#thunderdilf

I made screencap edits.

(Ngl i loved how this turned out)

closed starter for @seidanguard

Seido—colloquially known as Orderrealm—was a place just as its name suggested and Raiden felt simultaneously at home and utterly out of his element here. He was a being of chaos and destruction, masquerading as a protector, fighting every day to overcome his true nature and it was for this reason he now approached the Guard.

Hotaru had been something of an ally in the past—at they very least, he’d been willing enough to stand against Havik, a chaos priest of the highest order. This was a larger threat, by far, than Chaosrealm, however. With the Elder Gods slain and the only remnant a silently cursing head housed in the Bone Temple of Netherrealm, there was no longer a proper barrier to hide the realms, these simultaneous dreams of the fabled One Being, from the wrathful, searching eyes of those things which came before.

Closed starter with @heamatic

The lightning was red that night, the thunder a rolling roar, and it was angry. Newscasters and meteorologists alike were baffled by the phenomenon which, while concentrated most heavily over Los Angeles, was not isolated thereto. The world seemed to be experiencing a massive, raging storm—hail and rain and bolts of lightning rained down mercilessly on almost every corner of the planet, sparing nobody and nothing, but when the giant, black funnel descended over LA, not a single scientific “expert” spoke a word, though all eyes were turned to America’s western coast.

As if the storm was not enough, however, the San Andreas fault had evidently decided that it, too, had had quite enough of humanity in the area and the ground rolled and snarled in that strange, subsonic way that sent dogs mad. Were one to listen closely—if it was even possible to hear beyond the massive, battering hail and bellowing wind—one might very well have heard a voice, a vengeful sound, laced with fury and grief, uncontrolled and nigh-incoherent.

Were it possible to penetrate the wall of that miles-wide funnel of black cloud and red lightning, one would have found the literal eye of the storm. Utterly calm in the very center, the air heavy and hot, there loomed a humanoid figure, clad in blue, white, and gold, an ornate jingasa perched atop his head, silver-white hair in loose ringlets falling about broad shoulders, inscrutable eyes glowing scarlet like the lightning which flashed above and all around, falling in waves off arms and wrapping viciously about his body. In one massive hand, he held the throat of a common criminal—what some people might call a thug or gang-banger, or nothing at all, avoiding his gaze on the street. The crotch of the young man’s pants were wet with piss and his britches further stank of shit and the sharp tang of adrenaline.

“Please do not eat any of my kombatants,” warns Raiden, lightning dancing over his limbs threateningly. It isn’t clear if he’s joking.

“Easy Raidude, they mean he’s hot,” interjects Johnny, intent on saving the day as is his wont. “Which, I mean…” He tips his sunglasses down and ogles the busty monk. “If I had to pick a… nother monk.”

“I am standing RIGHT. HERE.” Kung Lao is, in fact, fairly close by, arms crossed, lips drawn into the pout of irritation that really only enhances their size, shape, and color, all of which are appealing on their own, but in tandem, it is a difficult view to resist.

"You say this as if he cannot feel that the hat is or is not on his head!” Kung Lao is distressed. He is on friendly terms with the god of thunder and would like it to stay that way. Raiden is fond of his hat, else why would he wear it? And anyway, Lao doesn’t want to give up his hat! It is, after all, more than just an accessory he rather fancies. But a dare is, after all, a dare.

He locates the thunder god after some searching, meditating deep in the temple of light. Kung Lao knows better than to disturb anyone in that state, but most of all Raiden! And yet he must. The young monk moves quietly, all things considered, edging around the room until he is directly behind the god. He can hear Raiden’s gentle breathing and wonders if the man—is he even a man, truly—needs to breathe at all, or if this is just a strange facsimile, put on to keep mortals comfortable.

“I would not,” Raiden advises, without opening an eye. Kung Lao freezes mid-stride out from behind a pillar. He swallows.

“Would not… join you in meditation, Lord Raiden?” His cheeks are aflame, but hopefully the thunder god has not learned suddenly to read minds. A held breath is let out presently as Raiden nods. He has not, it turns out, acquired that ability, but he knows his young students.

“You may join me, yes,” he says after a moment, “but do not touch my hat.”

Kung Lao’s heart freezes and his eyes fly wide. Now he is stuck—in for a penny, in for a pound, as it is said—and joins Raiden in a meditative pose, surrounded by candles and incense. The smell is light and gentle and Lao soon finds himself falling asleep where he sits, a cultivated ability that usually works. But then he is not usually meditating with a god.

When he awakens, he looks around, eyes narrowing. Something is amiss. Reaching up, he feels that his hat is strange, a different weight and, touching the brim, Kung Lao discovers that it bears no blade. He pulls the thing off his head—it is a jingasa, rather than his usual chapeau—and examines it. The workmanship is fine; it feels expensive… could this be one of the gifts Raiden has received? Either way… it half counts. Right?

“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.

Find my muse collapsed on the ground + help my muse patch up a wound

Improbably, someone has challenged Lord Raiden to Mortal Kombat. It is a foolish notion, but not one without strategy. Shao Kahn is a ruthless, vicious dictator, but he is not a fool. By bringing Raiden into the tournament, he ensures that, should something go catastrophically wrong and the upright god loses his temper, he will, for the time being, be separated from the element of his aspect.

Dark, storm blue eyes, narrow with shrewd analysis, watch the fall of his opponent as Raiden withdraws, victorious, from the ring. Even without his Earthrealm-bound power, the god of thunder is no mere mortal in Kombat. He is not setting the rules, however, and the tournament’s master has arranged several bouts in rapid succession with some of the most ruthless warriors in Outworld.

Raiden is tired.

The narrowing of his vision calls to mind the few hours upon the sorcerer’s island where some of his priests had uttered a strange incantation that had pulled Raiden temporarily into a space with the same or a similar essence to that of Outworld, where he now is and where he has no power. This feeling precedes his knees giving way underneath him and the ground rushing up to meet him. Darkness greets the lord of the skies and he falls limply into its embrace, grateful he is alone.

“… bleeding,” comes a familiar voice, hollow and echoey in death, but that of an unexpected ally and friend. “You are not a god, not here.”

“Hanzo Hasashi,” grunts Raiden, eyes opening and fixing on the wraith now pulling aside layers of his raiment. The man’s face is inscrutable behind the mask, but Raiden detects the sudden stiffening of his body as he hears his old name.

“You have lost blood, Raiden,” Scorpion says simply, “and it does not become orihalcon… You are mortal. You can die.”

“I know,” comes the quiet response. In those few moments, Raiden realizes that for the first time in his endless existence, he is frightened. If I die, they will fight on and Earthrealm will be safe. If we fail, my life will be meaningless in any case.

As Scorpion’s skilled hands find the offending laceration, he begins to move quickly and efficiently, with firm gentleness, binding the spot and disturbing little else.

“You must not die.”

“No,” Raiden agrees. “It would be better if I lived. Earthrealm needs a protector.”

“Ineed you.”

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