[ fantasy ] (for toasted nuts and bihanzo?)
For my muse to spill their DIRTIEST fantasies~
Johnny is more than happy to spill THOSE fantasies. He’s way too old to give a shit about propriety. When he trusts someone and he knows they could both be dead in a day—such is the nature of being kombatants and defenders of Earthrealm—there is no reason to be coy. His grin is spread a mile wide and he scoots past Scorpion in the small library of his Beverly Hills home. It is where his companion thinks it is best to take tea—the rest of his house is so open and modern, he cannot blame the man for preferring someplace quieter, less visible—so this is where they take tea, something Johnny had never done before falling in with the Shirai-Ryu grandmaster. The man’s sharp, hawk-like gaze follows his lover—boyfriend is such a puerile word—to the shelf and follows the man’s hand upward.
“You think the Kama Sutra is wild,” Johnny comments, pulling another tome off the shelf by an author Hanzo does not recognize. “I found this baby on accident in one of those tiny, old, out-of-the-way bookstores when I was in… oh was it Estonia? For a shoot—anyway… check this out.”
The page to which he turns is well-worn, as if it had been viewed many times. The position is, to say the least, athletic, and extremely ambitious, especially for men their age. But they aren’t normal men, are they? Hanzo raises a brow and looks at Johnny, as if this will be a simple task, well beneath his need to read about it.
“Ah, but hang on, buddy, there’s a catch. I wanna do it on the roof.” He points upward. His roof is flat with a railing around it and access thereto… and his home isnot the tallest in the area. If he is flushed, it is not with embarrassment, but anticipation.
They haven’t long—they never do, as these things go—and both Hanzo and Bi-Han are taking a moment merely to reorient themselves after the throes of passion have died down and the flame of desire sputters to embers. It’s still there, of course, but somewhat tempered by the chilly evening and the reality of their situation.
“I simply do not see how that is filthy… in any way,” says the man sometimes called Scorpion not without humor as he refastens his bracers. Bi-Han—he is called Sub-Zero among the Lin Kuei—tucks long, black hair into his hood and clicks his tongue behind his mask.
“No,” he says, “I imagine you would not, Shirai-Ryu filth.”
The words are not spoken with much venom, or even much chill, though the cold vapor which rises from the vents in the mask display the change in his temperature and, thence, his embarrassment at even being asked.
“Sleeping in a bed with me is not filthy,” contests Hanzo Hasashi, wrapping his chain securely to his belt, “Lin Kuei dog.”
Bi-Han shrugs. “As you will have it.”
And they part ways, each wondering after the other, though Scorpion’s concern for his Lin Kuei rival far outweighs Sub-Zero’s curiosity regarding Shirai-Ryu practices of intimacy.
Smutty interactions - accepting
