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Chapter Text

Hwoarang had never liked Americans. Growing up in Korea, he had his reasons. Paul Phoenix didn’t make him feel any friendlier to them. He was loud, obnoxious and everywhere Hwoarang was – they even found themselves parking their bikes in the garage at the same time.

Not accustomed to being the quieter person in any given situation, Hwoarang decided to avoid the fool, though Phoenix didn’t take the hint. Worse, Phoenix also seemed to be  drawn to Jin Kazama, who Hwoarang had been hoping – and so far, failing – to get alone all tournament.

Phoenix tried training with Hwoarang once, but Hwoarang pretended he couldn’t speak English and strolled off, restraining himself from tearing back at the sound of Phoenix’s loud yells of dismay.

“Fucking American,” he thought savagely, and strutted off to the garage to have a look at his bike.

He was peeling himself up from under the bike, covered in dark streaks of oil and dust, when he heard a familiar heavy gait pounding the garage’s rough dirt floor. For fuck’s sake, Hwoarang thought darkly, couldn’t he get some peace from the wretched baboon for a minute?

Crouched beside his bike, Hwoarang remained out of sight, hoping Phoenix’s visit would be a short one. After five minutes, Phoenix’s friend, who was also in the tournament, wandered in. Law, Hwoarang recalled. He remembered the man’s father having a run-in with Baek in the past.

Phoenix was attacking his bike with an oily rag as Law sat on a nearby crate and looked on. Phoenix chatted away to the younger man, as Hwoarang silently cursed himself. He should have just left when the guy came in. What was one more awkward interaction anyway? What was the American going to do about it?

“This bike’s been with me a long time, kid,” Phoenix said as he knelt beside it. “Longer than you’ve been alive – I used to take your old man out for rides on it and – “

“Gross, Paul,” Law piped up. “I don’t wanna hear this.”

Phoenix gave his bike a sturdy punch. “She’s not that sturdy anymore, even if I had a willing partner for it. Now that Korean kid’s bike…”

Hwoarang had heard enough. He stood up. “Leave my bike out of this!”

Phoenix and Law just stared at him in silence. Then Phoenix spoke.

“Thought you didn’t speak English, kid.”

“Like you’ve ever had a thought in your life,” Hwoarang said bitterly, staring them both down. Law slid off his crate and backed away. “I think I’ll be going now – see you!”And he was gone, leaving both of them staring at each other across the darkening garage.

Hwoarang came out from behind the bike and drew himself up to his full height. Phoenix puffed out his chest and came to meet him. They glared at each other.

“Now listen kid,” Phoenix said, “I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I don’t like it. I’ve had enough attitude from people in these tournaments over the years. Think I don’t know who your master is? He’d be ashamed of you.”

“Baek?!” Hwoarang said, shocked.

Baek had never mentioned an American in his tournament stories.

“Yeah, Baek,” Phoenix said. “Fine fighter, man. English wasn’t as good as yours but he gave that damn Kazuya a run for his money. Never got to fight him myself.”

“Ah,” Hwoarang said, ashamed suddenly. “I didn’t know, I – “

“Forget it,” Phoenix said, waving his huge hand around expansively. “I’ve seen you skulking around, looking at that Kazama kid. Take it from me – don’t get mixed up with those Mishimas. They’re bad news, all of them.”

Hwoarang uncharacteristically turned as red as his hair, unsure if it was being so thoroughly obvious about his infatuation, or the fact that Baek had given him exactly the same advice.

Which he’d ignored.

“I can take care of myself,” he said angrily.

“I’m sure you can,” Phoenix said. “Just trying to spare you a little pain, that’s all.”

Hwoarang stared at his steel-capped boots for a moment. Finally, to break the silence more than anything, he suggested they go for a race on the darkened streets of Tokyo. Phoenix’s face lit up.

“Now you’re talking!”

Hwoarang was bouncing from foot to foot, his blood up. “Winner gets - $1000?” he suggested, after calculating what he could spare from his fighting funds. Phoenix, however, paled.

“Uh, money ain’t so good for me, kid.”

“Hmm,” Hwoarang considered. What did he usually do in this situation? Phoenix’s clothes were near-worthless and wouldn’t fit him anyway, the bike was one crash away from the scrapheap, and then it came to him.

“Ok, you win, and you get to test how sturdy my bike is. I win and I get the same.”

Phoenix’s blue eyes widened for a second before his impulsiveness took over. “Ok, deal!”

The race was short and swift. Hwoarang’s arrogant predictions of an easy ride were dashed when Phoenix’s heap of junk, no doubt souped up within an inch of its life, darted in front of him. Hwoarang gritted his teeth and pushed his bike until the smell of burning rubber filled his nostrils, but it was no use.

Back at the garage, Paul was graceless in defeat. “Get it off!”

Hwoarang undid his belt and dragged his jeans over his hips. He could feel stubby fingers exploring him and he relaxed back into it, despite himself. Paul was clearly as experienced in this as he was riding.

“Paul gonna give it to ya,” Phoenix whispered in Hwoarang’s ear as he grasped his cock firmly.

Hwoarang’s lip curled in derision, but it wasn’t like Phoenix was the stupidest person he’d fucked. He couldn’t fault the way Phoenix was expertly stroking his cock, though, or the precise way his fingers were sliding in and out, making him shudder and push back.

He was going to tell Phoenix to put a sock in it, when Phoenix paused for breath and began “Let me tell ya about me and Kazuya.”

Phoenix stopped for a moment and unzipped himself. He placed a sticky hand each side of Hwoarang’s hips and leaned him over the bike’s smooth leather seat.

“Anyway,” Phoenix continued, “Kazuya wasn’t about to admit it, but that guy loved dick. Seriously.”

Hwoarang’s eyes rolled back in his head as Phoenix slid into him and took hold of his cock once more. Phoenix began thrusting and resumed his monologue.

“See I was the only one who could fight him, but Kazuya wasn’t interested in that. Found out what he was into when he cornered me in the dressing room. Now he was pretty back then, Kazuya, dead ringer for Jin Kazama in fact. And I’m not gonna pretend like I didn’t notice that.”

Hwoarang’s breath was coming too fast to reply.

“Anyway, he got down on his knees before, and gestured to my crotch. An’ seeing that arrogant face o’ his like that, well I damn near came in my pants.”

At that moment, Hwoarang bucked wildly and came all over his bike. He hung between Phoenix and the bike, gasping and sated.

“Anyway, old Kazuya had a mouth for the ages. Damn sucked me dry. No wonder I lost to him the next day.”

Phoenix ended the story by coming deep inside Hwoarang with a booming “BOOYAH HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?!”

Hwoarang lay face down, not willing to look up. Phoenix got off him immediately.

“Anyway, after I came in Kazuya’s mouth, he went on and won that tournament, so maybe I’ll be lucky for you too Red.”

Hwoarang lay feeling his sweat dry on his skin. He could hear the sound of Phoenix wiping himself on something he hoped wasn’t his bike, before tunelessly whistling Feeelin’ Groovy as he left.


Chapter Text

Kazuya stared down at the disc in his hand, as blank, shiny and silver as the man who had sent it. This had something to do with Lee's meeting with him last week, as he needed an angel investor for his latest project. Kazuya had toyed with him, laughed darkly, and then turned him down.

He didn't think Lee would try to harm him - he did, after all, need Kazuya's money for his weird little project - but all the same he drew on his thick leather gloves before opening the case. There was a silly little label inside, one of Lee's stupid little jokes no doubt.

"Play me."

Kazuya sat back with a heavy creak in his chair and watched the screen flicker as the disc started. Lee strolled onto the screen, looking tanned, relaxed and lithe in a black silk shirt and tight leather pants. He looked directly into the screen and said "Hello, Kazuya."

Kazuya rolled his eyes.

"I know even though this is a recording that you're rolling your eyes, but I promise not to waste any of your time. What my idea lacked, I realised after, was execution. It made more sense to show rather than tell."

Kazuya examined his nails. What the fuck was Lee playing at? He'd make him pay for wasting his time.

He was about to switch off the screen and laser the disc into extinction when Lee was joined by...himself.

Or rather, his alter ego, Violet, except now he was breathing and standing right beside Lee, running a lazy hand down his chest.

Kazuya frowned, and leaned forward, eyes intent on the screen. Some sort of trick...

"Oh I have no doubt you're sitting there, hand down your pants, thinking "hmmmph"" Lee said as Violet moved around his other side to lick a long stripe down his neck. "But you see, this is all from existing technology. With my robots that can perfectly mimic human emotion, and your gene manipulation to reproduce existing forms - well, you see the result for yourself."

Kazuya thought fast. Yes, this was G Corp technology - the same that had brought him back. And yes, Combot could mimic whoever he was assigned to. And of course Lee would make a clonebot to look exactly like his public alter ego, so he could attend meetings and do the boring stuff while Lee attended to his every need.

He was growing uncomfortable now, but he refused to let Lee get the upper hand over him, even via a recording.

A second Violet came into the frame from the right, dressed only in a skimpy Speedo. The first Violet broke away from Lee and manipulated his clone into a hot, close embrace as Lee watched in the background, before his dark eyes slid over to the camera once again.

"The thing is, Kazuya, you wouldn't be the only party interested in this technology. Sure, the G Corp part might be yours, but I obtained that research legitimately during your little twenty year nap. I wouldn't like it, of course, but if you turned me down, I'm sure Heihachi would be able to finance me."

Kazuya jerked forward, erection forgotten, hissing. He would never let that happen!

"You have 24 hours from this broadcast to decide," Lee said, sucking the trailing fingers of one Violet as another ground hard against him. "The disc, incidentally, will self-destruct in five seconds."

Kazuya shot through his ceiling hatch as the disc exploded beneath him, but as he ignored the screams of G Corp staff and the sirens blaring through the building, he had only one thought. He would finance Lee's little toys, but the price would cost him. After all, he only wanted the real thing, and Lee had been too clever for his own good. Grinning savagely, Kazuya spread his wings and took off into the night, leaving a smoking building behind him.

Chapter Text

Lee thinks one thing the first thing he sees Christie. "Easy." She is beautiful, of course, supple skin and a body that is a masterpiece - whether of nature or science, Lee doesn't care - and young and innocent. Lee's expert eye looks over her open, smiling face and the way she shines as she moves on the dance floor and thinks. "Easy."

He would have had her during the fourth tournament, as a treat for himself, if he hadn't had an unscheduled appointment with Kazuya's cock. But the fifth tournament is another chance, and this time they meet in the gym, warily sidestepping around each other. Lee is a master in the "accidental" meeting, and especially the "accidental" meeting that flows naturally into sex.

Lee waves at her, and Christie waves back, smile faltering as she processes his face. Does she know him? Lee wonders. Maybe it's his Mishima connection. If so, perhaps she'll like to know that he's entered specifically to eliminate his former "family". He wonders if she's ever been to the Bahamas. A body like hers is wasted on Rio; she could be decorating his pool.

Christie turns away with a flip of her ponytail and returns to her work with the dummy. Lee is surprised. He isn't used to being ignored so blatantly. Women play the game, but nobody can beat him in pure disinterest. They pretend not to notice him and he pays them back in kind; they're soon begging for a chance to share his bed. Good thing Lee is so generous.

When he places a hand on her shoulder, Christie turns and snaps "What?!" Lee drops his hand theatrically, eyes widening.

"Do you need me for something?"

"You were at the last tournament. I saw you but didn't get the chance to say hi to you. Lee Chaolan."

Lee extends his hand and gives her the full benefit of his charm. Christie returns his handshake, firm but brief.

“I know who you are."

"You do?"

"You're Heihachi's other son,"

Lee bristles. It's not untrue but he rarely thinks of himself as such these days. Disassociate and deny, they're his two favourite tactics.

"I think you'll find we have rather more in common than you think, Ms Monteiro. I was kicked out."

Christie tosses her head with the sublime arrogance of youth. "I didn't ask for your life story, Mr Lee. Now if you'll excuse me..."

Lee's eyes narrow. Is she dismissing him? He decides to try another tactic.

"Why did you enter the tournament?"

Christie flips the dummy to the floor with a flick of her hips that both impresses Lee and gives him ideas.

"I'm trying to train here."

Lee knows when to drop it. He's not Paul, who would be pleading for a chance on his way to the hospital.

"I apologise," he says with a bow, looking up at her for a reaction under his eyelashes as he dips. Christie doesn't fall for it.

Lee walks back to his own section of the gym. Being Lee, he has his own far superior facilities for his real training, but he's here on a secondary matter. The old wooden dummy looks at him blankly, and it irritates him. Lee decides to practice his kicks on it. Slowly, the dummy's face merges in his mind with Heihachi's, and soon his steel- capped boots are knocking chips off the dummy.


Christie has finished while he's been busy and wandered over. She has a towel around her shoulders. Lee looks at her. He's not really mad at her, but he knows how to play this game.

"Finished, I see."

"It's my grandfather," Christie says before he can make some arch comment to make her feel guilty. "He's sick. The doctors in Brazil can't treat him."

"What does he have?" Lee's not a doctor but he is a scientist and the notion of an unsolvable problem is too interesting to ignore.

Christie tells him the symptoms, the wrong diagnoses, the amounts Eddy's spent on doctors and tests and experimental treatments, and Lee thinks. There's G Corp. They can take samples and isolate the cause, discovering a new illness is always good for their reputation in the industry.

Whatever he has, it's going to be rare, but Lee doesn't own a cumulative total of 25% of G Corp's stock for them to say no to him. Fuck Kazuya. They'll work on this for him.

"Christie," Lee says, "I can help."

"You can?" She looks at him directly, brown eyes wide with hope and if Lee hadn't sold his heart to the almighty dollar, he'd be touched. There is a vague, undefinable warmth that he can't place, though.

"G Corp," Lee says.

"G Corp? But they're..."

"Controlled by Kazuya. I know. However, I own a substantial amount of stock in them. They'll do what I ask."

"How do you know?"

"Put it this way - did you see the free malaria vaccination programme they put out in Brazil?"

Christie nodded in wonder. Lee pointed smugly at himself.

"My idea."

"That programme saved so many lives. I can't believe it." She looks at him with the heart melting look again. "Thank you."

"Maybe you won't need my help, but it's there for you."

Christie smiles tiredly.

"I want to win in my own right, I'm not stupid enough to think a promise from you has no strings attached, Mr Lee. Although...what was the condition attached to the malaria vaccine?"

His mother had died from it on a trip to visit her family, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

"Perhaps I'm better than you give me credit for."

"I doubt it," Christie says, suddenly tough again. "Nothing in this life is for free. That's why I have to win. Then nobody can tell me what I need to do or distract me."

"Do you think you can win?"

"I've been trained by a master and I work hard every day. I won three matches last time."

She's certainly able, there's no denying that.

"Nobody here takes me seriously. I'm just a dancing girl to look at."

And then it hits Lee with the subtlety of a godfist to the face. They're not so different, he and Christie. How many years had he put up with the likes of Paul Phoenix and Bryan Fury taunting him for his pretty face and tight clothing before he inevitably tore his way through them in two rounds?

How much had Heihachi accused him of focusing too much on his appearance over his fighting? He thought of his tournament video then. At the end of the clips the camera cut in on him, as he waved a playful finger, his face deadly serious beneath it.

"Don't take me too lightly."

There's no crime or shame in beauty. He thinks of Jin Kazama, denying his genetic inheritance and going about things the hard way. Christie isn't stupid or trivial just because she realises she has the body of a goddess and dresses appropriately. And so it is that Lee finds himself uttering a phrase that has never troubled his thoughts just now.

"Ms Monteiro. I'd like to guide you, to be your mentor."

"Mentor? Is that some sort of a joke?"

Lee shakes his head. "Not at all. I'd like to help you. And there's no catch. I've seen you fight, anyway. There's nothing I could do that you didn't want me to."

He lets that sink in and adds, "I have a state of the art gym here with my custom equipment. It could easily be reconfigured...if you're interested."

Christie looks at him meditatively.

"And of course, there's no getting away from the fact you'll have to fight a Mishima sooner or later. Who knows them better than me?"

That does it. "Mr Lee" Christie says decisively, "I'd like to work with you."

He likes that. No fear. Reminds him of himself at that age.

"Good. Here's my number. And I'll give you the private numbers of my G Corp contacts too after I call them."

"Is that your real number."

Oh, she's a quick one.


Christie gathers up her things and goes to leave.

"Nice meeting you, Mr Lee. I look forward to working with you."

"As do I," Lee assures her warmly.

Christie pauses with her hand on the door. "Don't get any funny ideas, though. I know you're 48."

Lee winces. Not even Anna...

"Bye," Christie sings, brown eyes lit up with mischief as she swings out the door. Lee watches her go. He's interested in everything about her now. Sexual or not, he's sure their relationship will turn out to be fulfilling, and he looks forward to their next meeting.

Chapter Text

They meet by accident. He's on a reconnaissance mission in a remote part of Japan. Kunimitsu is staking out the same area because she's overheard a tip that the Manji clan are headed that way.

Dragunov first sees her when his eye is drawn by a bird shrieking overhead to Kunimitsu crouched in the nook of a tree, near the bird's nest. He orders her to come down.

Kunimitsu doesn't think of this as anything more than an annoyance. She's used to dodging the Zaibatsu and G Corp whenever they move through her territory, and as they have the whole of Japan controlled one way or another, they're much more of a threat than a small Russian militia.

Dragunov doesn't speak. He beckons for her to lay down her sword. Kunimitsu cooperates, because she knows she's got other blades stashed elsewhere. Not that she needs a weapon to kill. To her surprise, she's invited to eat with them. Kunimitsu accepts. She doesn't know much Russian so she finds herself watching the men instead. She keeps looking at Dragunov's face, with the deep scar.

He doesn't speak a single word and she wonders if he can. For his part, Dragunov is intrigued by the mask, and the scars he can see beneath it. Kunimitsu obviously has a few stories to tell.

After dinner, Dragunov offers her first cigarettes and then brandy. Kunimitsu declines the cigarettes, but brandy is a rare treat. She's more used to unrefined sake and beer. They drink together in silence, looking at each other as the rest of the group splits up or heads to their tents. Kunimitsu can't go without her sword, but she's not in a hurry and she wants to see what Dragunov will do, if he'll give it straight back or if he'll put up a fight. Either way this beats sitting in a tree for a week.

After a couple more glasses, Dragunov indicates silently towards his tent. Kunimitsu gets to her feet and walks with him. In the tent, there's a portable heater and fur-lined sleeping bags. Dragunov watches her; there's clearly room for more than one person in this tent. Instead, Kunimitsu makes her choice clear by touching his scar gently, before running her hand down to undo his buttons. Dragunov catches her wrist; he indicates towards her mask.

Kunimitsu has other masks; she can't rely on just one. If Dragunov refuses to return this one, she has one stashed in the hollow trunk of a nearby tree, one buried half a mile away in a shallow pit. She takes the mask off.

Dragunov's eyes widen as he takes in the deep scars over her eyes, but he only steps closer.

Beneath his uniform, his pale skin is covered in old scars and marks. Kunimitsu traces the paths with her tongue in the dim light.

When she wakes up in the morning, Dragunov is standing over her, fully dressed. He doesn't have to motion for her to be silent. He points to the floor beside her; her mask and sword are waiting.

Kunimitsu understands. Outside the camp is coming alive and men are dismantling tents, packing up with chatter.

She slips out unnoticed. Her life is a solitary one; the odd interludes are all she allows. Dragunov watches her disappear into the trees.

Chapter Text

Kazuya appears at the fourth tournament and he's a man out of time. Everyone looks at him in fear, which he likes, but also with pity, which he doesn't.

Except one person - Nina.

Kazuya sees her name on the list of entrants and he remembers their last encounter - ordering her to be sedated and put into cryosleep. When he sees Nina herself at the tournament, she looks the same as she did twenty years ago. By rights she should want his head. But Nina only gives him a dismissive glance. He’s not about to question it, but he thinks of how he’s spent so much of his own life seething and plotting his vengeance.

After they both beat their first round opponents, Lei and Combot respectively, they meet while training. Kazuya has his entourage, Nina is alone. All Kazuya's been thinking of is Heihachi and his revenge. He hasn’t given a single thought to running into Nina.

Judging by the mannequins she's leaving in bits, Nina is deadlier than ever. When she takes a mannequin's head off with a vicious kick, it strikes Kazuya hard in the shoulder. Nina stops and watches him, arms folded and eyes cold. She doesn’t so much as flinch when Kazuya's guards draw guns, but he stops them.

"I'll deal with this myself."

Kazuya brings the head back and throws it at her feet, daring her to say something. Nina only smirks, and turns away. "Didn't think I'd see you here."

Kazuya's next punch makes dust of a mannequin's shoulder. "It's been a long time since the second tournament."

Nina stares hard at him then. "I lost twenty years of my life because of you."

Kazuya shrugs, because like Kazuya ever apologised for anything in his life, and says "I didn't have much time after that."

Nina doesn't say anything, only looks him over, taking in all the scars. When she got out of cryosleep, she made a half-hearted attempt at looking for Kazuya, but Heihachi had already done the job for her. Cryosleep had robbed her of all the rage, all the fresh emotions. Now all she has left is endless indifference, shadows of what used to be.

Kazuya is bored with hitting dummies; he wants to fight a real person. Nina is right there and she hates him. He assumes stance, jerks his head to indicate that she should challenge him. Nina steps up to him quickly, looks him over.

"Don't hold back," he warns her. Nina never had any intention of doing so.

They start pacing each other like caged animals. Kazuya’s guards, long forgotten, have moved out and mutter uneasily. Nina strikes first, opening a wide gash on Kaz's shoulder with her heel. Kazuya nearly kills her with a fist to the stomach. Nina falls to the mat and struggles to catch her breath, but gets up with difficulty. She flicks her blonde ponytail over her shoulder and comes at him again.

They're both really enjoying this -  not surprising as fighting's one of the few things that makes them feel alive. Nina wipes blood off her brow and grits her teeth as she kicks Kazuya swiftly in the groin. Kazuya recovers and floors her with another punch before Nina responds by dislocating his shoulder. Kazuya gasps but keeps going.

They're both panting, covered in bruises and blood, and having the time of their lives. When Kazuya catches Nina with his good arm and pins her to the dojo floor, she's not surprised that he's hard. It's normal for male fighters. Kazuya’s skin is hot and his breath rasps; they’re both covered in sweat and blood and near the end. Breathing together, they lie still.

They're both surprised when she reaches into Kazuya's gi pants.

Kazuya has his entourage clear the dojo and prevent anyone else from entering. Then they go at it right there on the floor, sweaty and bloody and bruised and not at all gentle despite the multiple injuries. It's exactly what they need and all the hate gives it a little extra frisson. Nina leaves first, without a word or look back. Kazuya didn't expect anything less.

At least Nina had popped his shoulder back in before they fucked. That was as considerate as this encounter was getting.

The next day in the tournament, Nina is fighting Marshall Law. She's winning easily, and as Law scrabbles back to his corner for the final round, she glances around the arena.

Kazuya is at the front in shirt and glasses, arms folded, mouth upturned in grim approval. Nina doesn't want or need anyone's approval but somewhere deep down, she's amused by this. And she wouldn't be opposed to meeting Kazuya again for some no-strings fun. But beyond that, no promises.

Marshall Law never knew what hit him.

Chapter Text

His dark purple hair gleams in the sun: a garish shade but no less so than her kimono. She can't see behind the reflective lenses but she can feel the eyes wander over her, taking it all in; the bright red hair tied back tightly, the brief purple kimono over shorts, the knife at her side. For her part she takes in the flouncy purple shirt, the silver that gleams at his tanned throat and knuckles and toes, and the tight leather trousers.

Too tight. Kunimitsu frowns behind her mask. Is she really seeing this right? There's something familiar about this man. She's seen him before, she knows.

But her mind fogs over because she's looking down again, following the line of his cock through his trousers, and is it her imagination? No. It's definitely more pronounced. She reflexively reaches for her knife.

"I save knife play for special occasions," he laughs in smooth, refined Japanese, "but I'd like to see how good you are with those hands. May I?"

He has her wrists caught fast. To others it looks like play, but she can feel the strength beneath the slim wrists. She nudges a thigh between his in response. His bright smile spreads wider. He lets her go then, and indicates towards a dark corner, away from the crowd. She follows, still trying to recall his face. Where had she seen him before?

He turns over a training dummy and indicates that she should support herself against it so he can take her against the dojo wall. When she reaches to take his sunglasses off he brushes her hands away, gently but firmly.

"Don't ask anything of me you're not prepared to give yourself. I know you wear your mask for a reason."

He traces his tongue up the inside of her thighs and she's glad for the support of the dummy as her knees buckle. She comes three times before he finally enters her and takes her with a force his appearance fails to suggest. When she comes the fourth time, she's about to pass out.

Afterwards he helps her down and helps clean her up, keeping a respectful distance as she checks herself and ensures her knives and tools are all in place. He turns his back without being asked to give her the space.

She's securing her hair with a final twist when he taps her on the shoulder. He looks immaculate again. "Hope we don't meet in the tournament," he says, and kisses her briefly.

She's walking back to her room when she feels a scratch against her leg. Looking down, she finds a red rose tucked into her thigh holster. And then she realises.

But his secrets are his to keep.

Chapter Text

Bryan comes to Kazuya's attention in the fourth tournament; he's beaten narrowly by Violet and Kazuya reads the dossier he has on him. When they meet again in the fifth tournament, it's in the dressing room before the official photoshoot. Everyone else has left; the handlers are far too scared to tell Kazuya Mishima and Bryan Fury to hurry it up.

Kazuya is strapping on his footguards and waxing his hair to a dull shine when he sees Bryan openly sneering at him in the mirror. Kazuya is not having anyone, let alone someone who got beaten by an out-of-form Lee, sneer at him. So he turns around and glares at Bryan, who just cackles insanely. Bryan is even less ready than Kazuya, he's only wearing a towel.

Kazuya looks him over coldly.

"Is there a problem?" 

"Got enough grooming done, pretty boy? You need some makeup for your cheekbones?"

Normally Kazuya wouldn't rise to that shit, but he's blatantly being trolled by a man in a towel, and he's not going to let that stand.

"Kazuya Mishima chased out of dressing room by naked cyborg" - would his rep ever recover?

Kazuya throws a perfunctory punch; it hits Bryan right in the gut but he just starts laughing. This sends Kazuya into a rage, and he ignores the fact he's naked except for his footguards and a fundoshi.

Bryan keeps laughing even as he slams Kazuya into a pillar with a kick that reveals a lot more of him than Kazuya needs to see.

Kazuya shakes the plaster out of his hair, he's really fucking mad now. He comes hard at Bryan, and pins him to the wall. Bryan doesn't resist, which confuses the fuck out of Kazuya. His reference points for Bryan are "fucking insane" and "cyborg".

"Now," Kazuya says, "ordinarily I wouldn't care to spare your life. But the tournament hasn't even started, and I'll be damned if I'd miss the chance to see you beaten to a pulp again." Bryan stops laughing, and just stares at him.

Kazuya is confused, until he feels a cool breeze hit his ass.

Bryan has undone his fundoshi, which had been hanging on for dear life anyway.

This is the moment the tournament organisers grow some balls and have someone pound on the door. "Mr Mishima! Mr Fury!"

Between the cool breeze circulating and the racket outside, Kazuya loosens his grip for a second, giving Bryan enough time to slither to the floor, and take Kazuya in his mouth.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" yells Kazuya. Bryan pulls his mouth free for a second and looks up.

"You'd better finish fast, Mr Mishima, it sounds like they're just about ready to bust in."

Kazuya is caught between his cock and a hard place. And Bryan's technique, unsurprisingly, is lacking. He grinds out a weak orgasm thinking of Lee bursting in and beating the shit out of them both before Kaz takes him in the showers.

Bryan, naturally, does not swallow. He spits in the direction of Kazuya's gi pants and pulls his clothes on in thirty seconds before strolling out nonchalantly.

Kazuya is too shell-shocked to notice the giant stain on his purple gi pants, and hurries out the door after him.

Chapter Text

He wasn't intending to talk to the quiet woman wading in the fountain's rushing waters, but something about her drew his eye. Something about her reminded him of someone else. Hwoarang drew to an abrupt halt, his filthy jeans forgotten in his hands, and watched her through the willow fronds. She wasn't even really his type and she was older than he generally preferred. But he couldn't stop looking. And as if she sensed him, she turned and stared back steadily. Neither moved.

He couldn't hold her gaze and turned his eyes down. When he looked up the corners of her lips had turned slightly up. The water splashed as she began moving towards him. Uncharacteristically speechless, Hwoarang didn't move as the woman trailed a pale finger down his chest, touching the skin that led beneath his vest.

Seeing her dark eyes and the way she dipped her head beneath that fringe brought it home. Jin. She reminded him of Jin. Jin who'd ignored him. Jin who haunted his dreams. Jin who brimmed with the same irresistible energy as this woman. He'd had enough of loneliness. Their lips met and Hwoarang pressed Jun back against the willow's slender trunk. She was surprisingly aggressive and he caught a wild look in her dark eyes.

Jin had been wandering the tournament grounds in search of the fountain. He'd been feeling adrift and some meditation would help take the edge off. Having grown up on Yakushima, he always felt safe near water. Moving soundlessly through the trees, Jin's feet stuck, and he looked down in bewilderment.

He didn't understand why he was stuck til his brain processed the signals his eyes were receiving. He saw Hwoarang brush a willow frond from his mother's face. He saw Jun slip a hand to Hwoarang's crotch. He heard Hwoarang whisper "Ever done anal?" and Jun reply "Not since Kazuya."

The mysterious crater puzzled investigators, as did the ten foot high message NOT MY MOTHER emblazoned on the cliffs nearby. Jun and Hwoarang enjoyed a short, sodomous fling, unaware of the anguish they'd caused.


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Feng needs the scrolls. He's desperate and goes to Heihachi. But Feng is dangerous and recognises a kindred spirit in Heihachi. Heihachi won't give something for nothing.

In return Feng promises he'll take out Jin in the tournment and bring Heihachi his head as proof. Heihachi is interested but you don't trade on promises. So Feng casually reaches into his bag and pulls out the lion head from Lars's armour, covered in blood. As Heihachi takes this in, Feng throws an envelope of photographs across Heihachi's desk.

Nothing does it for Heihachi like one of his enemies being taken off the board to impress him. They seal the deal with good whiskey and a fast fuck over Heihachi's desk.

New age of darkness, etc.


Chapter Text

On the fifth night, Raven took off his glasses for the first time. His face was marked with a large scar in the shape of an X, but Lars had never seen the full picture or how far the corners of the scar extended into his eyes, and Lars stared.

Raven let him look, stared steadily back until Lars grew uncomfortable and looked away.

“Mind if I ask how you got that?”

Silence. Not unexpected. Raven wasn’t exactly the type to open up about himself, understandably, but in the middle of ruins with only the sky and rocks for company, Lars wouldn’t say no to learning a bit more about him.

The first night, he’d talked about himself, the mission and Jin and Raven had listened, face unmoving, and it was only afterwards that Lars realised how much he’d shared.

Dangerous. He tried to ask Raven about himself the second night. Answers were few and far between; brief and stripped down when they came. Eventually Lars gave up.

He entertained himself on the third night by imagining about getting to know Raven in other ways. It was something that had come up a few times on Tekken Force missions – out in the middle of nowhere with nothing else to do, it was as good a way of killing time as any, and it improved unit bonding.

On most of those missions, Tougou had been there. Lars’s mood darkened and he lost his appetite. He didn’t know if he trusted Raven to that extent yet, but he didn’t have a choice.

The fourth night, Raven wandered back and forth in front of him performing some of his hand ---exercises? Stances? Lars wasn’t sure of the exact terminology. He was sure, however, that Raven’s leather getup probably wasn’t the most practical thing he could be wearing. Raven, however, seemed quite at ease, a sleek presence moving with grace over the dead plain.

Lars realised that he’d been staring only when Raven turned dead on his heel and looked him right in the eye. Lars straightened up, conscious of his own body. Anywhere else, especially the army, staring a man down with legs aggressively parted would be taken as an invitation for either a fight or a fuck – and Raven had already brushed off his requests to spar, saying that neither of them could afford a needless  injury.

Raven’s glasses prevented him from seeing the eyes that looked into his own. Lars was curious about what Raven was thinking and feeling at this precise moment – anger? Discomfort? Annoyance?

Raven turned away, and went back to his practices.

Now here they were on the fifth night, and for the first time Lars was looking into Raven’s eyes, unshielded by glasses. Raven’s eyes were brown, so dark that they looked black, and fringed with thick dark lashes. Faced with the complete picture, Lars wanted him. He was about to get up and go over, when Raven surprised him by getting up first. Lars stayed where he was, and watched Raven come over, glasses still curled in his fist.

“It was ten years ago – an old enemy of my organisation.”

He dropped into a crouch so he was eye level with Lars, inches away.

“I didn’t let him get away with it.”

Raven’s breath was warming the cool air as he spoke, voice low. Lars raised his right hand slowly, watching as those dark eyes flickered at the movement, but Raven never pulled away.

Raven moved towards him, sliding easily between Lars’s parted thighs, and as they kissed his tongue was hot in Lars’s mouth.

When they broke, the air was cool between them. Raven was still, and he pressed a finger to Lars’s lips. He remained still, scarcely seeming to breathe, before raising his eyes to look at Lars again.

“This place isn’t safe. We should find safer shelter tomorrow.”

Lars was about to protest, but Raven disappeared, and appeared on the other side of their camp.

Lars was left with the taste of Raven in his mouth to await the sixth night.