Archive of Our Own ^beta

Day one.

It goes by faster than Johnny can blink. He’s up early and at the studio and spends all day filming re-shoots. He barely has time to wolf down an energy bar between takes. Still, he somehow finds himself checking his phone every moment he’s not on camera. Each time he does, the disappointment at not seeing missed messages from ‘Tkhsi’ makes that knot in his chest tighten. He keeps reminding himself that it’s impossible to expect messages when the app’s gone but no matter how much his brain tries to reason with him, his expectations refuse to accept reality.

When shooting wraps for the day, Johnny doesn’t reinstall the app.

When Johnny drives home, he takes the long way back to Malibu to avoid going anywhere near Little Tokyo.

When Johnny fucks his wife that night, he pretends he’s not thinking of Kenshi.

He’s doing the right thing.

*

Day two.

More re-shoots. Johnny’s at the studio early again. He gets yelled at a few times for fucking around on his phone when he needs to get back in place for the next take. It’s not because he’s waiting for messages he can’t receive and he definitely doesn’t idle in the app store, debating longer than he should about reinstalling one he deleted.

When he leaves the studio, he drives through Little Tokyo. He lingers on the street of Kenshi’s hotel, not because he’s actually considering going back there but because there’s a great sushi bar around the corner and he’s hungry. After thirty minutes of this, he drives home. He doesn’t get any sushi.

When he crawls into bed that night—in the master bedroom three nights in a row must be a new record for him—he shrugs off Cris’ hands. Not because his mind is so consumed with the memory of Kenshi kissing him and being inside him but because Johnny is so exhausted, he can barely stay awake. It might not help that the sex he and Cris had the night before was terrible and the only way Johnny could bring himself to finish was remembering how hard Kenshi had fucked him the other night.

When Johnny dreams, it’s of tattooed fingers lacing through his, a solid chest pressing him into the mattress. It’s of lips that drink from him like his own spill ambrosia and the fullness that comes with being so intimately connected as Johnny’s legs tangle with Kenshi’s. It’s of dark eyes and the burn of stubble and sweet confessions whispered in a language Johnny only partly understands. Not because Johnny wants to be dreaming of Kenshi but because his traitorous brain didn’t get the memo that Kenshi is off limits.

‘I’m doing the right thing’ is what Johnny wants to believe.

Fuck, does he hate doing the right thing.

*

Day three.

“—tomorrow, at 3:30. You remember how to get there?”

Johnny grunts a sound in affirmation, barely registering what Cris says. Something about their lawyer’s office? He scrolls through the photos he saved of Kenshi, a ballsy move when Cris is at the other side of the pool collecting used tumblers. Johnny zooms in on the photo Kenshi uses in his profile, the one with the noticeable bulge tenting his pants. Johnny’s own dick twitches as he remembers how big Kenshi was, how full Johnny felt when Kenshi was pounding into him. Other men are on that app right now, looking at that photo, maybe matching with Kenshi…

A sudden wave of irrational jealousy has Johnny bitterly wondering if Kenshi was fucked anyone else these last few nights. Hell, Kenshi could be with someone right now, bending them over and thrusting into them—

“Johnny? Are you even listening to me?”

As the sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor grows louder, Johnny quickly opens Instagram and clicks on the first thing that pops up. He pretends to be completely engrossed in...what the hell did Tomas post?

“Seriously?” Cris says, peering over his shoulder. She makes a derisive sound and places the used glasses on the bar Johnny’s sitting at. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you and that is what’s distracting you?”

“She’s cute,” Johnny argues and he likes the photo Tomas took of his tea cup pig, Meilian, in a flower crown. “I think it’s her birthday.”

“It’s a pig,” Cris says with forced patience, like she’s two seconds away from snapping up Johnny’s phone and smashing it.

Johnny doesn’t get what her problem is this time. He’s slept in the same bed with her the last few nights, cuddled her when she sought the attention, and even fucked her. That’s more than she’s given him all year. If anything, she should be grateful he’s doing his best to be a better husband.

But whatever temporary armistice they’ve entered into seems to be drawing to a close. Maybe it’s because Johnny’s been home all day now that he’s done with the re-shoots and won’t need to be back on set until next week for the cameo he’s making in his friend’s film franchise. Without the buffer of work, it means he and Cris have to spend actual time in each other’s space and try as he might, Johnny’s not getting over Cris running to her father for money anymore than she will forgive Johnny for his spending habits this year.

“You promised you would cut back.”

Cris plucks the tumbler of whiskey away from Johnny and dumps it in the bar sink. Johnny holds back the urge to snap at her. It was Macallan, the same year and malt Johnny drank with Kenshi in his hotel room. Pure coincidence.

Do the right thing. Be a good husband, he tells himself. You got this, Cage. Follow the ol’ playbook.

“It’s my first one,” Johnny says, and no, he does not sound defensive.

“Since when? 4 o’clock?”

Cris looks between the empty tumblers and him, clearly not buying it.

Okay, so maaaaaybe Johnny had a few fingers of whiskey this morning. And another at lunch. And maybe a bit more after his workout.

As Cris cleans up, Johnny goes back to his phone. Tomas messages him.

Smokey Bear

hey

busy tonight?

5:37 PM

Johnny grins. Tomas still hasn’t forgiven him for that nickname.

“As I was saying before, we need to be at Pete’s office by 3:30 tomorrow—Johnny, will you put down your stupid phone and actually listen?”

Johnny quickly types SOS and sends it to Tomas. He then puts his phone on the bar with the screen face down so he can give his glaring wife his undivided attention.

“I’m all ears, sweetheart,” Johnny says, giving her a charming smile.

Cris’ expression relaxes. “This is important, Johnny. Pete’s really busy this week but he’s squeezing us in between his other clients so we can sign those papers for my dad. So don’t you even think of fucking around and showing up even a minute late—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold on for a New York minute,” Johnny interrupts. “When did I agree to sign anything for your dad?”

Cris looks at him as if he’s an idiot. Which, really, is how she usually looks at him. “Five minutes ago? When I was cleaning up the booze you left around the pool?”

Oh. Shit.

Johnny really needs to start paying more attention and stop daydreaming about dick.

“Dammit, Johnny.” Cris squeezes the bridge of her nose with her french manicured nails. “I thought we went over this already.”

Cris has been talking a lot for the past quarter hour. Johnny assumed she was giving him another one of her demoralizing lectures on how he should be “smart” with their money and invest, much like her father and brother do. Insider trading and sketchy connections with the mafia is how the Benettis made their mark on America but Johnny’s certain if he reminds Cris of that, it will earn him a slap. Plus, for all the shit advice his parents gave him growing up, ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you’ is very apt when he considers how indebted he is to his father-in-law. Johnny’s credit score has never been better.

Great, now he’s in a pissy mood.

“Remind me what I’m supposed to be signing again?” Johnny says. “The Cliff Notes version.”

Cris becomes noticeably uncomfortable.

That can’t be good.

“There’s...an acquaintance of ours. A friend of the family. He needs to sign over some assets to us.” At Johnny’s look of suspicion, Cris quickly adds, “It’s not for long and we would be doing my father a huge favor.”

Cue argument in three, two, one—

“What the fuck, Cris?! Why in the hell would I agree to that?!”

“Because you owe it to my dad! After what he did for us—!”

“You really expect me to help him and his friends hide shit from the IRS?! That is what this is all about, right?”

“I don’t know—!”

“How can you not know?!”

“I didn’t ask!” Cris snaps at Johnny. “Why would I? It’s my dad and he wouldn’t ask me to do anything that would screw us over!”

“Maybe not you but I bet he’d lose no sleep if the goddamn feds came after me—!”

“Jesus, Johnny, not everything’s about you!” Cris screams over him. “My dad’s got bigger shit to worry about! He’s not spending every moment of his day looking to fuck you over because, guess what? He actually works!”

“Right, cuz making shady Wall Street investments is real fucking work!”

“As opposed to what? Sitting around by the pool and drinking?” Cris accuses, holding up the mostly empty bottle of Macallan.

Even Johnny winces when he realizes how much of it he went through. He swears it was a lot fuller than that an hour ago.

“I know I said I’d cut back and I swear I’m working on it,” Johnny says, lowering his voice as he tries to deescalate their argument. Maybe it’s the constant buzz he’s had all day and the pitch of their voices but he feels a headache coming on and really could do without more screaming. “But even you gotta admit, babe, this is really sus. One day, we’re doing favors and next thing you know, we’re caught up in some House of Gucci family scandal. Oh shit, am I Maurizio?”

Johnny must be. He is the lead, after all. Then again, his rags-to-riches origin story might make him a better Patrizia, who hired a hitman to murder her husband Maurizio. Plus, Johnny so has more of a Gaga vibe about him and in the right role, he’d make the perfect eccentric villain.

“This is not like that,” Cris hisses, impatiently. “Not everything is a bad Hollywood movie.”

“Well, he can’t expect us to get his friends out of whatever shit they’re in just because he settled our debts…”

Johnny trails off, all the pieces coming together: the loan from his father-in-law. Cris trying to sleep with him these last few nights. The favor.

“Is that why we had sex the other night?” Johnny asks, unable to keep the hurt and disgust out of his voice. “Because the only way Mario would lend us the money is if you can convince me to do this ‘favor’ for him?”

“Are you being serious?” Cris says, mirroring Johnny’s hurt and disgust. “Do you really think the only reason I would sleep with my husband is because I want something from him?!”

“I dunno, Cris. Maybe I missed those pages where you played the warm, caring wife!”

“And maybe I’m missing those edits where you don’t blow off every paycheck on overpriced art and unnecessary home renovations without consulting me!”

“It’s my money, I earned it—!”

“There are two of us in this marriage—!”

Johnny’s International Love ringtone plays above their shouting match. Johnny eyes the phone and Cris glares at him.

“Don’t think of answering that—!”

“Hey, Tomas!” Johnny says, loudly, as he answers the phone. “It’s been a minute!”

Cris snaps her mouth shut, her warm eyes seething.

‘Hang up the phone,’ she mouths.

Johnny ignores her. “Uh huh...yeah...tonight? Yeah, yeah I’ll be right there.”

Johnny chats with Tomas for another minute before ending the call. By the time he hangs up, Cris has gone from pissed off to livid.

“We were in the middle of a fight!” she snaps at him. “Sometimes you can be such an asshole—!”

As she lists off everything that Johnny’s done wrong in the last 24 hours, Johnny feels all the fight leave him. It’s a losing battle trying to do anything right by her: Johnny’s the asshole who drinks too much. Johnny’s the asshole who spends too much. Johnny’s the asshole who doesn’t listen and ignores her needs.

And yeah, Johnny’s the asshole who cheated on her. Not that Cris seems to have any idea about that but he’s sure that his infidelity would be the icing on the shit stacked cake if Cris could throw that in his face, too.

“—and the second I ask you to do one fucking thing for me, you make a big deal out of it! Like I’m the one who’s being unreasonable—!”

“If I agree to sign the goddamn papers, will you stop yelling at me!”

Cris startles mid-rant. She seems almost hesitant to relax, like she’s expecting Johnny to pull the rug from out under her. But Johnny’s got nothing left up his sleeve expect to throw in the towel: admit defeat, tell her what she wants to hear, and move on.

“It would help smooth things over with my dad,” she admits, quietly.

It’s then that Johnny notices how tired Cris is, how defeated she looks as well. There’s something that’s been off about her since the night she asked her father to settle their debts. Whatever it is, Johnny almost feels guilty for being a dick. A hard almost.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Johnny says, pulling her in his embrace. She stiffens but relaxes after a moment, tucking her head beneath his chin. Johnny doesn’t mean any of the shit he’s saying but he’s at a point where he doesn’t have the energy to defend himself. “Didn’t mean to give you such a hard time. It’s just...everything’s been rough lately and what Mario’s asking me to do—”

“Johnny—”

“I’ll be at Pete’s office tomorrow. 3:30 sharp.”

Cris smiles, relieved, and then tugs Johnny down for a kiss. Johnny hesitates at first but then reacts, not resisting when she deepens the kiss. Her lips are soft, the taste of her something Johnny’s had to re-familiarize himself with these last few days. The vanilla bean notes of her perfume make him long for sandalwood and pine.

No, Johnny’s not thinking about him.

He’s doing the right thing.

“Thank you, baby,” she whispers, pulling him from his thoughts before Johnny loses himself in the things he’s told his brain are off limits. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. My father will take care of everything.”

But even if Johnny is apologizing and forcing his affection, he can’t shake that unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’s a pawn being moved on a chessboard.

*

“Wow, this place is crowded tonight,” Tomas says loudly.

Outworld, an underground fight club in one of the seedier parts of Los Angeles, is the busiest Johnny’s ever seen it. The abandoned warehouse hosts a number of fights on the weekends, with a large central fighting cage in the main room, and four smaller fighting rings where newer fighters can test their mettle. Johnny remembers his days fighting here, a stint that only lasted a few months, but it was a good way to make some quick cash. Much like it was back then, the smaller rings draw in rowdy fans, placing bets and cheering on their champions.

Johnny follows behind Tomas, Ashrah, and Syzoth as they head towards the main hall and push their way through the throng of people.

“Hey, Havik’s fighting tonight!” Ashrah remarks.

From the left side of Johnny, he hears roars and cheers and when he glances through the people surrounding the smaller fighting stage, he sees a man whose nose and lips look as if they’ve been scraped off. Blood splatters his face and the grin he gives the crowd reminds Johnny of a villain from a superhero franchise. The announcer holds up the man’s arm and says through his microphone, “Havik wins!”

The cheers become deafening and Johnny can’t see Havik’s opponent but imagines the guy’s out cold on the fighting mat.

“What happened to his face?” Syzoth asks.

The injury looks not quite fully healed but it’s difficult to tell with his opponent’s blood all over Havik’s face.

“That,” Ashrah says, “is Kano’s work.”

Johnny doesn’t have time to see who Havik’s next opponent is because he’s being tugged forward through into the main hall. This room is significantly larger and is the only place in the club to have limited seating, speakers, and decent lighting. It can easily fit a few hundred people, twice as much as many spectators prefer to stand in the area surrounding the raised stage. The caging surrounding the fighting ring is as much for the spectator’s protection as it is a reminder that once that door closes, only one person is walking out.

Money passes hands from Tomas to the security and the group of four head to a section of the room with limited seating. Not that it will matter: no one except the mob bosses in their cordoned off section actually sits during the fights. But Tomas paid to get them up where they have a better view of the cage.

“Told you I can get us good seats!” Tomas says.

Johnny almost wishes they could be right at the ring’s edge, in the splash zone. Something about being right up where all the action is always gets his blood pumping. But he still grins at Tomas and claps him on the shoulder. “These are awesome, Smokey! I don’t think I’ve been up here before!”

“I heard you used to fight here,” Ashrah says, turning her black, tattooed eyes to him.

Johnny was a little shocked the first time he met Syzoth’s girlfriend. Her body modifications—scarification tattoos on her face and the black ink she had tattooed to the whites of her eyes—give her a very demonic appearance. He expected her to be as mean as she looks but she is one of the sweetest people Johnny’s ever met and that is super rare in LA. Plus Syzoth, who Johnny met some time ago at the Lin Kuei school of martial arts where he takes lessons, seems really taken by her and Johnny’s not one to judge other people’s love.

If anything, Cris was more judgmental and meaner when she met Ashrah. Sure, she was polite to Ashrah’s face but in private, she made it clear to Johnny that she did not approve of him spending time with people who “look like that.”

Well, fuck her. Johnny’s out with people she can’t stand and she’ll have to deal with it.

“Not in this ring,” Johnny says, with a chuckle. “Wasn’t good enough back then to make it to the cage match and no, the irony is not lost on me. I did my stints in that ring outside the entrance: but I stopped when I started getting bigger parts. Couldn’t risk damaging the ol’ money maker.”

He gives her a toothy and pulls down his sunglasses enough to wink. Ashrah laughs and Tomas rolls his eyes at him.

“This place used to be a real dive,” Syzoth says.

“You say it like it’s not a dive now,” Johnny laughs.

Ever since it fell under new ownership—the Triads, if the rumors are to be believed—the main room was upgraded to give it an almost UFC feel. It was definitely a lot seedier when Shao Khan was running it but the money was good for a desperate actor with a martial arts background who needed to pay rent. This place should have been permanently shut down years ago but Johnny imagines that the people the owners are paying off to look the other way are happy to keep doing so, so long as they get their cut from the fights.

“It’s nicer, sure,” Johnny concedes, “but take away the fancy surround system and pretty lighting and you still get mano a mano, blood spilling, brutalizing entertainment and isn’t that what we all came for?”

“Hey, check it out—I think it’s starting!”

All of them look to where Tomas is pointing. Cheers explode all around the room and the crowd begins to part as the night’s MC—and renowned owner, Shang Tsung—makes his way to the cage. Ever the show man, Shang Tsung takes a deep bow once he’s inside the cage and riles the crowd up for more applause, eating up the attention. With his medium length hair pinned back by a jade hairpin in a half updo, his soft features and full lips make him prettier than half the starlets Johnny’s worked with and Johnny hates himself for finding Shang Tsung so attractive. Shang Tsung oozes a charisma that Johnny doesn’t trust: he’s convinced that if he spent more than five minutes with the man, Shang Tsung would somehow sell Johnny his own kidneys while conning him in an elaborate crypto scam.

Once the crowd dies down, Shang Tsung finally speaks, his voice smoother than butter as the speakers carry it across the room. “Ladies and Gentleman, it is my pleasure to welcome all of you to Outworld for our twentieth annual championship cage match where our defending champion—Kano—” and the crowd erupts into roaring cheers and applause. Shang Tsung waits with the patience of an adder timing its kill strike for the cheers to die down, “will be defending his title as ‘Outworld Champion’. Tonight, we will feature four matches: four ‘Earthrealm’ champions—the top fighters from our amateur rings—each here to challenge Kano’s title.” The crowd boos. Whoever this ‘Kano’ is, he’s a crowd favorite. “The last man left standing will take the title of Outworld Champion.”

“Before we begin our first match, I invite all of you to give a warm welcome to our honored guest—a long time patron of Outworld—who has come all the way from Japan to be here tonight. Mr. Koji Yamada, if you may.”

The lights brighten over a section that’s been cordoned off almost directly across from where Johnny is sitting. The few times Johnny has been here, he’s seen men in expensive tailored suits sitting over there—likely mobsters—and tonight’s no different. The spotlight’s focused on an elder Japanese man seated beside a significantly younger woman—there’s no way she can be older than eighteen—and a bunch of other self-important Japanese men in expensive suits. They seem almost bored to be there and the men standing around them—their entourage armed with katanas—stand rimrod straight with impassive scowls, like they are waiting for anyone in the room to challenge them.

Yakuza.

“Now there’s a happy bunch,” Johnny remarks, dryly. “These guys must be the life of a party. Remind me never to hire them as the live entertainment when I host my the next party at my mojo dojo casa house.”

“The yakuza are bad news, Johnny,” Tomas says, with a frown. “My brother crossed one years ago and he still needs to watch his back in Little Tokyo.”

Johnny’s about to point out that Bi-Han has beef with everyone—hell, Johnny still has beef with Bi-Han for breaking his favorite pair of sunglasses—but his sarcastic comment dies on his tongue as he watches one of the yazuka approach Koji Yamada. The yakuza is dressed in a black suit and dark red shirt, katana strapped across his back. He leans down and whispers something to who Johnny assumes is the oyabun, and then bows before returning to his post at the edge of the VIP seating area. Koji Yamada then rises from his seat and awkwardly waits through the applause before sitting back down.

Johnny pulls off his sunglasses, staring across the room at the yakuza in the black suit and red shirt, his heart hammering in his chest. A dark pair of eyes meet his and those lips that have haunted almost every waking moment of Johnny’s life in the past few days pull into a smirk.

Kenshi.

But if Kenshi was looking straight at him, his attention is soon drawn back to the center of the ring, face impassive, as Shang Tsung continues speaking.

“Our four champions, each selected for their overall performance in the amateur rings this year, are none other than Reiko,” cheers and boos, “Li Mei,” more cheers and boos, “Kung Lao,” mostly cheers, “and Raiden.” Significantly more cheers. Johnny’s guessing Raiden’s a real contender for the title. “They are to challenge Kano in that order. If the Outworld champion should fall before the end of the third match, the victor will continue in the remaining matches to compete for the title of Outworld champion.”

The lights dim everywhere in the room except above the cage. Johnny’s disappointed that he needs to squint through the darkness and he can barely see the outline of Kenshi.

“Without further ado, I introduce you to tonight’s first challenger for the title of Outworld champion...Reiko!”

Among the cheers and jeers below, the sea of spectators at the left side of the room begin to part as a tall, scowling man approaches the cage. The sides of his head are shaved and the long strands of hair atop his head are pulled into a bun. He looks almost indistinguishable from the bodybuilders Johnny sees at the gym except for the pair of black diamonds painted from his forehead down to the corners of his lips, which makes his blue-gray eyes even more piercing. He sneers at some of the booers and enters into the cage, planting himself at Shang Tsung’s side.

“And for our next fighter who needs no introduction, I present to you the reigning Outworld champion...Kano!”

The spotlight falls at the right side of the room, shining on the bald head of a muscular man as he enters. The crowd erupts in a deafening explosion of cheers and Kano drinks it all in, smirking and grinning at his fans. Although he stands shorter than his opponent, he has a meaner look to him and boldly wears a sleeveless white gi, as if he expects it to be stained with blood by the end of the fights.

Kano enters the cage, all pomp as he stands to the other side of Shang Tsung.

“Fifty says Kano takes him out in less than five minutes,” Ashrah says.

“I’ll take that bet,” Tomas says, slipping her a bill. “Syzoth?”

“I know better than to bet against Ash,” Syzoth says.

Ashrah pats his tattooed cheek. “My man is smart. Johnny?”

Johnny’s hardly paying attention, focused on the section where the yakuza are sitting. His sunglasses are in his pocket since with them on, he can’t make out anything in the dark parts of the room through the black lenses. “You think they can see us from over there?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about anyone recognizing you,” Tomas assures him, misunderstanding what Johnny means. “Everyone’s focused on the fight.”

Slipping a fifty to Ashrah, Johnny says, “My money’s on whatever Tomas bet,” and then goes back to trying to figure out which shadowy outline is Kenshi.

“A quick reminder of the rules: the challenger decides the weapons and there is no killing. The fight ends when one fighter concedes or is knocked out,” Shang Tsung explains. He holds the microphone to Reiko, his voice a seductive purr, “Your weapon of choice?”

Reiko pulls out a dagger. “Knives.”

Kano pulls out a knife from his combat boot, grinning manically. “Yer lucky day, mate, cuz I’m gonna cut ya from ear ta ear.”

“Fighters to your corners!”

Reiko and Kano exchange taunts and then take their respective sides of the cage.

Shang Tsung exits the cage and latches it behind him. “...FIGHT!”

The two fighters charge at each other. Johnny doesn’t really know what happens after that since he’s too busy on his phone, searching for that app so he can download it again. He almost downloads it so he can message Kenshi but soon realizes how pointless that would be: Kenshi must have a smart phone but the chances of him having it with him while he’s standing guard seem pretty slim. And even if he did, Johnny’s sure it would break some kind of yakuza code if Kenshi’s playing around on it while in the presence of his oyabun.

Plus, what the hell will he say? hey thx for the dicking up for round 2?

Actually, that could work…

“You’re missing the fight,” Tomas says, nudging Johnny with his elbow.

Putting away his phone, Johnny watches as Kano slams Reiko’s face into the floor of the ring. He does this again and again and even Johnny visibly flinches at the splatters of blood staining the floor. When Kano finally releases Reiko, the taller man’s face down and out cold. Then, true to his earlier promise, Kano takes his knife and cuts a line from the corner of one ear lobe across the back of Reiko’s skull to the corner of the other earlobe. Not deep enough to kill or cause brain damage but that will definitely leave a scar.

“Fuck,” Johnny says, with a whistle. “I wouldn’t want to get on Crocodile Dundee’s bad side.”

Shang Tsung laughs airily as he enters the cage. “Kano, I believe you’ve made your point. I don’t think he will be getting up again any time soon.”

Some staff members enter the cage and drag Reiko out. His head lulls limply against his chest, face covered in blood. Johnny suspects Shang Tsung’s not wrong about that.

“Your winner, and defending Outworld champion, Kano!”

The crowd cheers once more.

“Just over four minutes,” Ashrah announces, grinning cheekily at her friends.

Johnny and Tomas exchange groans.

“I warned you guys,” Syzoth says, laughing.

“Double or nothing next round.”

“You’re on,” Johnny says to Ashrah, “But I’m calling the next bet.”

The next two rounds are longer: Li Mei proves to be quite formidable as she challenges Kano to a brass knuckles match but doesn’t have the stamina to outlast Kano’s punches. She’s knocked out but not as bloodily as Reiko was. Johnny wouldn’t be surprised if Kano’s crueler treatment of Reiko was due to some history between them in the ring.

Kung Lao is Johnny’s dark horse bet of the night and he’s not sure what it is about the kid, but Johnny really wants to see him win. Kung Lao treats his razor-edged hat like a blade so Kano uses a machete as his weapon for the match. Just as it looks like Kung Lao is getting the edge on Kano, his hat slicing into Kano’s upper left arm and also catching Kano’s thigh at one point, Kano finds an opening and sweeps the edge of his machete into the back of Kung Lao’s right foot. From the way Kung Lao falls to his knees and cries out in pain, it’s obvious that his Achilles tendon is ruptured. He concedes and Johnny almost wishes he can get in the ring and hand Kano’s ass to him for hurting the poor kid like that. An injury like that will take months to recover from.

By the time the final challenger comes out, the energy in the room is brimming with anticipation for the final showdown. Even Johnny’s beginning to feel it—though his wallet certainly isn’t—but it doesn’t stop his eyes from wandering across the room, anxious to know if Kenshi’s seeking him out, too. All he sees are the outlines of spectators, their deafening shouts echoing from every corner of the room as the last fighter approaches the ring.

Raiden enters the cage and Johnny’s not sure why, but the man looks absolutely livid as he stares down Kano from his end of the ring. In fact, Johnny’s sure that if there wasn’t a “no kill” rule in place, Raiden would be running a list through his head of all the ways he can deliver a fatal blow in the most painful way possible to the Outworld champion. Maybe he’s doing that in spite of the rule.

“Did Kano piss in his pool or something?” Johnny asks.

“He hurt Kung Lao,” is all Ashrah says, with a knowing smile on her lips.

The two fighters clash in a flurry of fists, dodges, and kicks, Raiden’s weapon of choice his bare knuckles. From the way Raiden moves, with the grace of a dancer and his strikes timed with the precision of high level martial artist, Johnny surmises that Raiden must have a background in Shaolin and maybe some judo. Where Kano relies on brute force and dirty street fighting tactics, Raiden uses speed and his own opponent’s weight against him to dodge and knock Kano off his feet. But Kano never stays down for long and each time he gets up, he becomes angrier, sloppier. He throws himself at Raiden and ends up crashing into the bars of the cage, busting his nose. Blood pours into Kano’s mouth and he snarls, spitting thick-red saliva at Raiden’s feet. The two then circle each other, each studying their opponent and timing their next move.

“I’d like to change my bet,” Johnny whispers to Ashrah. “My money’s on Shazam.”

The nickname fits the white lightning bolt on the back of Raiden’s powder blue jacket.

“If that’s what you want,” Ashrah says. “But you’re about to regret that.”

Johnny can’t hear what’s happening in the ring since they are too far up but it’s obvious Kano’s said something to get under Raiden’s skin. Whatever it is, it enrages the younger man, who then lunges at Kano with an angry shout. Where his earlier attacks were executed whenever he found an opening, Raiden no longer cares about fighting defensively and throws too much weight and power into each of his strikes. He sacrifices his speed for a full-on assault but if it’s a battle based on strength alone, Kano easily overpowers him. The Outworld champion pummels relentlessly into Raiden’s side and when the air is knocked out of Raiden, he grabs Raiden and slams him into the ground on his back. Then, Kano headbutts Raiden, smacking their foreheads together.

Raiden lies prone on the fighting cage floor, out cold.

The room explodes in cheers as the lights come back on. Kano swipes at his bloody forehead and then fist pumps to the crowd, his lips pulling into a toothy, bloody grin. The cage door opens and crew go in to retrieve Raiden, dragging his limp form across the blood stained floor of the cage. Johnny and Tomas exchange another pair of collective groans and hand the last of their betting money to Ashrah.

“I really thought the kid had it,” Johnny says.

“Raiden could’ve taken the title but they had him fight right after Kung Lao,” Ashrah says. “He wasn’t in the right head space to take on Kano after what Kano did to Kung Lao.”

Johnny wants to ask what that has to do with anything but then Syzoth cuts in, “Ashrah’s been to most of Outworld’s events this year. She’s seen all of them fight and knows their fighting styles and weak points. There’s no use betting against her.”

“See, this information would’ve been good to know before I placed my bets,” Johnny complains.

He’s out $600 and while that’s usually pocket change to him, he imagines Cris will not be pleased if she hears about this. Not that he’ll tell her. If she does find out, she can scream at him all she wants since that’s what she does regardless.

“Outworld, I present to you your reigning champion, Kano!”

The crowd goes wild as Shang Tsung presents the belt to Kano but Johnny tunes out what’s happening in the ring as his gaze is drawn to the VIP section. Kenshi is standing behind the oyabun’s seat, leaning down and in deep conversation with the yakuza leader. Whatever it is they’re discussing, Kenshi’s dark brows are drawn together and he gives a nod of his head. He’s then excused but instead of returning to stand guard, he makes his way down towards the cage.

What the hell?

Before Johnny can think of what he’s doing, he’s pushing through the people in front of him and also making his way down. He hears Tomas shouting at him and gestures to let his friends know he’ll be right back. If he’s quick, he might be able to intercept Kenshi and—

And what?

Tell him he’s driving you crazy because he won’t stay out of your head? ‘Hey, you get a copy of the new script? Cuz no one told me I’d signed on for a sequel.’

Johnny’s got from now until he reaches the cage to improvise. He’ll think of something.

But the crowd proves to be near impossible to push through and Johnny soon loses sight of Kenshi. It doesn’t deter him and he squeezes and elbows his way closer to the cage, hoping to find a sword wielding gangster in the sea of people.

“But you may want to hold your applause,” Shang Tsung says and the crowd falls into a hush at his dramatic pause. He holds it longer than needed, building a kind of tension that even annoys Johnny, who’s barely listening. “For tonight, in celebration of our twentieth Outworld championship, we will allow anyone, and I mean anyone, from our illustrious audience to challenge our champion for that title.”

The twist has its effect on the audience as people begin chattering in loud whispers and it takes a good minute to hush the crowd again. Johnny sees a dark head and the handle of a sword blade up ahead and pushes forward to reach the yakuza.

“Those of you who are brave, who believe you have what it takes to be our next champion, may approach the cage and let your fate be decided in Kombat.”

Johnny’s eyes widen as he sees Kenshi speaking with security at the entrance of the cage. Moments later, the yakuza is let inside.

What the fuck’s he doing?! He’s not seriously getting in there with that maniac?!

“Kenshi—!”

The security guard shoves Johnny back roughly as Johnny tries to reach for the cage door. “Wait your turn! One challenger at a time!”

Johnny raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back, keeping his head ducked. His hat and hoodie hide most of his face anyway but he can’t risk being recognized at a questionably legal fight club. From inside the cage, Kenshi cants his head but doesn’t quite look back over his shoulder. Johnny has no doubt Kenshi heard him.

Johnny moves away from the cage entrance and squeezes up to the edge of the ring so he can have a clear view of the fight.

“It seems we have a challenger,” Shang Tsung says, bemused. He circles around Kenshi, eyeing the yakuza up and down like he is scrutinizing a mouth-watering meal, deciding which part to taste first. It makes Johnny’s skin crawl, white hot anger burning his insides. “Does this challenger have a name?”

“Takahashi Kenshi,” Kenshi says into the microphone Shang Tsung holds for him. Whereas Shang Tsung’s hungry gaze borders on open harassment, Kenshi appears almost annoyed to be standing there. It’s obvious he doesn’t give two shits about Shang Tsung or Outworld and isn’t at all seduced by Shang Tsung’s natural charm. “And I’m not here to challenge your champion for a silly belt. I’m here to fight. Oyabun wishes to see if your trained dog is any match for the Yamada family’s best swordsman.”

The confidence at which he says that, using his height advantage to look down his nose at Kano, reminds Johnny he shouldn’t underestimate the gangster. There’s something dangerous about Kenshi that Johnny only got a glimpse of during their night together. The smell of copper in the air and the bristling tension between the two fighters is only scratching the surface of the sleeping dragon beneath Kenshi’s handsome face.

Fuck is he sexy, Johnny thinks.

Probably not what he should be taking away from this stare down.

“Trained dog?” Kano spits blood on the ground between them, sneering red-toothed at Kenshi. “You got some fucking nerve, arrogant little shit! Fucking—!”

Johnny’s fingers curls around the bars of the cage as Kano snaps a racially charged slur, that urge to strike the Outworld champion stronger than it was when Kano injured Kung Lao.

“Excuse my champion’s foul tongue.” Shang Tsung holds Kano back with a hand, his pretty eyes narrowed with displeasure. “He forgets himself.”

“Baka gaijin,” Kenshi says, smirking.

‘Idiot foreigner’.

Even Johnny snorts at that one.

“The fuck did this bludger call me?”

“Save it for the fight, Kano,” Shang Tsung warns. He keeps himself between the two fighters. “Outworld accepts the challenge: a simple fight between our champion and the Yamada’s swordsman. Same rules apply: no killing and the challenger chooses the weapon.”

“I think my weapon of choice is obvious,” Kenshi says, touching the handle of the blade strapped to his back.

One of the crew enters the cage and hands Kano his machete. Kano twirls it in his grip, smirking. “Yer lucky there’s no killing: I’d enjoy gutting ya like a fish.”

“The fight ends when one fighter concedes or is knocked out.” Shang Tsung indicates to the two ends of the cage. “Fighters, take your places.”

Shang Tsung exits the cage, latching the door behind him. He then shouts, “Fight!” into his microphone.

The crowd is noisy all around Johnny as people catcall and boo but all of that fades into the background as Johnny watches the two fighters circle each other. Kano’s a bit beaten up from his last fights but most of the blood staining his clothes is not his and the worst injury he took was when he smashed his face against the cage bars during the match with Raiden. He’s running on adrenaline and it’s giving him a second wind Johnny fears may mark trouble for Kenshi. Kenshi’s the unknown variable in this confrontation since not even Johnny knows if the yakuza has skill to match his taunting or is all bark and no bite.

Kano strikes first, lunging forward with his machete. Kenshi’s right hand grips the handle of his katana and in a graceful flourish, he draws his sword, side steps and parries Kano’s blade. Kenshi makes the move look easy but there must be even more power in it as the clashing of blades knocks Kano a few steps back and almost off balance. Kano finds his footing and strikes Kenshi another three times but every time he tries to hit Kenshi, his blade is easily deflected.

“Come at me ya fuckin’ drongo!”

And that seems to be Kano’s biggest mistake, encouraging Kenshi to go from defense to offense. Kenshi moves quickly, his agility and footwork making it seem as if the swordsman is following a well-studied routine and not improvising on the spot in a dangerous fight. It’s clear that he’s more practiced with a blade, better balanced than Kano’s clunky attempts to hit him, and it takes only a few fast, fluid strikes for Kenshi to knock the machete out of Kano’s hand. Kano’s eyes widen in panic and he attempts to grab Kenshi from behind but then Kenshi pivots, thrusts back his hand, and slams the blunt handle of the sword into Kano’s nose.

Kano roars in pain and many in the audience boo. Blood spurts from Kano’s broken nose and Kano stumbles around on his feet. Kenshi sheaths his blade and there’s a cold, calculating look in his dark eyes that chills even Johnny’s blood. Giving Kano not even a moment to recover from the blow, Kenshi flips, his foot connecting with Kano’s head in a roundhouse kick and sending Kano crashing to the hard floor of the ring. Kano groans, head turned to the side as he lays on his back. He gurgles and spits out a tooth.

Kenshi’s foot, the expensive leather of his shoe flecked with blood, is on Kano’s throat. The yakuza looks down disdainfully, seemingly more annoyed at the mess on his shoes than the opponent who tried to stab him. He grabs Kano’s left arm and twists it at an unnatural angle. “Yield.”

Kano sputters and chokes as Kenshi twists the arm in his grip and presses down harder on Kano’s throat.

The thrill that Johnny normally experiences when witnessing a good fight is replaced with the sudden horror that Kenshi’s showing zero remorse over potentially choking another man to death.

Whatever sound Kano makes is lodged in his throat but instead of smacking his free hand against the floor, he struggles and writhes like he’s trying to throw Kenshi off him. But Kenshi’s got him locked and Kano’s more likely to die choking than to escape the hold Kenshi’s got him in.

“I said, ‘Yield’!” Kenshi shouts and the entire crowd around the cage falls silent at the blood-chilling command.

Kano’s face has gone almost purple, eyes bloodshot as he fights for breath. Cursing in Japanese, Kenshi releases his foot off Kano’s throat. But what momentary reprieve Kano’s given to catch his breath is soon drowned by a loud snap as Kenshi brings the full force of his foot down on Kano’s arm.

The entire row around the cage stares in shock at their fallen champion. Kano can’t even scream in pain, his voice garbled and vocal chords likely damaged from the punishment they took earlier. The broken edges of Kano’s left humerus bone pierces through the skin and Johnny, who’s seen his share of stunt accidents on set and injuries back when he fought in the ring, finds he can barely stand to look at the scene playing out before him. But much like a car accident, he also can’t bring himself to look away.

More troubling is the way his brain is trying to consolidate that the man who had kissed him and touched him so tenderly can use those same hands to ruthlessly break another human being for merely insulting him. Johnny’s sure there’s some important lesson he needs to take away from all this. Maybe, ‘Don’t fuck with the yakuza.’

“Yield or I will do the same to both your legs,” Kenshi warns loudly, above the jeers directed at him.

The chill in his gaze as he stares down at his injured opponent tells everyone how close he is to enacting that threat.

“The champion yields,” Shang Tsung says, striding quickly into the cage to stop the fight before it can continue. His expression is tight-lipped, eyes swimming with barely veiled anger, likely due to the embarrassment of a prized fighter being taken down so easily by a henchman. He forces a deferential smile as he bows his head in respect to Kenshi. “Takahashi Kenshi is the winner. The Yamadas have proven the superiority of their fighters and Outworld thanks you for your continued patronage.”

“Oyabun thanks you for your invitation to tonight’s event,” Kenshi says, matching Shang Tsung’s bow. “Perhaps next time, you will have more formidable opponents to match the might of the bakuto.”

Shang Tsung only just manages to hide his outrage, Kenshi’s polite tone delivering the insult harsher than if he had slapped the fight club owner and spat in his face. Johnny has to admit, Kenshi’s got a pair on him and never has he been more turned on by someone whose work resume should have him running in the opposite direction.

Again, Johnny’s really taking away all the wrong life lessons from watching Kenshi fight.

As Kenshi turns to leave the cage, his eyes lock onto Johnny’s. The coldness in his dark brown eyes melts away and it’s replaced by something else—guilt? Shame?—but Johnny doesn’t have time to analyze it as he sees Kano throw off one of the crew tending to him and draws out his boot knife with his good hand. He then shoves Shang Tsung out of the way and lunges at Kenshi.

“Behind you—!” Johnny shouts.

But almost as soon as the words are out of Johnny’s mouth, Kenshi swivels around, pulls a knife out from his jacket, and jams the knife into Kano’s right eye. There’s a collective gasp from the crowd and Johnny’s probably the only one who sighs in relief as Kano collapses at Kenshi’s feet, screeching and clutching his face with his uninjured hand. Johnny’s white-knuckled grip on the cage bars loosens for the first time in minutes.

Kenshi, with a look of disdain, steps away from the fallen champion and cleans off his knife with a red silk handkerchief he pulls out from his jacket. Shang Tsung looks torn between wanting to murder Kenshi or his fighter.

“Keep your dog on his leash,” Kenshi tells Shang Tsung, his tone brittle, “or next time, I’ll make sure he can’t get back up.”

Kenshi then exits the cage, escorted by security.

Although the crowd begins to disperse, some fans linger around the cage to watch as Kano is helped out. Shang Tsung is all fake smiles as he thanks people for attending and announces the end of the event. But there are quite a few annoyed spectators, some even complaining that the last match wasn’t a ‘real fight’ since Kano never yielded and wasn’t actually knocked out. Johnny tries to follow after Kenshi but there’s too many people in the way and when he looks up to where the yakuza are seated, the section is nearly empty.

Where the hell did he go?

Johnny’s mind is racing with so many possibilities. What if Kenshi was injured and Johnny somehow missed it from the angle he was watching? Is he in the back rooms being patched up? Or what if his arrogance got him in trouble with the club owner and he’s being reprimanded?

“There you are!” Johnny jumps as a hand claps on his shoulder. He visibly relaxes when he turns to see Syzoth standing behind him. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Tomas was worried you got mobbed by fans.”

That happened once when Johnny was out drinking with Tomas, shortly after the release of a film he did three years before. Back when he was still relevant and couldn’t so much as sneeze without paparazzi reporting on it like it was the latest scoop. Tomas was worried when one of the fans got too grabby and ripped Johnny’s shirt, but Johnny laughed it off once they managed to get away.

Ah, the good old days.

“Nope, still in one Johnny Cage sized piece,” Johnny says, grinning. But since the lights are back on, he slips on his sunglasses. “Where is Smokey and the demon bandit?”

Syzoth snorts at the nicknames and gestures to where their seats are. “Up there. But Ash might be outside—she saw some friends of hers on the way in and promised to meet them after the fight.”

Johnny follows Syzoth to where Tomas is waiting for them. But Johnny doesn’t stick around for long. Syzoth wants to go find Ashrah so Johnny makes up an excuse, saying he also ran into an old friend of his from his days fighting in Outworld and wants to catch up with him over drinks. Tomas and Syzoth soon leave debating who won their last bet.

Once the room has mostly cleared out, Johnny makes his way to where security is guarding the back rooms. The three buff men guarding the doors are a mean looking trio and Johnny guesses that bribing or schmoozing his way back there will not work.

Lucky for him, there’s always a third option.

Pulling down his hood, Johnny’s removes his sunglasses and hat and fluffs his hair so it falls the way he usually styles it. Then, with a charming smile, he approaches the guards.

One of them recognizes him immediately and the vicious scowl he was wearing is gone as his entire face lights up. “Holy shit, it’s Johnny Cage!”

“No fucking way!” another guard says, grinning. “Shit, bro, didn’t you used to fight here?!”

A quarter hour later, after many selfies, some anecdotes about his time on the set of Fatal Infinity, and a quick TikTok video he recorded with Ruis, Johnny’s in the back rooms of the fight club after telling the guards he wanted to meet some of the fighters and congratulate them. A half truth as there is one fighter he wants to meet with and he can’t even be sure Kenshi’s back here.

Although there are some people milling about, no one seems to pay attention to Johnny as Johnny wanders around searching for any sign of the yakuza. As he walks by a closed door, he hears talking inside in a language that definitely isn’t English. He stops and strains his ears but can’t make out any words. Deciding he may as well risk walking in on bunch of sword-wielding Japanese having a super secretive meeting, Johnny throws caution to the wind and bursts into the room.

Immediately, a pair of men break apart, the one seated blinking owlishly at Johnny and the one standing over him red-faced and glaring at Johnny. Johnny instantly recognizes Kung Lao and Raiden. From the look on Raiden’s face, whatever Johnny has just walked in on was not meant for an audience.

Kung Lao whispers something excitedly in Cantonese to Raiden. Raiden scoffs and then responds in Cantonese. The two have a quiet debate in their native tongue.

Right. Not English but definitely not Japanese.

...do they even speak English?

“Sorry, must’ve got the wrong room—” Johnny starts.

“Are you Johnny Cage?!” Kung Lao asks, clearly star struck.

Raiden shakes his head. “Please excuse my friend. He thinks everyone we meet in LA is an actor.”

“Well, tell your friend it’s his lucky day,” Johnny says, stepping into the room and grinning, “because I am, in fact, the Johnny Cage and yes, I have time for selfies!”

Kung Lao practically vibrates in his chair and almost lunges up on his injured foot, stopped by Raiden who scolds him to stay seated. Johnny spends the next ten minutes with the pair, Kung Lao asking him a million questions a minute and Raiden regarding Johnny with an overprotective wariness that comes from his close relationship with Kung Lao. Johnny doesn’t comment on it and keeps his own conclusion to himself: whatever Kung Lao is to Raiden, it’s between them and not something they are ready to share with the world.

As the excitement dies down, Johnny asks, “By the way, you guys happen to see a swordsman around here? He’s like this tall, scowling, and has a katana strapped to his back?”

“Isn’t that how all yakuza look?” Kung Lao asks. But then his brows furrow as if he’s seriously considering if he’s ever seen a yakuza that was not tall, not scowling, and not carrying a sword.

“What do you want with the yakuza?” Raiden asks, suspiciously.

From the way Raiden says the word, Johnny guesses the man’s not a fan.

“Was hoping to get a selfie with the bad ass who took down Kano,” Johnny answers.

“The yakuza are not nice people,” Raiden warns. And Jesus, how many times is Johnny going to hear some variation of that tonight?

“A bunch of them went into Shang Tsung’s office a half hour ago,” Kung Lao says. Raiden gives Kung Lao a look, as if silently telling him to keep his mouth shut, but Kung Lao either doesn’t see it or ignores it. “There was lots of yelling, too. I think Shang Tsung offended their leader.”

“Kung Lao,” Raiden says harshly, followed by something in Cantonese.

Kung Lao rolls his eyes and mutters something back. Johnny’s best guess is that it’s not an apology.

“You know what? You guys had a rough night and here I am talking your ears off when I bet you want nothing more than to get some R&R,” Johnny says, doing his best to ease the sudden tension in the room. “I need to head out anyway but it was so awesome meeting you.”

Kung Lao looks disappointed but Raiden looks relieved that Johnny’s dropping his questions about their employer. He takes another selfie with Kung Lao and even posts it to his Instagram with the hashtag #myEarthrealmChampion. Kung Lao’s over the moon and Johnny notes that Raiden’s mood improves significantly upon seeing the younger man so happy.

After exchanging contact info with Kung Lao and promising to take both of them out for brunch some time, Johnny exits the room. He makes his way to where he recalls Shao Khan used to have his office. If this place is the same as it was 15 years ago, the main office should be just around the corner—

“Again, my sincerest apologies,” Shang Tsung says, on the heels of a group of sharply dressed Japanese men as they walk towards the back exit at the end of the hallway. Johnny immediately recognizes Kenshi’s backside, walking to the left of Yamada Koji. “Kano will be disciplined for his actions.”

Johnny presses himself to the wall, hidden behind a storage cabinet not far from the entrance of the office. He hears the click of dress shoes stop at the end of the hallway.

A man speaks in Japanese—the oyabun?—and then someone else translates. The speaker’s voice is not as deep as Kenshi’s and his accent is slightly thicker. “If Outworld is to continue to receive the Yamadas’ patronage, oyabun expects the fighters whose training he is paying for to meet a specific caliber. Mr. Takahashi is among the best of our swordsman but a mediocre hand-to-hand combatant. He gave your champion a chance to redeem himself in the ring when he sheathed his sword and still, your fighter made a mockery of this club.”

Shit! That was Ken doll going easy on Kano!? Johnny thinks.

Seriously, never fuck with the yakuza.

“As I am aware,” Shang Tsung says, irritation underlying his forced pleasant tone, “and we will revise the training regimen of our fighters—”

Oyabun says something loud in Japanese, talking over Shang Tsung and silencing him. His translator then continues in English, “Do not speak over me with your empty promises. Not only did your champion fail to meet our standards but he also broke the rules of the ring and attempted to attack my guardsman outside of combat. If this were one of my clubs in Japan, I would have more than your champion’s eye for the offense he committed.”

Oyabun’s voice shakes with barely contained outrage, which is in sharp contrast to the crisp and almost monotone translation provided by his associate.

“If there is anything we can do to assuage this situation—”

“You may inform your shareholders that we will be reviewing our books and determining if we wish to continue our business relationship with Outworld,” the translator informs him. “We will give you our answer once we return to Japan.”

Without so much as a goodnight, the group of men leave the building, the door shutting quietly behind them. After about 30 seconds, Johnny hears Shang Tsung mutter irately in Cantonese as he makes his way back to his office. It’s not until Johnny hears the slamming of the office door that he risks leaving his hiding spot.

Peeking around the cabinet, he sees that the hallway is now empty. He walks towards the exit, thoughts scattered all over the place. A cold, icy dread chills him to his core as he recalls the words of warning he was given all night about the yakuza. Anyone who can humble Shang Tsung, a fight club owner with known connections to the Triads, is not someone Johnny should be fucking around with.

...what the hell is he even doing?

Pulling up his hoodie, Johnny steps outside into the warm, summer night. He keeps his head bowed and wanders off to the side where staff members are smoking and texting on their phones. Pulling out his own phone, he pretends to be engrossed with whatever’s on his screen as he watches the group of Japanese men out of the corner of his eye. There is a line of cars waiting to pick up various members of the group. Kenshi stands with the oyabun and the oyabun’s date, speaking quietly with them as their private driver opens the door to their Lincoln.

Soon, all the cars drive off and Kenshi’s left with three of the other guardsman. It’s almost strange to witness the immediate shift in the group: where moments before, the enforcers were standing tall with perfect postures, expressions stoic, and breaking into polite bows when speaking with their superiors, Kenshi and the other yakuza now laugh and joke among each other. But they don’t stay there for very long and soon exchange their goodbyes. Kenshi accepts a cigarette from one of them and then the group splits up, the three heading towards the main street and Kenshi going around the corner into the alleyways.

Deciding it’s now or never, Johnny ignores all the advice he’s been given that night and follows after Kenshi.

The alleyway is very poorly lit and smells of trash and piss. A dark figure up ahead turns down another alley, wisps of smoke curling in the air where they just stood. Johnny follows the lingering scent of tobacco, all the while mentally chastising himself for his shitty life choices. There’s so much that can go wrong when pursuing someone with gang connections down a sketchy back alley in a part of the city known more for its homicide rate than its scenic views. If someone finds Johnny dead in a ditch tomorrow, at least he can take comfort in knowing that he died doing what he loved: being an impulsive idiot chasing after dick.

As Johnny rounds the corner, he steps into the alleyway, squinting into the darkness. The smell of a lit cigarette is heavy in the air around him but Johnny can’t see anyone. He takes another few steps further in, willing his eyes to adjust. This must be where Kenshi went but Johnny swears there’s no one up ahead.

“Did no one ever warn you it’s dangerous to wander around alone at night?”

Johnny jumps, heart hammering so loudly in his chest, he half expects it explode in his ribs. He turns hard on his heels and there’s Kenshi, all 6”1’ of that gorgeous man, in his fitted suit and tousled hair, looking as sinfully delicious as he does in every one of Johnny’s fantasies. His tattooed fingers bring a cigarette to his lips and he inhales deeply from it, dark eyes burning with a hunger Johnny wants nothing more to sate. He turns his head to exhale the smoke and then snuffs out his cigarette with the leather toe of his shoe.

Johnny hates cigarettes and the smell of smoke but fuck does Kenshi make it look sexy. Like he stepped out of one of those old Marlboro ads intended to hook another generation on a lifetime of cancer sticks by selling them sex and masculinity. Johnny can add this to the list of reasons he shouldn’t pursue him – gangster, male, smoker. But much like all things that are bad for Johnny, the more he tells himself he can’t have Kenshi, the more he wants him.

“S’only me’n you, Ken doll,” Johnny says, with a charming grin, “I’m sure a big strong man like you can protect me.”

“If this was one of your films, Cage, I believe this is the part where I tell you that maybe I’m the one you should be afraid of,” Kenshi quips.

“You know, I think my co-star said something like that in World’s Most Wanted,” Johnny jokes. “See, she was playing this deadly assassin—”

The words die on Johnny’s tongue as he’s pushed against the dusty wall of the alley, Kenshi pressing into him. His breath is hot against Johnny’s lips, the scent of sandalwood and cigarette smoke pervading Johnny’s senses like an intoxicating drug. But Kenshi’s worse than a drug: one taste and Johnny’s already hooked on something deadlier than a narcotic. Kenshi’s dark eyes search Johnny’s for an answer Johnny doesn’t know the question to.

“You’ve seen what I am capable of and yet, you’re still here,” Kenshi murmurs, maybe more to himself than Johnny. “I think if we’re quoting more terrible movie lines, I should be warning you that I’m not a nice guy.”

Right, you and half the people I spoke to tonight keep reminding me that, Johnny can’t help but think. But maybe he should be heeding that warning if even the yakuza are telling him to stay away from the yakuza.

“C’mon, Ken doll, you know that’s the perfect setup to me telling you ‘nice guys finish last’,” Johnny muses. “Keep giving me these lines and I’ll soon be telling you that maybe I don’t want a ‘nice guy’; maybe I’m looking to get reamed by a bad boy and you’re the baddest one I know.”

“That’s terrible, even for you, Cage,” Kenshi says, with a chuckle.

Johnny shifts his leg, sliding his thigh between Kenshi’s legs. A half-hard erection presses against it and Kenshi drops his head to Johnny’s shoulder, shuddering into his neck.

“Kuso,” Kenshi mumbles. He lifts his head and cradles Johnny’s cheek with the palm of his hand. “You don’t know how difficult it was to not leave oyabun’s side. Every time I felt your eyes on me, I wanted to seek you out, steal you away into a dark corner, and fuck you harder than I did the night you came to my hotel room.”

“I mean, if that hard fucking is still on the table…”

“Why are you here, Johnny?” And Johnny can’t say what it is specifically about his name on Kenshi’s tongue that lifts the flirtatious pretension, makes the reality of where he is and what’s happening hit him as hard as it does. But it’s as if the oxygen’s been seeped from the air, as if Johnny’s not capable of breathing until he gives an earnest answer to Kenshi’s questioning gaze. “In this alleyway, with me tonight? I thought this was a one time thing.”

You’re all I can goddamn think about and it’s driving me crazy, is what Johnny should be saying.

“Do you want it to be a one time thing?” Johnny asks instead.

“What do you think?” And to make his point, Kenshi rolls his hips against Johnny’s and all Johnny can do is give a small whine as their clothed erections rub against each other. “Answer the question and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

“Maybe? C’mon, Kenny, don’t tease me like that.” Johnny tries to grind their hips together but a firm hand on his waist keeps them mere inches apart. Johnny pouts. “Maybe you’re the best fuck I’ve had in a long time and I’m back for seconds?”

“Obviously,” Kenshi says and that arrogance that should be off-putting makes him only sexier in Johnny’s eyes. But Kenshi’s still not satisfied with that answer. “You’ve seen me knife out a man’s eye and instead of avoiding me, you’re stalking me down a dark alley. I can’t decide if you have a reckless disregard for your own safety or if you’re just crazy.”

“A bit of column A and a bit of column B?”

“Beautiful, reckless, idiot,” Kenshi mutters and then crashes their lips together.

It takes Johnny by surprise at first but Johnny offers no resistance, moving his mouth against Kenshi’s with that same aching need from a few nights before. When he gasps into the kiss, Kenshi pushes his tongue between Johnny’s parted lips, licking the roof of Johnny’s mouth. He tastes of mint and tobacco and each slide of his tongue against Johnny’s draws the actor into a heady frenzy, his days long yearning for Kenshi’s touch refusing to be satisfied until he’s taken all Kenshi will give him. Even as his lungs beg him for a moments respite, Johnny’s kissing Kenshi as if he expects Kenshi to slip through his fingers if he stops, a bewitching phantasm wrought by his sex-addled brain.

Is it even healthy to want someone this much?

When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing heavily. Every one of Kenshi’s exhales is inhaled by Johnny and there’s something almost terrifyingly intimate about it, about sharing his space with someone like this. But that constant compulsion he has to stubbornly deflect anything that feels too real, too honest, melts away in the liquid heat of Kenshi’s gaze.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Johnny admits, quietly. The words are spoken with the heavy weight of a confession better kept locked away. The one talent Johnny has is to say anything and have it mean nothing at all. But when it means something, that’s when he knows he’s peeling back too many layers.

Kenshi traces Johnny’s lower lip with his thumb. After a moment, he adds, quietly, “I can’t stop thinking about you as well. I’m...ashamed you had to see this side of me tonight.”

Johnny’s surprised. He didn’t think Kenshi was that bothered about what he does.

“Is it terrible that I kinda find it super hot?”

Kenshi makes a derisive sound. “Again, I have to ask if you really lack self-preservation or if you’re insane. Most people wouldn’t find it ‘super hot’ that I can snap a man’s arm in half.”

“I dunno. The way you yakuza had that asshole Shang Tsung almost pissing himself was kinda hilarious.”

“Oyabun was quite terrifying when he told Shang Tsung to make it up to me,” Kenshi says, with a small laugh. “There are few things as satisfying as seeing that man on his knees.”

“On his knees?” Johnny asks, unable to hide his obvious jealousy.

The thought of Shang Tsung sucking Kenshi off makes Johnny irrationally sick and angry, like he’s being turned inside out. He knows he shouldn’t feel that way but it doesn’t change that part of him wants to have a special claim to Kenshi.

“No, not...maybe I am using the expression wrong.” Kenshi mutters under his breath in Japanese, as if trying to piece together what he meant. His sudden bashfulness is kinda cute. “Oyabun made him apologize to me. On his knees. He didn’t do...that.”

Oh.

Okay, that actually is pretty funny. Johnny would’ve paid good money to see Shang Tsung grovel.

“Good,” Johnny says and he kisses Kenshi possessively. “Because I’ll feel a lot better about this if I’m not indirectly exchanging spit with that guy.”

Johnny drops down in front of Kenshi and begins undoing Kenshi’s pants.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you head,” Johnny says, tugging down Kenshi’s pants and underwear low enough to free Kenshi’s thick cock. The sight of the glistening head makes Johnny’s mouth water, his own cock throbbing in his jeans.

“I can see that,” Kenshi says, petting Johnny’s hair. “Is there a reason you’re doing this now?”

“Gonna show you an even more satisfying sight of a man on his knees.”

Wrapping his hand around the base of Kenshi’s dick, Johnny laves at the head, rewarded with a small groan. He darts his eyes up at Kenshi’s and Kenshi is looking at him ravenously, like he could fuck Johnny with his gaze alone. That only encourages Johnny to make good on his promise to show him something better than Shang Tsung being put in his place.

“You made your point, Cage. You don’t need to...kuso!”

Johnny licks at the slit, lapping up the bitter droplets pearling at the tip. The musky taste of him makes Johnny moan, desperate to have his mouth filled with the viscous cum. Nothing would be hotter than for Kenshi to savagely fuck his throat and moan Johnny’s name when he shoots his load. Johnny would love to have his throat so rawed, it would leave his voice hoarse for days afterward.

Pulling his lips over his teeth, Johnny begins sucking on the tip of Kenshi’s cock. Kenshi groans, propping himself against the wall behind him, and twisting his fingers in Johnny’s hair.

“You know anyone could come around this corner and see the famous Johnny Cage sucking dick?”

Johnny pops his mouth off Kenshi’s cock. With his tongue, he licks a long stripe up the underside of Kenshi’s dick, eyes twinkling as he glances up at the yakuza. Smirking, he adds, “If you see the paparazzi snapping photos, fuck my throat extra hard and moan my full name. Gotta leave no doubt in their minds that Johnny Cage loves giving blowjobs in sketchy alleyways.”

Johnny then mouths at the tip of Kenshi’s cock, catching a few drops of precum that dribble on his lips. He licks the bitter drops away with a small moan. “Think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Baka,” Kenshi says, the word laced with nothing but affection.

Johnny spits, palming at the fat head of Kenshi’s dick to coat his hand in saliva. He then starts jacking the base of Kenshi’s shaft and presses his tongue against that sensitive spot underneath the head. Kenshi’s fingers tighten in Johnny’s hair and he chokes back a pleased sound as Johnny flicks the edge of his tongue against the sensitive glans and circles his tongue around it. He swears he can feel Kenshi tremble as Johnny takes his sweet time teasing and tasting Kenshi’s dick, daring to draw only the wide tip of it between his lips when he suckles on it.

And oh, Johnny’s not quiet about it, suckling loud and moaning as if he needs Kenshi to spill in the hot velvet of his mouth. He’s driving Kenshi into a maddening hysteria, both hands now planted on Kenshi’s hips to keep the yakuza from thrusting into his mouth. From the way Kenshi tugs painfully on Johnny’s hair, he’s quickly losing his patience.

“You’ll be the death of me, Cage,” Kenshi groans in frustration, once more stopped from pushing in.

Johnny grasps Kenshi’s cock, kissing along the shaft. His thumb rubs circles around the tip as Johnny licks the length of him. Johnny’s chin is wet, strings of saliva breaking from where they connect to Kenshi’s cock and when Johnny glances upward, Kenshi’s looking at him with a fever that can burn Johnny alive.

Smirking, Johnny draws part of Kenshi’s sac into his mouth.

“J-Johnny,” Kenshi gasps and Johnny’s name has never sounded sweeter on anyone’s lips.

Johnny sucks on Kenshi’s sac, refusing to break eye contact as he mouths and tongues at Kenshi’s balls. The sounds he makes are filthy, accompanied by the fist pumping along Kenshi’s shaft. Kenshi is so hard, dick throbbing in Johnny’s grip and he’s quickly losing any semblance of control he had. Too bad for him that Johnny doesn’t fuck around when it comes to sucking dick.

Shifting his weight so his knees dig into the dust and grime of the street, Johnny moves his mouth off of Kenshi’s sac. The slap of his hand jerking Kenshi off echoes in his ears, Johnny’s own cock pressing painfully against the seam of his jeans. But he ignores his temporary discomfort, mouth open before the cock he’s stroking.

“Think you can cum for me, Ken doll?”

Kenshi grunts back a sound and Johnny strokes him faster.

“C’mon, gimme something to work with,” Johnny teases. “Act all scary and tough when I can feel how badly you wanna cum, baby. Won’t even tell me if you wanna cum on my face or in my mouth…”

He spits on Kenshi’s dick, slicking up the shaft.

“Kinda makes a guy feel unappreciated,” Johnny says, above the sound of his jacking Kenshi off. “Makes me feel like I’m putting in all this effort and—”

“You really never shut up,” Kenshi complains.

He yanks Johnny by his hair and Johnny barely has time to react as Kenshi thrusts into Johnny’s mouth. Tears spring to Johnny’s eyes at the painful burn of it, his hands grabbing Kenshi’s hips for balance. A loud moan rips from Kenshi’s throat and he pulls out and pushes back in, sinking in most of the way. He gives Johnny only a moment to adjust before he thrusts out and back in.

“K-Kimochi ii,” Kenshi groans, moving in and out of the wet heat of Johnny’s mouth.

Johnny fights against his gag reflex, relaxing his jaw to keep from choking. Each time Kenshi thrusts back in, he goes a bit deeper, pushing further into the narrow entrance of Johnny’s throat. And once he’s sure Johnny can take it, he fucks brazenly into Johnny’s mouth, the hand in Johnny’s hair guiding Johnny’s head to meet each thrust of Kenshi’s hips.

Johnny’s throat is on fire and his vision swims as his watery gaze struggles to hold onto Kenshi’s dark eyes. The loud squelch of Kenshi’s dick pushing as deep it can go drowns the soft sounds of encouragement Kenshi makes. Johnny breathes hard through his nose, spit dripping off his chin and he thinks with a pleased thrill how filthy he must look kneeling in the grimy streets of Los Angeles and having his throat fucked by a dangerous yakuza armed with a goddamn katana.

“J-Johnny, ikisou!” Kenshi gasps, “I-I’m going to—ah—finish—!”

He pulls out of Johnny’s mouth and Johnny sticks out his tongue, mouth opened wide. With a few quick strokes, Kenshi cums with a low groan, unloading on Johnny’s lips and tongue. Some droplets catch onto Johnny’s nose and another few on his cheek but Johnny doesn’t wipe them away, waiting with the patience of a saint for Kenshi to empty himself with another few strokes. Once Kenshi’s finished, falling back against the wall he’s leaning against, Johnny swallows his reward. The bitter, musky taste that is so uniquely Kenshi has Johnny moaning with approval.

Through his bleary vision, Johnny helps tuck Kenshi back in his underwear and buckles up his pants. A gentle thumb caresses Johnny’s cheek, fingers tilting Johnny’s chin upwards. Kenshi comes into focus, the hint of a smile on his lips. God, is he gorgeous.

Studying Johnny’s face, Kenshi’s brows furrow.

“Shit,” Kenshi says, embarrassed.

He drops down beside Johnny, pulling out a silk red handkerchief. He’s about to wipe Johnny’s face with it but then stops himself, squinting at the cloth. “There’s blood on this.”

Right. Kano’s blood.

“A little blood’s never bothered me,” Johnny says, his voice hoarse.

He’s pretty sure he’s said that to Cris before.

Kenshi scrutinizes the cloth again and then begins to clean away the cum from Johnny’s nose and cheek on presumably the clean side of the fabric. There’s a quiet tenderness to it and Johnny’s struck again by how Kenshi can be so many opposing things: those hands he has seen injure and maim touch Johnny as if they’re afraid to break him.

Putting away the handkerchief, Kenshi helps Johnny to his feet.

Curling his hand at the back of Johnny’s neck, Kenshi leans in and kisses him. It’s soft at first, a mere brushing of their lips but Johnny’s then achingly reminded of his own arousal. He pushes his insistent tongue into Kenshi’s mouth and Kenshi must taste himself because the yakuza’s fingers tighten on Johnny’s skin and a low growl rumbles in his throat. When his lips leave Johnny’s, they trail along Johnny’s jawline, stubble scraping against Johnny’s skin.

“What would you like me to do to you?” Kenshi whispers, breath hot on Johnny’s ear.

He nibbles on the lobe and slides a hand over the tent in Johnny’s jeans. Johnny gives a small mewl, bucking against Kenshi’s hand, chasing more of that friction.

“You’ll make me hard again if you keep making sounds like that,” Kenshi groans, rubbing Johnny through his jeans.

“Got any lube on you?” Johnny asks, his voice sounding rougher than gravel. He swallows a whine. “Want you to—ah—fuck me so bad, Ken doll.”

“Sorry, I must have left it in Shang Tsung’s office.” At the vicious look he receives from Johnny, Kenshi smirks. “That was a joke, Cage.”

“Your jokes are terrible.”

“No worse than your pick-up lines.”

“Such disrespect,” Johnny sighs, dramatically. “After I gave you fantastic head—”

“Moderate head,” Kenshi teases.

“Amazing head,” Johnny insists. “At least eight out of ten, Dr. Cage recommended. I am fully certified in dick sucking and I say that was superb.”

“Six out of ten and I am not commenting on your ‘credentials’, Dr. Cage,” Kenshi quips. “You lose points for cornering me in a creepy alleyway.”

“Would not expect you to be such a snob over the locale.” Johnny glances around. “There’s trash, what I’m hoping isn’t shit, and...I think that’s a dead rat over there? Don’t try telling me I never lure you anywhere nice for some impromptu fellatio, sweetheart.”

“Fine. Nine out of ten.” When Johnny attempts to protest—hey, if Kenshi’s giving out nines, he may as well demand a ten—Kenshi silences him with a rough kiss. “Minus one point because now we need to get back to my hotel room so I can fuck you.”

At the promise of fucking, Johnny perks up. “Lead the way.”

Kenshi tugs Johnny by the elbow and Johnny falls in step beside him. He leads Johnny a few blocks away, looping around Outworld to an old parking lot. A handful of vehicles are still there and some people linger beneath the dim street lights, smoking and recapping the fights they witnessed. Kenshi and Johnny end up away from everyone else to where some motorcycles are parked.

“No way,” Johnny says, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as Kenshi takes a helmet from a sleek black Ducati. “Is that your ride?!”

Kenshi cocks a brow. “Is this going to be a problem? I can call a taxi if you’re not comfortable riding a motorcycle.”

Johnny’s chest warms at the sweetness of the gesture. If Kenshi leaves that out here overnight, it will definitely be stolen by the morning.

“The only problem I’m gonna have is keeping my hands to myself if I’m riding bitch,” Johnny says, smirking. “Tattoos, swords, and now a bike? Ken doll, it’s like you’re trying to give me the worst set of blue balls by being too goddamn sexy.”

“I wouldn’t recommend keeping your hands to yourself if you don’t want to get thrown off the bike,” Kenshi advises. He hands the helmet to Johnny. “I’ve got only one of these so maybe keep your hands above my clothes.”

“You say that like I would intentionally distract you and then unintentionally get us into an accident.” Johnny scoffs. “C’mon, I have more self-control than that.”

“You sucked me off in an alleyway that smelled worse than an outhouse ten minutes ago.”

“...I have self-control when it counts.”

“Be a good boy and I will reward you when we get back to the hotel,” Kenshi promises. His eyes dart to the side and seeing there’s no one close to them, he crowds in close to Johnny, words hot as they caress Johnny’s lips. “Think you can do that for me, Cage?”

“Yes,” Johnny breathes, dick somehow getting impossibly harder.

He not only wants to earn Kenshi’s praise, he now needs it.

“You’ve been such a good boy all night, pleasing me with your pretty mouth.” To emphasize his point, he runs his thumb along Johnny’s lower lip. Johnny’s insides twist in delight at the warm words feeding that constant need for approval. “So I need you to be on your best behavior: you are easily the most distracting man I have ever met and I can’t fuck you again if we die in a crash.”

“Aww, is this your way of telling me you like me?”

Kenshi makes a derisive sound but Johnny doesn’t doubt he’d see a flush in the other man’s cheeks if it wasn’t so dark.

“Put on your helmet and get on.”

Kenshi throws a leg over the leather seat and starts the Ducati. There’s barely enough room to seat two people so when Johnny hops on, he has no choice but to squeeze in snugly behind Kenshi, biting back a groan as his erection presses against where Kenshi’s spine meets his curvy ass. Kenshi has an incredibly nice ass and Johnny’s train of thought is deep in the gutter, wondering if Kenshi wouldn’t mind getting rimmed some time. Johnny’s got no problem if he’s the one always getting dicked but that ass deserves some appreciation.

“Hang on!” Kenshi shouts above the roar of the motorcycle.

The bike moves and Johnny clings to Kenshi for dear life, all thoughts of tonguing assholes fleeing from his mind. They can’t be going more than 20 miles per hour as they peel out of the parking lot but Johnny’s only ever been on a motorcycle a handful of times, usually on set of a film, and never as a passenger. As Kenshi turns onto the empty street, he accelerates and Johnny’s half convinced this is how he’s going to die. Kenshi may be laughing at him or it may be the vibration from the bike that makes his chest rumble beneath Johnny’s vice grip.

The drive into downtown Los Angeles somehow takes forever but also goes by in a blink. This late at night, fewer vehicles are out and Kenshi easily weaves through the traffic, the sadistic bastard ignoring how Johnny’s practically molded into his backside. Every time Kenshi accelerates to what Johnny suspects is well above the speed limit, Johnny squeezes his eyes shut, chin resting on Kenshi’s shoulder, and counts down until Kenshi decelerates. In spite of the obvious dangers of treating downtown like a speedway, there’s no denying the thrill Johnny gets knowing that if Kenshi mishandles the bike or they swerve, it could mean instant death for both of them.

Maybe Johnny really has a death wish.

Before long, Kenshi’s slowing down and turning into the underground parking for the hotel. Once Kenshi parks the bike, Johnny releases a breath it feels like he’s been holding for hours. He hops off the bike, nearly tripping and only steadied by the firm grip Kenshi has on his waist.

“Careful. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

Taking off the helmet, Johnny hands it to Kenshi, pouting. “I need to be careful? I wasn’t the one driving like a maniac through Skid Row.”

Kenshi laughs and sets the helmet back on the bike. “I did warn you to hold on tight.”

Oh, Johnny did hold on tight. He’s certain he has a permanent indent in his chest from the sword strapped to Kenshi’s back.

“Pretty sure you broke like at least ten traffic laws getting here,” Johnny says. “And you so ran that red back on 7^th.”

“A law’s only broken if you’re caught breaking it,” Kenshi points out.

Christ, is that how all yakuza think?

“Damn, you’re hard, Ken doll.”

“I think you’re the one who’s hard.” His hand ghosts over Johnny’s erection. Johnny’s not sure if he wants to scream or cry at how neglected his poor dick is feeling. The vibration from the motorcycle certainly hadn’t helped stave his desire to get off. “Let’s get upstairs so I can do something about this.”

Putting up the hood from his sweater, Johnny slips his sunglasses back on and follows Kenshi to the elevators. Once the doors close, Kenshi pushes Johnny to the wall, kissing him hungrily. His hands grip at Johnny’s hood, hips pressing into Johnny and oh is he just as hard, just as desperate, to be rid of all the clothing obstructing the naked slide of skin-on-skin.

Almost as soon as their kissing intensifies, the elevator dings. Kenshi makes a quiet sound of disapproval, pushing himself off of Johnny and standing a few feet away at the back of the elevator. He shifts so his erection’s mostly hidden by his suit jacket, arms folded across his chest and eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling in a look of obvious impatience. Johnny barely has time to react when the doors open in the lobby and a group of drunken twenty somethings crowd into the elevator.

The ride up becomes incredibly unbearable over the next minute: the group gets increasingly louder the closer they get to their floor. Johnny’s horny as fuck but pushed into the opposite corner of Kenshi, legs crossed to hide how hard he is. If he wasn’t so annoyed, he might have found the murderous glare Kenshi was burning into the back of one of the guests’ heads to be hilarious.

The elevator stops and the group gets off. Before the doors close, Kenshi’s crowding in close to Johnny, mouth latching onto Johnny’s neck to suckle at the sun-kissed flesh. Johnny should warn Kenshi to not leave a mark but fuck does he not care, whimpering when Kenshi’s teeth sink a bit too hard into the skin. Maybe he wants to be marked, an unspoken supplication to what Kenshi has promised him.

“You should tell me to stop before I leave bruises all over your neck,” Kenshi tells him, huskily. “You taste so good; I want everyone to know what I’ve done to you.”

Kenshi pops open the button on Johnny’s jeans and slides his hand under the waistbands of Johnny’s jeans and underwear. Johnny drops his head to the crook of Kenshi’s neck, a low moan buried in the collar of Kenshi’s wine red shirt as Kenshi’s fingers wrap around his cock. Kenshi strokes him underneath his underwear and fuck does it feel good after Johnny’s been suffering the last hour with a raging hard on.

“Daijoubu?” he whispers, tone light and teasing.

‘Are you alright?’

“W-Want you,” Johnny gasps into Kenshi’s neck. What’s that expression again? “Irete hoshii.”

Kenshi’s chuckle is warm, light puffs of air that tickle Johnny’s ear. “You really want me to fuck you in this elevator? You know they have cameras in these.”

Yes, Johnny’s brain answers, too horny to give a shit. And, if he’s being honest with himself, the thought of possibly getting caught only makes it hotter.

The elevator stops on Kenshi’s floor and neither wastes any time getting into Kenshi’s room. Almost as soon as the door closes, the two men are peeling off each other’s clothing, discarding pieces as they kiss and stumble through the dark to the bedroom.

Both men are completely naked—with the exception of Kenshi’s sock garters—when Kenshi pushes Johnny down onto the bed. He hastily grabs lube and a condom from the bedside table, tossing them on top of the covers. He then descends onto Johnny, kissing his way down Johnny’s chest. His mouth is hot and eager, teasing one of Johnny’s nipples while his hand grasps Johnny’s cock.

“K-Kenshi.” Johnny trembles as Kenshi lightly drags his teeth across the nipple and then laves the hardened bud with his tongue. He shows even less mercy to Johnny’s dick, palming at the head to smear pre-cum all over his hand. He then pumps his hand along the shaft and Johnny throws back his head, groaning loudly.

Making his way lower, Kenshi scrapes his nails across Johnny’s abs and Johnny’s certain now that Kenshi’s making good on his threat to mark the actor. Johnny can think of excuses later to give his wife, not that he plans on being naked around her anytime soon. It’s funny how she’s become nothing more than an uncomfortable afterthought all evening, how Johnny can’t bring himself to feel anything close to resembling guilt for the way he unabashedly throws himself at Kenshi. A cruel side of him hopes Kenshi leaves bruises in the most intimate places so that if Cris sees it, Johnny can silently flaunt how there’s someone in this world who still appreciates him, who doesn’t make him feel as awful as Cris’ constant disapproval and rejection does. All Johnny’s ever wanted is to be good enough for someone and with Kenshi, he’s beginning to believe he can be.

Face hovering over Johnny’s cock, Kenshi releases a long string of spit from his mouth onto the head of Johnny’s erection. Kenshi gathers the saliva in his hand and begins pumping a slicked fist on Johnny’s cock. Johnny watches lustfully as Kenshi jacks him off, thighs shaking when Kenshi’s lips pepper the inside of them with feather light kisses. Kenshi’s worshiping his flesh like he’s a disciple of the Temple of Cage and Johnny’s offering his body in holy communion, Kenshi’s prayers the pleased sounds swallowed between Johnny’s thighs. When Kenshi takes Johnny whole, Johnny’s dick pushing into the wet heat at the back of Kenshi’s throat, Johnny ascends to a bliss-filled paradise only found in Kenshi’s mouth.

“So good, baby, so good,” Johnny blathers almost nonsensically, trills of pleasure undoing him as Kenshi sucks him off, “Just like that.”

His fingers grip Kenshi’s hair, eyes drinking in the sight of that dark head bobbing on his dick. Each time Johnny’s dick squeezes into Kenshi’s throat, his toes curl from how good it feels, how gorgeous Kenshi looks swallowing Johnny’s erection. Johnny’s not quite as large as Kenshi but he’s not small either and deep-throating him is no easy feat. He almost wonders if he should be jealous at the amount of practice Kenshi must have but Johnny can take solace in being the only one Kenshi pleases like this while Kenshi’s in the city. Maybe Johnny’s getting ahead of himself but he wants a piece of Kenshi that Kenshi will share with only him.

Moving his mouth off Johnny’s erection with a wet pop, Kenshi’s breathing hard as he reaches for the bottle of lube. Johnny would be disappointed at the loss of Kenshi’s touch but he knows what’s coming next while he watches Kenshi coat his fingers in the thick lubricant. Ever eager to show off his flexibility, Johnny folds his legs into something akin to a yoga butterfly pose, keeping his feet apart and pressing the outside of his thighs flat onto the bed. His ass cheeks spread, giving Kenshi a clear view of his pink, puckered entrance.

Johnny shivers as the tip of one of Kenshi’s lubed fingers presses against his hole.

“Spreading for me before I asked?” Kenshi muses. “Are you like this with everyone or just for me?”

“Only you,” Johnny answers. “Wanna show you how good I am for you.”

He whines as Kenshi’s finger pushes into him, that intimate sensation he’s been craving all night not quite sated but getting there. He needs more than Kenshi’s fingers.

“You should wait until I ask,” Kenshi warns, voice dark and lust-filled. “You don’t want me thinking you’re a whore, do you? That you do this for everyone who gives you a little bit of attention?”

Another finger enters him, this time rougher than the first. Johnny cries out, nails digging into Kenshi’s back, leaving crescents in Kenshi’s tattoos. He rocks against Kenshi’s hand, tiny moans spilling from his lips when Kenshi curls his fingers inside Johnny. The burn of it is so mind numbing, Johnny barely can think coherently.

Kenshi’s waiting for an answer. What was he asking again?

“N-Not a whore,” Johnny gasps out. His voice breaks into a whimper as Kenshi fucks him with his tattooed fingers. “O-Only want you.”

“So pretty,” Kenshi whispers and he kisses Johnny’s temple. His fingers thrust in deep, brushing that sensitive bundle that never fails to leave Johnny shaking. Johnny quivers around Kenshi’s fingers and Kenshi laughs. “You’re being so good for me and we both know how terrible I am for you. Is this what you want, Cage? To be fucked by some common criminal?”

When a third finger pushes into him, Johnny loses all sense of everything except Kenshi stretching him open. The intrusion is uncomfortable, not quite painful but not quite pleasurable either. His body takes a moment before the pressure subsides and he’s moaning each time those fingers are shoved into him. They explore him deeply, scissoring to prepare him for something larger.

“You didn’t answer me,” Kenshi hisses, displeased.

Johnny’s brain struggles to recall what had been asked. He fails to remember anything besides how fucking amazing it feels to have his ass stretched open by Kenshi. There’s only one thing he needs right now and he hopes it’s what Kenshi wants to hear.

“Fuck me, Kenshi,” Johnny begs, his voice near a sob. His balls are aching, cock thick as it sits on his abdomen. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to last long once Kenshi’s inside him but fuck does Johnny need to have Kenshi inside him. “Please—ah—fuck me!”

Johnny whines at the loss of Kenshi’s fingers but Kenshi’s soon flipping Johnny onto his stomach, propping Johnny up on his elbows and knees. Johnny hears a package being ripped open, the squirt of a bottle dispersing its contents but he’s too lost in that achy haze to cum to look back over his shoulder, the covers of the bed swimming in his vision. Something thick presses against his entrance and Johnny’s fingers grip at the blanket in anticipation.

Unlike the first time they did this, Kenshi doesn’t take his time. With his hands grasping Johnny’s hips, Kenshi pushes all the way inside with a satisfied moan. Johnny chokes back a garbled cry, feeling every agonizing inch of Kenshi push into him, his walls contracting around the intrusion. The muscle memory of having something thrust into him is still something he needs to relearn and Kenshi is a lot to take all at once. Still, even with tears dripping down his cheeks and the bedding muffling the sounds Johnny makes, Johnny forces himself to relax, to adjust to the fullness of Kenshi being inside him.

Kenshi pulls out and thrusts back in, his balls hitting the back of Johnny’s ass as he sinks in deep. Even through the discomfort, Johnny shivers at the pleased sounds Kenshi makes as Kenshi fucks him, a softly uttered, ‘Attakai’, making Johnny want to sob at how good he feels to Kenshi. He wants to be good for him, to drive Kenshi as crazy as Kenshi’s driven him. If each drop of Kenshi is a poison that slowly kills Johnny from the inside, Johnny would gladly discard the antidote and welcome his slow descent into oblivion.

“Oh fuck, baby, you feel so good inside me,” Johnny moans and he’s not lying, any pain he felt a minute before replaced by ripples of euphoria. He pushes back onto Kenshi’s dick, meeting each thrust. “D-Don’t stop fucking me. Y-You make me—uh—feel so good, so fucking good.”

Kenshi is almost as maddeningly quiet as he was the first time they fucked, any sound he makes drowned by Johnny and the smack of his hips meeting Johnny’s ass. But he must be losing himself in Johnny, drowning in that same dusky fog of their fucking.

In a show of strength, he curls an arm around Johnny’s chest, lifting Johnny to press Johnny’s back flush against his chest. His hips are relentless as he drives his dick into Johnny’s tight warmth, hot exhales puffing against Johnny’s sweat-slicked neck. He then licks a long stripe from Johnny’s neck to the edge of his ear and Johnny responds with a pleased whimper.

“Are you keeping yourself tight for me, Cage?” Kenshi asks, voice raw and raspy. He fucks into Johnny harder and Johnny answers with a whine. “Have you not found someone else who will fuck you like this?”

Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “D-Don’t want anyone else to—ah!—fuck me.”

Johnny turns his head and Kenshi’s mouth claims Johnny’s in a rough, wet kiss. It’s sloppy the way their tongues slide together and Johnny can barely focus on what to do with his mouth, dizzy from the pounding he’s receiving. When Kenshi breaks the kiss, both their chins are caked in drool.

“Motto fukaku?” Kenshi smirks. His next words are uttered in a cold command, spoken with the same possessive note of a lover not keen on sharing. “Don’t let anyone else fuck you while I’m here.”

He pushes Johnny back down onto all fours, not even waiting for Johnny to give a response. He must be close, climbing towards that same edge Johnny’s teetering on. Kenshi slams repeatedly into Johnny and snakes an arm around him to take hold of Johnny’s leaking cock, both of them chasing their quickly approaching release. As he strokes Johnny, that pressure that’s been building in the pit of Johnny’s abdomen crescendos and Johnny arches, angling his hips to take Kenshi impossibly deeper. So close, he’s so fucking close—

“K-Kenshi,” Johnny chokes out, “Baby, I’m cumming—!”

For a split second, it’s as if everything fades out of Johnny’s focus. Suddenly, he’s spilling hard onto Kenshi’s fingers, hot all over as he’s pulled into a zealous wave of mind blowing ecstasy. He trembles with each aftershock of his release, moaning nonsensically into the blanket and only distantly aware that his ass is still being savagely fucked. It’s only as Johnny begins to come back to himself that he hears something uttered in Japanese. Then, Kenshi’s hips stutter and he’s cumming with little more than a grunt, a vice grip on Johnny’s waist holding Johnny in place until Kenshi finishes emptying himself.

Spent, Kenshi collapses on top of Johnny, breathing hard. He doesn’t stay like that for long and as he begins to catch his breath, he shifts, pulling Johnny to his chest so he can spoon him while they lay on their sides. Kenshi’s still inside him, perhaps not quite ready to break their connection, and Johnny’s trembling in his embrace, still not recovered from the intensity of his orgasm.

Soft kisses trail from Johnny’s shoulder to his neck. Kenshi presses his nose to Johnny’s skin, inhaling deeply. The smell of sex and sweat is heavy in the air—a combination of Johnny and Kenshi—something so unique to them that Johnny feels more exposed in the aftermath of what they’ve done than at any moment leading up to him finishing in Kenshi’s hand. But where Johnny normally shies away from moments of vulnerability, he instead indulges this one and turns his head to accept the soft brush of Kenshi’s lips against his.

This is dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous and Johnny doesn’t care.

“Did I hurt you?” Kenshi asks. “I was too caught up in what we were doing.”

He shifts, finally pulling out of Johnny and Johnny muffles a sound in his throat at the loss of him. As Kenshi’s dark eyes regard him with concern, Johnny’s heart hammers. Kenshi could’ve been gentler in the beginning, sure, but Johnny’s definitely not complaining.

“You kidding, babe?” Johnny answers. “You made me feel so good when you were inside me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt like this...except maybe three nights ago.”

Kenshi chuckles and it warms Johnny to hear the other man at ease.

He turns in Kenshi’s embrace so they’re facing each other and Johnny is briefly left dumbfounded by how beautiful Kenshi looks in the aftermath. The cold, vicious swordsman who fought Kano in that cage fight feels like something Johnny’s wild imagination came up with, irreconcilable with the tender, caring lover whose first concern after finishing is that he may have been too rough when he entered Johnny. Johnny thinks of every warning he’s been given about people like Kenshi and he wonders if everyone he knows would write Kenshi off likes he’s the evil antagonist incapable of emotion. But Johnny sees the person beneath the gangster facade and he knows Kenshi is more than a mindless weapon who does his oyabun’s bidding.

“You were good too, Cage,” Kenshi says. He brushes aside some of the wet strands of hair sticking to Johnny’s forehead, brows furrowed in thought. After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, quietly, “I won’t ask what problems in your marriage led you to seek my company but I like having you around. You’re not like anyone I’ve met before.”

Perhaps it’s the post-orgasmic rawness of the moment but Johnny finds himself tearing up at that small confession. Or maybe it was inevitable that finding a connection with someone would remind Johnny too succinctly how lonely he’s been in his marriage. Whatever the reason, Johnny blinks away the stinging in his eyes and distracts himself by kissing Kenshi deeply.

When Johnny pulls back, he’s grinning. “Don’t know what your post-nut routine is but I could eat. How do you feel about sushi?”

*

“—see, they didn’t tell me that I had to do this scene on horseback and I had like three hours to learn how to ride a damn horse. So when I was asked about this for the dvd commentary, I made up this bullshit story.”

Johnny indicates to the large flat screen TV with his chopsticks and on cue, a 12 year younger Johnny Cage explains that he was suffering from a training injury so that was why he was sitting so awkwardly on the horse during the battle sequence. In reality, Johnny had been scared shitless about being thrown off the horse and after dozens of takes, the director stuck with the take where Johnny looked the least terrified out of his mind. Editing later added in some shots of Johnny from the waist up where he wasn’t on a real horse since there was no way Johnny was getting back on that neighing death trap.

“I’m starting to notice a pattern here,” Kenshi muses. “Horses, motorcycles...you’re afraid of riding something you can’t control. Are you afraid to ride bulls, too?”

“No,” Johnny lies. At Kenshi’s dubious look, Johnny mutters, “Horses are huge! Have you ever tried climbing up on one?”

“Yes, and they’re not terrifying if you know what you’re doing,” Kenshi points out. He snags the last of the salmon nigiri before Johnny gets it and pops it in his mouth. After swallowing it, he asks, “What is it about a powerful animal between your thighs that scares the great Johnny Cage?”

At Kenshi’s teasing, Johnny moves from where he’s seated beside the yakuza and straddles him. Smirking down at him, Johnny gloats, “I’ve got a powerful animal between my thighs right now and I can assure you, Ken doll, I am not afraid to ride him.”

Setting down his chopsticks, Kenshi then grabs Johnny’s ass. Kenshi smirks and Johnny shivers in delight at the heat in Kenshi’s dark gaze. “Careful, baka, or I may need to test that.”

“Don’t call me that. I know it means ‘idiot’,” Johnny pouts.

“No, it means ‘darling’.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Ken doll, or I’ll start calling you ‘Ken jerk’.”

“When I say it, it means ‘darling’,” Kenshi insists.

“Ken jerk.”

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” Kenshi laughs and Johnny hates that he’s blushing at the gentle teasing. But he doesn’t resist when Kenshi kisses him softly, a hand sliding up to stroke his back. In Kenshi’s arms, Johnny thinks it’s impossible for him to ever be angry at the other man, not when he showers Johnny with the kind of affection Johnny’s been craving from his actual partner.

And now, he finds himself sitting with Kenshi on the leather sofa in his hotel room, wearing a pair of Kenshi’s lounge pants and one of his Henleys, eating bland takeout sushi at 3 in the morning as they watch the only DVD in the room. When Johnny saw it was a collection of films he starred in more than a decade ago, he teased Kenshi mercilessly, who simply said he was “curious” and purchased it after the night they hooked up. Johnny may deserve what Kenshi’s dishing at him now.

Gazing down into Kenshi’s warm, dark eyes, Johnny finds himself lost in the sudden fear that he doesn’t want this to go away. The late night sushi, the teasing, the sex...hell, even the shady crap Kenshi’s employer has Kenshi doing in illegal cage fight matches. Johnny wants the whole package—the good and the bad—for as long as he can get away with this.

‘Don’t let anyone else fuck you while I’m here,’ Kenshi had ordered while inside Johnny.

...does that mean Kenshi wants more of this, too?

“Is there something on your mind?” Kenshi asks, startling Johnny out of his thoughts. “You stopped commenting on your commentary.”

Johnny’s quiet, collecting his thoughts. Part of him fears that if he pushes, Kenshi will push back, much like Cris does. But instead of two people in separate beds surrounded by empty space in a large mansion, Kenshi will just leave if he decides he’s sick of Johnny. A lot of people have a short span of patience when it comes to dealing with Johnny.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Johnny asks, “Is this only a two time thing for you or…?”

“Johnny,” and Johnny still doesn’t understand how his name can ground him when Kenshi utters it like that, “you’re in my hotel room, in a pair of my pajamas, eating bad sushi with me while I listen to you talk about the commentary you made 12 years ago about a movie you filmed in Japan. And yes—” and Kenshi cuts Johnny off by pressing his fingers to Johnny’s kiss-swollen lips, “—this sushi is the worst I’ve ever had but there’s a reason I’m eating it.”

“Because this is the best we can find at 3 in the morning?” Johnny says against Kenshi’s fingers.

“Because I like you and this is the food you wanted to order,” Kenshi answers.

His cheeks flush deep red and he removes his hand, eyes darting away.

...oh.

Well, now Johnny feels like an idiot. Maybe he has earned the pet name ‘baka’.

“Give me your phone,” Kenshi orders.

Johnny reaches around the remaining maki rolls and grabs his phone. He unlocks it and hands it to Kenshi. Kenshi types something and a few moments later, Kenshi’s phone starts buzzing. He then hands Johnny back his phone.

“There. Now you have my number so the next time you want to see me, you won’t have to stalk me in a dark alleyway.”

“That wasn’t stalking,” Johnny argues. But he saves Kenshi’s info in his contacts, nickname Earth’s Greatest Swordsman. “I initiated a chance encounter after learning where you were.”

“So, in other words, the textbook definition of stalking.”

“When you say it like that…”

“Baka.”

“Ha! You called me ‘darling’,” Johnny says. He grins triumphantly and snuggles against Kenshi’s chest. “I like you too, Ken jerk.”

“Cage, shut up and tell me about your commentary from 12 years ago,” Kenshi orders, his cheeks pink. “I want to know the real reason Hollywood decided to make a movie about a white man coming to Japan to ‘save’ the samurai from western modernization.”

“Right,” Johnny says, putting on his mock ‘serious’ narrator voice, “a brief time ago, in a very racist place known as ‘Hollywood’, a bunch of white writers obsessed with Japan got together and—”