#aboutraidenmeta

“I know it may seem as if Shang Tsung is short,” responds the god of thunder evenly, “but he is very nearly six feet tall. I am simply taller.” Crossing his arms and shifting his weight, he regards the individual thoughtfully, eyebrow rising. “Johnny Cage is hardly dark… and then only thing he has ever schemed is a birthday party for me.”

Raiden recalls that particular attempt with fondness. It had been a kind gesture, at the very least.

“And Hanzo Hasashi is also… not short.” Has he covered all bases? He thinks perhaps that he has. It seems satisfactory to him, anyway, and after all, it is but a brief interlude for the protector of Earthrealm. “If that is all…” He does not wait and instead leaves the area in a bolt of lightning.

Raiden opens his mouth to respond, not the least bit perturbed by the forwardness of the question. Lightning though he is, Johnny Cage is faster to answer:

“Hey! Hang the fuck on, pal, you can’t just go askin’ people about that shit! Who taught you manners, huh? Wolves? Listen, I grew up in Hollywood and the only kinda guys askin’ THAT were—”

“Johnny Cage,” interjects Raiden in a placating tone, a large hand upon the man’s shoulder. The muscles are taut under that grasp; he is ready for a fight. “I appreciate your intercession on my behalf, but it is no insult or intrusion on my person. I am a god and it is natural that mortals might be curious about these things. This is an opportunity to educate, not to berate.”

Johnny’s mouth opens, then closes, and he sucks in his lower lip. “Fine,” he hisses, “but I hear any funny shit…”

Raiden nods, “I understand,” he says, and then turns toward the unknown individual. “Simply put,” he says, “my form is most efficient. I retain the visible appearance of a human male—”

“Seven feet ain’t human, big guy.” Johnny’s gesture makes it clear how he feels about all seven of those feet, but Raiden’s raised brows return the words and body language, tit for tat. “Jus’ sayin’.”

“I retain the visible appearance of a human male because throughout your history, that has been the class of mortal who has held most sway, for better or worse. I simply lack the… physical weakness of that sex.”

“He means I can’t punch him in the dick.” Johnny Cage has decided that he will be Raiden’s translator until the intrusive questioner buggers off. There is nothing Raiden, powerful as he is, can do about this.

“Something like that.” Raiden sighs, shaking his head. “In addition, I thought to represent, as best I could, all mortals whom I protect and… to defy my nature in yet one more way. Does that satisfy?”

it's sinday

Here stands Liu Kang, what is left of him. Eyes vacant and arms limp as he staggers toward the Thunder God, ignorant of rage’s red wreath, the sparks dancing about its skin. His mouth hangs slack, an indecipherable string of moans bubbling in the back of his throat. The sound of splitting bone accompanies the lull of his head, dead gaze meeting Raiden’s. Almost as if it asks, begs the one question that Liu cannot:

“Why?”

He has done this. Liu Kang’s current state—the state of his body and that of his detached soul—are Raiden’s doing. In his ire, he has done an abominable thing, an unforgivable one. He should be punished for it, but perhaps that is not necessary, as he seems to have manufactured his own hell. The red sparks die away and Raiden’s lightning returns to its gentle blue tones.

“I am a fool,” he says, speaking to no one in particular; the thing before him is no revenant and it cannot hear or comprehend—it has no purpose, except to mock the Elder Gods. Grief and rage have driven Raiden to this hellish act and justice dictates it must be hewho puts it right. If Liu Kang’s innocent soul can hear him, Raiden hopes at least to have its forgiveness, or that it will be a witness to the repayment of a small portion of a debt he owes the thing before him which was once a young man, vital and full of life, but is now an affront to gods and mortals alike.

He walks toward the rotting thing, extending his hands as he does so; no spark fly, not yet… not until he has those powerful limbs wrapped about the husk of the young man who once had trusted him with his life. Raiden holds tight and only then does the lightning surge through him. Shining tears fall and clatter to the stones beneath their feet as the sky overhead darkens and the electricity in the thunderer’s body meets that of his clouds. He is the master of the skies, but right now, feels as if he is the master of nothing and no one.

A frozen, humanoid statue stands in the center of the area. It is clearly placed for the eyes the God of Thunder as he approaches it. It is not hard to truly see the fate that befell his beloved twin brother. Red-gold ichor was splattered in various places. Fujin's arms crossed in front of him, reaching up in an an effort to brace for impact. Bruises, injuries, and stained clothes covering his form showing the not easy battle be partook in. His face showed his last moments, scrunched and in agony.

There are those who think Raiden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, is a stony, cold, unfeeling elemental with no ties to the people for whom he stands as protector. Those people do not know him well and would be shocked at his response to the frozen from of his twin. He rushes forward, Fujin’s name dying on his lips as he reaches the man. He dares not lay hands upon him—it is the god himself, not a statue, not really—for fear of harming, even destroying his brother’s body.

He is not dead, else Raiden would have ascended, but his existence is not a happy one. Raiden can tell from the slight twist in his posture, the bend of his back, the curve of his mouth, that he is in agony, his mind trapped in the howling dark of the place gods go when they are in between. Horror fills Raiden’s guts and begins to crackle through him, so that the white-hot energy of his essence begins to shift in frequency… and color.

Red lightning arcs dangerously from his body and he moves away, face a mask of cold fury, fists clenched violently at his sides. He does not cry out, does not call for vengeance. There will be no showy display of “shock and awe”, only oblivion. The heavens darken above, the sound of thunder roaring in with the thick clouds.

The price of Fujin’s life is dear, indeed.

Tagging @daughterofnero and @heamatic

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“Earthrealm’s champion is a mighty warrior,” Raiden observes, wrapping a cloth bandage around Shang Tsung’s right hand and wrist with firm care. His glowing eyes are downcast, watching his work, his mind a million miles away. The sorcerer recognizes the distance and reaches out with his as-yet unwrapped hand to tilt the thunderer’s chin upward so their eyes meet, bright and dark. There is still that old thrill of excitement, meeting those strange eyes and Tsung is surprised by his own enthusiasm. This is why I keep him around, he tells himself, as if in a last-ditch effort to maintain control over his emotions. Raiden, as no one else in his life, has been able to step effortlessly past the walls the sorcerer has built to protect himself—his mind and heart, so damaged and broken from a young life in the gutters of an unforgiving city—to lay hands upon the deepest parts of him. He fears this, loathes it, in a way, because it symbolizes his ultimate weakness, the largest gap in his otherwise impenetrable armor. Yet he, ever at war with himself, loves it, deeply and completely, craving the nakedness such intimacy brings.

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“I am also a mighty warrior, old friend,” Shang Tsung reminds Raiden, pressing his lips to the corner of the former deity’s mouth. Raiden does not smile and the gesture is, for once, unable to pull him back from his distraction. The sorcerer begins to wonder if the man has not lived these moments before.  They have spoken little of Raiden’s life before it became entangled with that of his chosen champion and for many years, that had been just fine, a mystery which would reveal itself or which Shang Tsung would unwrap with great care and gentleness, as he had unwrapped the man’s habit on that fateful night just after he had secured Earthrealm’s safety for ten generations. He of insatiable greed cannot, naturally, hold back that curiosity for eternity and soon he will enquire after it. For now, he supposes, speculation will do.

“And you are fighting on behalf of your Emperor,” says Raiden sourly, knowing what has to happen, what must be done in order for time to continue its course. He has had many conversations with Lord Liu Kang on this exact subject and even a few with Shang Tsung, who, upon meeting Shao Kahn, took an immediate interest, if not an outright liking to him. “His tactics,” the sorcerer had declared, “are far too brutal for someone so old; one might have learned subtlety by now.” But the subtlety had come from somewhere behind the throne—if Quan-Chi’s brand of mad soul sorcery could be called subtle. In other timelines, Raiden reminds himself, he is insidious; now he is a raving zealot with my father’s head whispering blasphemies to him. But he is still dangerous. By winning the Kahn’s favor in the first tournament, Shang Tsung had ousted Quan-Chi as Shao Kahn’s favorite sorcerer; the great Emperor had even granted Tsung the use of Quan-Chi’s flesh pits, an offer Shang Tsung had graciously accepted out of pure, human curiosity.

It is said—in whispers, mind; no one would speak such a thing aloud—that the Kahn’s lovely daughter, Mileena, had been created here, that she is not his flesh and blood, but a copy of the girl Sindel had borne to Jerrod of Edenia. Shang Tsung’s informants had soon given him even more detail about her creation and the reason behind it. “Evidently,” he had told his divine consort one evening as the breeze became chilly off that weird ocean and they lay together under furs, “that mad fool, Quan-Chi, claimed he had the power of something called an Elder God—that he could reverse death. Sindel’s little Kitana was too far gone, they said, and her mind was in shambles. Clever Quan-Chi used his creation, Mileena, to save the Empress and make himself valuable to the great Kahn. How is that for family melodrama?” The power of the Kahn had been such that no one questioned Mileena’s place at his side and her mother, the queen Sindel, had regrettably gone quite mad and so only wanted a daughter to love and dote upon.

“Yes I am, pet, at your suggestion—or have you forgotten?” Shang Tsung’s grip has not relinquished its hold on Raiden’s chin, but he does not pull away.

“No,” he says quietly, “I have not.” Some things, certain events, must happen in order to keep the sands of time from shifting out of control, Raiden reminds himself. Liu Kang had told him that this is one of those events. The new keeper of time, thankfully, is not so cryptic as Raiden’s own, past self—or doomed future self, as time rolls. On the other hand, he is also not dying.

“Do you regret advising me this way?” Shang Tsung’s hand has slid its way around the back of Raiden’s neck under his hair, which is secured with a simple, but pretty hairpin of gold. The sorcerer’s forehead presses forward and their knees touch as he leans into his lover, drawing strength from their proximity. “It is my right to challenge him, as former champion, and as my island sits between all realms, I can ally myself with whomever I choose, can I not?”

“You can,” breathes Raiden, “and his choice of you as his ally and favored sorcerer has angered Quan-Chi, who now seeks to upset the empire of Outworld.”

Shang Tsung does not speak. This is more than Raiden has ever said about his own machinations. The sorcerer is under no impression that his companion is a true fool or simpleton in any way, but his sincerity often gives that impression, so hearing this side of things thrills him. He would take Raiden right here if his match was not coming up shortly. He may still do so; there can be time for them… there is always time for him.

“Even now, in his fury at the affront to him and therefore to his mad, dark god, he is opening a rift between Outworld and…. Elsewhere.” Raiden’s eyes close and he sighs deeply.

“So his dark god… does exist?” Only now does Shang Tsung interpose his voice, so curious is he about the goings-on of the divine aspects of a world which has known few gods. Raiden sighs, shoulders sagging. He signals for his champion’s other hand and it drops gently and obediently from the back of his neck to his lap. Shang Tsung flexes the other one, testing its strength carefully, drawing away from Raiden to sit up straight and regard him intently.

“Yes,” Raiden says eventually, “he is—a remnant of a… dead timeline.”

Shang Tsung feels his heart beat a little more quickly then. Timelines and worlds apart from his own—what riches and knowledge such a thing must hold. But dead? How can a timeline die? How can a world die? Aside from merging with another, a realm can never cease to exist, can it? He makes a mental note to check his library for any old texts which might hint at such a thing, though he is fairly certain if he possessed such a tome, he would remember it.

“And this rift?”

“Could be disastrous for Outworld, but its opening will ensure the Shokan people never ally with Shao Kahn, forcing him to rely upon the Tarkatan tribes as his foot soldiers. They are mighty and many, but…”

The lack of prince Goro in the next tournament ensures long life for Kung Lao, the soft-spoken, humble choice of Lord Liu Kang. A Tarkatan champion might be a worthy foe, but they, at least, only have two arms apiece. This shifts the sands of time, but not beyond Lord Liu Kang’s ken and control. Shang Tsung still fights for Outworld and Kung Lao still faces him. “And if the Tarkatan are allied to the throne of Outworld, the Osh-Tekk will not be; that is an old feud, and a bloody one.”

“So, my sweet, gentle emissary has a few schemes in him, does he?” Shang Tsung’s voice is a purr as Raiden passively finishes wrapping his hand and wrist.  

“A few,” Raiden agrees.

“You are destabilizing an entire realm, o’ exquisite one,” continues the sorcerer. “I admire your ruthlessness.”

Raiden looks up and their eyes meet. Shang Tsung is hungry, his gaze roaming over the thunderer as if the man were utterly naked before him. Raiden knows Kung Lao will win—he must, for the sake of the timeline—and knows he will spare Shang Tsung which, in another life, embitters him and sends him limping foolishly back to a pitiless ruler who punishes his failure. This, Raiden knows, is something Quan-Chi would love to see, though the Netherrealm sorcerer’s mind is currently elsewhere. Shang Tsung is not the only one with informants. This time, however, Shang Tsung will not return to Shao Kahn, as his servitude is a ruse. Still, Raiden worries…

That worry presently evaporates as Shang Tsung’s oh-so-clever hands find his thighs beneath the layers of cloth which conceal them and push them gently apart. He is seated on an ornate bench of dark, carved wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and shaped with sensual elegance. It is an ideal place for someone as beautiful as Raiden to be seated—or so Shang Tsung opines. The cushion beneath him is comfortable, the best there is, and it supports him pleasantly as his former student drops to his knees between great, powerful thighs, looking up with glittering, obsidian eyes, asking only the permission of the deity-who-was.

“I would offer more,” Shang Tsung asserts with the weight of years and complete devotion dripping honey over every word, “but…” His eyes dart minutely to the door which will lead out and down to the arena for Final Kombat. His look flashes annoyance, as if the event were a mere inconvenience. Right now, it is, of course, and will be treated as such.

“I am immortal, not immune to… what was it? Carnal temptations?” There is laughter in the thunder god’s voice and the ghost of a smile on a face unaccustomed to levity. Shaking his head, he raises a hand. “No, no… whoever gave you that idea knows little and less of gods.”

He thinks about the first question, mulling it over and taking his time as only those who havetime can truly do. Inscrutable, luminous eyes give nothing away of his thoughts as he does this, examining each angle, every single facet of his relationship with the mortal-turned-wraith known as Scorpion.

“I think that I felt… some modicum of peace, contentment… or perhaps even joy—he… is good for me, I think.” I do not know if I am good for him, but I will be selfish for once and not ask. Not yet.

4. [heated stare] - Your muse gazes heatedly at mine, clearly undressing them with their eyes.

Scorpion is eloquent, even without words. His inscrutable eyes rove up and down the thunder god’s body, not slowing or stopping when it is clear Raiden is aware of his scrutiny. Maintaining his impassive facade, the deity concludes his business with the Wu-Shi instructors, bidding farewell to Liu Kang and his cohort before returning the fiery wraith’s side. He has accepted Hanzo’s offered services as something of an escort as he moves about Earthrealm, albeit reluctantly. After the incident on Shang Tsung’s island, Scorpion has decided where his loyalties lie and that it is not a worthy risk to leave the Protector of Earthrealm unprotected himself, divine or not.

“Fortunate that the Shaolin cannot read your expression as I can, Hanzo,” Raiden chides, albeit without vehemence. They have grown close in their time together and guarding is not the only thing Scorpion has discovered he is permitted to do with Raiden’s body.

11. [consent is sexy] - Your muse asks permission to touch mine below the waist, above or beneath clothing.

He knows Johnny’s history, especially that of the recent past, and so when they share dinner and a few glasses of wine, Hanzo Hasashi is careful to move slowly, regardless of Johnny’s haphazard groping.

“C’mon, man, where’s that fire? I don’t wanna walk straight tomorrow,” Johnny whines, arms about Hanzo’s neck. The Shirai-Ryu grandmaster finds himself at a temporary loss for words as he contemplates how best to explain himself. Johnny clicks his tongue and would likely check his watch if he were in such a position to do so.

Instead of trying to justify each motion, Scorpion elects instead to slide one hand down Johnny’s body, his shirt half-unbuttoned, pants in the same state, resting long, dexterous fingers upon the waistband of the actor’s jeans.

“May I?” The assassin’s whisper sets something ablaze inside Johnny Cage and he feels his hips push forward into the touch as he nods, muttering something that sounds like “please” in Hanzo’s ear as he clings tightly to his fellow kombatant. Satisfied only then with the permission given, Scorpion’s hand slides down below the man’s waistline, grasping him in one warm hand and crushing their lips together, swallowing the moan and relishing in his strange beloved’s flavor.

I will never let anything happen to you again,Hanzo pledges inwardly as his hand begins gently to move. He feels the motion of hips against his touch and knows he is doing right, but that old fear still hovers about. Never again.