WIP snippet meme thing tagged by @avi17
Tagging @daughterofnero and @heamatic
Post a snippet of a thing you're working on
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
Raiden can feel his pulse rising, core beating hard in his broad chest, and a gentle flush of red-gold crossing fine-boned features. A distant rumble of thunder from an unexpected storm whispers of deep, aching desire, but the sorcerer awaits Raiden’s express permission. Coercion will simply not do.
