he’s a beautiful sight.

—

“You’re doing it again,” they pull off Bi-Han with a quiet pop. Their hand gives Bi-Han’s dick a few gentle pumps before they swallow his length again, their tongue sliding across a sensitive vein. They hold his balls in their hand, slowly fondling them as their tongue continues its journey.

Bi-Han doesn’t respond immediately; he focuses on relaxing his (surprisingly) tense body, allowing for waves of pleasure to wash over him. His mind goes fuzzy when a particularly harsh suck sends him closer to the edge. His dick throbs, his hands find purchase in the bedsheets below him, his eyes press shut, and his eyebrows furrow. His partner takes him deeper in their mouth – they know he’s close.

—

You knew what you were doing was very, very dangerous. Should Liu Kang receive word that you and Shang Tsung are sneaking around Earthrealm, you’d both be jailed again — should anyone less merciful than Liu Kang spot the two of you — you’d be killed. It’s not like you were doing anything wrong. You remembered making an offhand comment about the weather in Earthrealm and how it differs from Outworld's, Shang responded by telling you he isn’t used to the cold. You spent the next few weeks trying to convince him to join you back home in Earthrealm to witness winter - more specifically, the snow. He rejected each and every one of your suggestions, but you refused to back down. You soon changed your approach, instead of telling Shang that you want him to experience the winter, you said you were feeling homesick and wanted to make a short visit. He, of course, saw right through your ploy, but decided to humor your request and finally give in.

The two of you traveled to an open, snowy field in the middle of nowhere. Thick is the snow you walk in, crunching under your feet with every step. The cold is almost numbing, but the familiar chill comforts you. Shang Tsung stares at the snow, not bothering to blink away the snowflakes that plant themselves on his delicate eyelashes. His face is blank, not telling you his inner thoughts.

“How is it?” you ask.

“Cold.”

“Well, yes, it is cold, but do you like it?”

You hold your hand out and Shang turns to you; the two of you watching as snowflakes fall into your open palm before disintegrating. Your hand is starting to feel a bit funny from the prolonged cold, a string of curses dance around in your mind as you berate yourself for not wearing extra layers.

“It holds both beauty and peril - that I can say.” he finally responds, unconsciously moving towards you for warmth. “But I must ask: what does one do with snow besides admiring it?”

His question gives you an idea. You take a few steps away from Shang to gain distance. Your palms crunch together snow and he curiously watches. You take a few minutes to admire the ball in your hand. Just when your lover was about to open his mouth to question your actions, you threw the snowball, hitting him right in the face. He stares at you in utter confusion and annoyance.

“That, we do just that,” you struggle to say in a fit of laughter. You hold your stomach as he swipes the snow off his face. Shang is quiet, too quiet, and if you weren’t distracted you’d realize he was planning something. You yelp as he gently pushes you to the ground and uses his magic to dump a pile of snow on you.

“Not fair!” you laugh again, “I threw a tiny bit of snow - you sent an entire avalanche!”

Every inch of Shang Tsung was crafted carefully by the gods themselves.

He stands tall and proud, his lean figure wrapped in the finest robes Outworld has to offer. His eyes are sharp and unsettling, forcing a feeling of unease to bubble in those unfortunate enough to stand in his presence, but they never look at you with anything other than fondness and late-night desire. Slight lines of wisdom etch his face, the sudden jump from being a nobody to a man with several targets on his back would age anyone. His presence is magnetic – it would take the force of a thousand soldiers to keep you from falling in his strong arms.

His hair falls like the night sky woven into threads of silk, dark ink flowing from his head. It captures the light in glossy depths, shifting like dark water under a kind moon. When he moves, it whispers, a soft, liquid cascade, inviting you – and only you – to come closer. Each morning you watch as your lover slicks his hair back into a small bun, and you count the untamed locks of hair that fall and perfectly frame his face. Since the two of you became a joint force, Shang Tsung can no longer remember the last time he did his morning routine without a pair of eyes peering into his skull.

So of course it’s no surprise when you finally ask to do his hair.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to catch your gaze with a subtle, intrigued smile. His voice is low, laced with both curiosity and amusement.

“Hmm…not many would dare to handle me with such ease,” he teases, his songlike cadence flowing. After a pause, he adds, “careful, I may grow accustomed to this treatment.”

There’s a lack of softness in his tone, but his eyes always reveal to you his appreciation. They tell you that Shang Tsung would do anything for you.

It’s obvious he wasn’t going to deny your request. How could he not say yes? The way your eyes shined with delight over something so basic, so small. He allows you to lead him over to a chair and he sits patiently. Your fingers immediately glide through the sea of dark silk. His locks part easily, and a quiet sigh escapes Shang as a shiver runs down his spine. You pause to admire the sleek shine of his hair. Then, as you watch as his eyelids flutter shut, you take up a brush, guiding it slowly through the waves of hair, smoothing each tangle until they flow in unison with every other strand.

Each pass of the brush releases a soft, rhythmic sound, a gentle murmur of bristles gliding from root to tip – a lullaby you are only allowed to play.

“I have a certain preference when it comes to my hair…” comes Shang’s hushed voice; an obvious way of telling you what he wants to happen next.

You nod, setting the brush down and reaching to grab a black ribbon. Its shine compliments the glow in your lover’s hair. You split the hair into two almost even sections, using your hands to smooth any stubborn hairs that poke out, and then tie his hair into a half up-half down bun.

You hum, and step back to admire your work. Shang rises to his feet and walks over to you. He pulls you into his arms, silently thanking you for taking care of him.

one shots

Itching in My Heart - Havik x Bi-Han smut

Havik does his best to find an ally in Bi-Han in his search for chaos. Bi-Han does his best to not be easily swayed by temptation.

Silk - Shang Tsung x reader

Shang Tsung allows you to brush his hair

Snow - Shang Tsung x reader

You take Shang Tsung to Earthrealm to experience winter snow

headcanons

A harsh wind blows through the desolate peaks of the Lin Kuei temple, alerting the world to find comfort indoors. The Lin Kuei’s Grandmaster remains awake, standing at the edge of the temple’s courtyard, his eyes narrow at the swirling storm clouds overhead. His breath frosts in the air, mirroring the ice that clings to his soul. No longer held back by the restraints of his family, Bi-Han begins to relish in the thought of finally shaping the Lin Kuei to his vision.

But a new force begins to rise, and it takes a new form – one that defines a sense of order, a form that Bi-Han simply cannot ignore.

“You seek freedom,” came a raspy voice, a voice that would no doubt harm the throat if it were spoken by an average person. It echoes through the courtyard, a twisting sound that seems to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Bi-Han’s muscles tense. His hands instinctively forming fists, a frost slowly creeping over them. He turns, icy eyes attempting to fixate on the figure emerging from the shadows. A gaunt, disheveled man. A mutilated face. A pair of cloudy, slightly opaque eyes. A presence that taints the surrounding air.

“Havik,” Bi-Han mutters, his voice cold, yet holds a hint of curiosity. He had heard whispers of the Titan, a madman who cared not for order and peace. His motives were always shrouded in chaos, and yet here he stood before the Lin Kuei Grandmaster.

Havik grins – well, attempts to grin – and his eyes gleam with a manic light. “You know me, Sub-Zero. And I know you. You seek power… freedom. The order you serve, the realm you protect – it’s a lie, a cage.”

Bi-Han’s gaze flickers with momentary doubt, though it’s quickly masked with his usual stoicism. “The Lin Kuei serve no one, we protect ourselves.”

A low, gravelly chuckle escapes Havik’s lips. “Is that so? Yet I see chains, invisible to the eye but no less real. You’re bound to the realm, to the destiny laid before you. But I can offer you something different… something pure.”

Bi-Han’s eyes remain fixed on the…thing before him, yet his thoughts churn beneath the surface. Power, respect, what he seeks – ultimate control over his fate, over the Lin Kuei, over those who dare disrespect him. But Havik’s words stir something in him, a strange allure in the promise of something so unknown to him.

“You speak in riddles,” Bi-Han says, his tone dismissive. “If you seek my aid in your madness, you’ll find I am not so easily swayed.”

Havik takes a step closer, his head tilted, his heart racing. “Not madness – truth. Order is the true insanity, the belief that anything in this universe can be controlled. Chaos is the natural state of things, the only true power.”

A gust of cold wind swirls around them, but Havik stands unfazed by the chill, as though it barely touched him. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Imagine a world without rules, without being reduced to Earthrealm’s lapdog. A world where the strong truly prevail. You are already close to breaking free, Sub-Zero. Let me show you the final step.”

Bi-Han’s exterior cracks for a moment as he considers Havik’s words. He thinks back to past events – cursing Liu Kang, his brothers defecting from the Lin Kuei – ties that had been severed because they held him back, bound him to a code he no longer believed in. The chaos that Havik spoke of – a world without restraint, without rules – appealed to him more than he cared to admit.

And yet…

“You think I would follow you into this insanity?” Bi-Han’s voice was a low growl, not wanting to give in just yet.

Havik’s grin only widens, his hands slightly trembling with perverse delight. “Not follow, Bi-Han. Lead. Chaos is not about subjugation or surrender. It’s about liberation. You have the power to forge your path through the frozen wastes of this universe. Together, we can unshackle the realms themselves.”

Bi-Han’s eyes flicker to the ground, a move uncommon by someone of his status. He doesn’t respond immediately, but silence speaks volumes.

Havik lets out another low chuckle, knowing the seed he’s planted is already beginning to grow.

“Think about it, Grandmaster,” Havik purrs. “Earthrealm, laid bare. No Liu Kang to write destiny for you. Instead, the pen rests in your hands.”

And in that moment, Bi-Han’s mind churns with possibilities – the thought of forging his own path is something he couldn’t resist.

He doesn’t say yes.

But he doesn’t say no, either.

Bi-Han eyes dart left, then right, then back to Havik. Having someone like him out in the open where anyone can see? Not a very good look. He motions with his hand for the man to follow him before quickly walking out of the courtyard. The interior of the Lin Kuei palace is a sight Bi-Han is all too familiar with, yet his heart beats faster with every breath he takes. Havik’s thick scent floats through the air, contaminating anything in his path. Bi-Han refuses to turn his head and look back at Havik, instead focusing on the footsteps behind him. They’re heavy, a sharp sound that rattles the ground. Each footfall is disorganized, the lack of rhythm directly contrasting Bi-Han’s light, poise steps. Bi-Han mentally curses, hoping no one is alarmed by such a noise. He swears that he can feel Havik’s breath warming his neck, but the footsteps say that Havik is keeping his distance.

It isn’t long before Bi-Han reaches the destination: his bedroom, the most private place one could be. One hand twists the doorknob, while the other quickly grabs Havik’s wrist and forces him inside the room, eliciting a loud, annoying cackle. Bi-Han steps inside and quickly locks the door, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His room is dimly lit, a soft light from a candle immediately illuminating his face. Frost crawls up the stone walls like an ever-present reminder of Bi-Han’s power, chilling the air between them. Havik barely seems to notice, his vacant eyes focused solely on the Grandmaster standing across the room, his posture a mask of practiced calm.

Bi-Han clears his throat, breaking his silence. “Your proposal. Elaborate.”

Havik stands taller, excited to still have grasped Bi-Han’s curiosity. “Tell me, Bi-Han,” he begins – the sudden use of his given name not going unnoticed by the Grandmaster. “Do you know what it is like to be free? Truly free? Or have you always been bound by the Lin Kuei’s false honor?”

Bi-Han crosses his arms, staring Havik down with an annoyed glare. “Honor is a choice, Havik. Not a shackle. I invite you to choose your words carefully when you speak of the clan I lead.”

Havik laughs, low and guttural, his voice like gravel against stone. “Perhaps, but I wonder how much of that is a true choice, and how much are you clinging to what you’ve been taught – to your chains.”

A slight frown flashes across Bi-Han’s face, though he quickly composes himself. The way Havik speaks so casually, so provocative, as if the core of his being could be so easily dissected. Yet..he couldn’t ignore the possibility of a slight truth in Havik’s words. He keeps his eyes on Havik, hesitant to look anywhere else.

“What exactly do you want from me, Havik?”

Havik steps closer, an amused hum leaving his throat. His fingers trail lightly over a frost coated desk beside him, his gaze looking down to meet Bi-Han’s. “I want you to see chaos as I do,” he murmurs, tone surprisingly softer, yet still layered with its typical intensity. “Imagine a world without boundaries. Without restraint. Just power…and desire.”

Bi-Han suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “You’d think me so foolish to throw away everything I have built for some hollow promise of freedom? I have my own path, one that doesn’t require your madness.”

Havik’s face is blank, showing a lack of reaction to Bi-Han’s words. “Not madness, truth!” He corrects again. “Is there not a part of you that longs to let go of control? To let chaos in, even for a moment?”

The Grandmaster’s jaw clenches, wanting to deny Havik further, but something in the man’s gaze – a dark, pervertish desire – holds him in place. Havik’s cold, rotting, fingers make their way to Bi-Han’s arm, a slight touch, but enough to imprint the feel on Bi-Han’s mind forever.

“You do not have to be alone in this world, Bi-Han,” Havik starts, “there is power in chaos, yes, but there is also the comfort found in…connection.”

Bi-Han’s heart begins to increase in pace, though his face remains impassive. Havik’s gaze is still unflinching, his corpse-like eyes aiding him in hiding emotion. His fingers trace a line up Bi-Han’s arm until they reach his shoulder, then his collarbone.

“Is that your true wish, Havik?” Bi-Han’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “Connection?”

A silence stretches between them, the weight of the conversation thickening the air. Bi-Han considers stepping back, letting the previous, familiar distance reassert itself. But he doesn’t move.

Havik’s hand finally slides up to cup the side of Bi-Han’s face. “It is what you want, too. Let me show you what true freedom feels like.”

And then, before Bi-Han could respond, Havik leans in, gently pressing their heads together. The moment ends as quickly as it began, and Havik grabs Bi-Han’s hand, leading him to his bed. He pushes Bi-Han into the mattress with too much force to be considered gentle, but soft enough to be out of Havik’s norm. Bi-Han allows him to remove his clothing piece by piece, until nothing's left for the imagination. Bi-Han thinks back to intimate moments with past partners, usually the pace is slowed with kisses that express longing for one another. But with another quick glance at Havik – it’s obvious to see why this experience cannot be compared to others.

Havik begins to take off his own garments. Starting with his helmet, chest piece, then loincloth, carelessly throwing them across the room. He climbs on top of Bi-Han, hunger growing through him. His hands reach to touch Bi-Han, but he is interrupted before he gets the chance.

“You will speak a word of this to no one,” Bi-Han threatens, “do not make me regret speaking to you.”

Bi-Han expects a booming cackle, a snarky comment, maybe an eye roll – anything he’s learned to expect from Havik. But he gets a simple nod in response. Havik’s more focused on the nude form in front of him. He allows his hands to map out Bi-Han’s pale skin. They outline his chest, drawing a circle around a small mole above his nipples. Havik leans down, indulging himself in the taste of Bi-Han’s skin. His rough, almost cat-like tongue dances around the mole, before dragging down to Bi-Han’s nipple. Bi-Han’s back slightly arches at the sudden contact, and hisses as Havik invites his other hand to stimulate Bi-Han’s chest in tandem with his tongue. Bi-Han can feel himself becoming lightheaded once his dick begins to harden. He raises his hand to touch Havik’s dick, and he’s quickly rewarded with a groan and tug to his nipple. Bi-Han slowly moves his hand and familiarizes himself with Havik’s length, his breath hitches as he feels its girth. His mind drifts to the thought of it slowly stretching him out, knocking the air out of him with each thrust.

Bi-Han tries to lose himself in the feeling of Havik in his hand, but his partner has other plans. A frustrated huff leaves Havik as he suddenly loses interest in teasing Bi-Han’s chest, suddenly turning his attention to Bi-Han’s cock, perhaps grabbing it with a bit too much force, as a sound mixed with bliss and annoyance escapes Bi-Han’s throat.

“Finally,” ire laces Havik’s tone, “I want to hear you.”

Havik temporarily removes his hand to spit on his palm, then returns it to Bi-Han. His hand drags up and down Bi-Han’s dick, relishing in how Bi-Han’s brows furrow. Havik experiments with different speeds and pressures, desperate to find the correct combination to make Bi-Han’s head spin. Another blissed groan is how Havik knows he’s succeeded. By now Bi-Han has given up on returning the pleasure to Havik – not that the latter even cares. His cheeks are flushed, and his legs feel weak. He tries to level his breathing, but Havik’s hand working his body forces each sigh to come out shaky. Bi-Han’s fingers find purchase in the bedsheets below him. His strong grip almost steadying him as he melts into the sensation.

Bi-Han grunts and tenses as he suddenly realizes the existence of a spit covered finger dancing around his entrance. Feeling Havik’s eyes on him, Bi-Han tries to relax his body, giving a silent ‘go ahead.’ Havik takes the chance to push a finger inside Bi-Han, sighing as he feels the muscles tighten around him. Bi-Han feels his eyes roll to the back of his head, the dual sensations of Havik’s hand on his dick and inside him makes his body feel wobbly and weak. Not a single Lin Kuei would recognize their Grandmaster in this state: pupils blown, face red, slightly trembling. Bi-Han loses his last bit of control when a soft moan breaks out in response to Havik pushing in another finger. Bi-Han only wishes to tell Havik to fuck off when he hears the man cackle, but another moan leaves his throat before he can do so. Bi-Han slightly hisses in discomfort, wishing he had proper lubricant. He makes a mental note to be more well prepared for future encounters.

A sudden pressure is soon felt deep in Bi-Han’s abdomen, his eye twitching as he realizes what it is. His face scrunches up as the feeling grows, soon becoming unbearable. He reaches down to tap Havik’s hand – a warning. And with another, much louder moan, Bi-Han cums all over Havik’s hand and his own stomach. He pants, trying to find respite after such a huge feeling, but finds it difficult as Havik refuses to slow his pace. Bi-Han sharply exhales as sensitivity boils over, squirming as Havik’s fingers curl inside of him. He hisses right before the feeling has a chance to become uncomfortable, and smacks Havik’s hand.

Havik slowly removes his hands from Bi-Han, and gives the Grandmaster a positive, almost curious look – one that is not shared by Bi-Han.

“I do not wish to continue,” comes Bi-Han’s weak voice. He cringes at the thought of Havik inside of him without any form of lubricant, knowing even attempting to do so would put him out of commission for a day or so.

Havik doesn’t fight the request, instead getting off the bed in search of something to clean up with. He returns with a cloth, using it to wipe cum and sweat off Bi-Han’s body. The material is familiar, and Bi-Han promptly smacks Havik’s arm upon realizing his own clothing is being used as a towel.

Tossing the garment aside after finishing his task, Havik once again places his forehead against Bi-Han’s, content with how the night has played out.

“Rest, Bi-Han,” is all he says as he shifts himself to sit on the edge of the bed. “Tomorrow, we will discuss my plans in further detail.”

“And where will you be whilst I rest?”