#they’re erecting that statue of him soon trust me on that

[makeupinthedrawer]

[melishade]

Attack on Prime Halloween Anthology: The Bride of Tola

Main Story  

Mae Nak

Pesta

“Tomorrow is the last day!” Connie cheered as they sat around the bonfire.

“But I feel like we’ve become a little desensitized to these stories now,” Armin admitted.

“I haven’t,” Eren confessed, “And I say it with pure honesty.”

“Unless Optimus can pull out another really good story, looks like Mikasa will be the winner of our little game,” Hanji declared.

“Is there some sort of reward at the end of this?” Optimus asked in his holoform, a little curious to see what they might have wagered.

“Cash,” Jean and Connie stated.

“Food,” Sasha lamented.

“A knife,” Levi added.

“Marleyans also have some goodies that we threw in the pot,” Hanji smiled, “Not like they won’t need it anytime soon.”

“Hm,” Optimus could only respond before turning his attention to the fire. “In a small town, a religious woman named Eladia was to be wed to a man named Salvador. Salvador was known to have a reckless past full of immorality, and on the night before their wedding, he had decided to bed a former lover. He had no real emotional connection with her, and merely did so out of desire.

On the morning of the wedding, Eladia had waited with her father at the gates of the church for her fiancée to appear, but he never showed. Rumors had quickly spread throughout the crowd of guests, as they all assumed the terrible truth, that Salvador had betrayed her love and her trust. In her grief stricken and angered state, Eladia climbed the stares to the top of the church and prayed to her god, asking for forgiveness for the act she was about to commit. She threw herself out the window of the bell tower, and hit the ground below, her neck snapping in the process.

Mere hours later, Salvador had arrived, trying to disguise and hide his misdeeds as he fixed his attire. But he could only watch in horror as the body of his fiancée had been covered and taken away. The townsfolk had turned on him and cursed his name, causing him to flee and go into hiding. A few months later, Salvador had returned. He looked healthier and sober, and has asked the townsfolk for forgiveness. They decided to give him another chance, and Salvador had dedicated his time towards the church. 

One night as Salvador was cleaning, he saw a woman in a white dress and a veil covering her face. Salvador had asked what she was alright, but she was gone. When he was prepared to leave, he saw the veil the woman was wearing floating up the stairs. He quickly followed to the bell tower, and watched it land on the edge of the window. As he turned around to leave, someone had grabbed him by the throat and lifted him in the air. Salvador gasped as he realized it was his former bride to be in her wedding dress. Her neck was twisted and broken from the fall, her eyes staring at him with an eerie white. She had returned as a malevolent spirit called The Bride of Tola. She hovered over the ground and to the edge of the window, forcing him outside and letting him dangle in the air. Salvador tried to speak, but she responded.

Forgive me father, for what I am about to do.

She had let go of his neck and he fell from the top of the church and hit the ground hard. He writhed in pain as his arms and legs were broken from the fall. He peered his head over to see the Bride float down from the top of the church and gracefully landing on the ground. Salvador then screamed as she stomped on his legs, then his arms, then his ribs, and his pelvis, breaking his bones even further beyond repair. Salvador had tried to plead with her to spare him. He asked her for forgiveness. But she did not reply. She merely raised her foot once more, and stomped his face in, ending his life forever more.”

“Oh, another revenge story,” Hanji smiled.

“But she got her vengeance,” Mikasa said, “Does that mean she passes on or does she still remain?”

“It is unclear,” Optimus answered, “The town did erect a statue in her honor.”

“They’re honoring a dead woman?” Jean asked bluntly.

“She got stood up and humiliated and then came back to kill this guy,” Sasha recapped, “I can respect it.”

“Anyone who dates you is going to be in for a hell of a time,” Connie declared.

“There is an interesting phrase from Earth that could be applied to this situation,” Optimus said.

“And what’s that?” Levi asked.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Optimus recited.

“Oh, I love it,” Hanji grinned, “I’m going to use it!”

[unpack-my-heart]

Above, Beneath, Betwixt, Between - Chapter Six

@violetreddie @tinyarmedtrex @xandertheundead @constantreaderfool @mrs-vh @eds-trashmouth @burymestanding @annoyingtozier

Read on AO3 HERE

“This won’t hurt a bit”

Eddie flinches, face twisting in horror at Stan’s outstretched hand.

Richie scrunches his hands into fists, fingernails digging deep welts into the soft flesh of his palm.

He knows that Eddie’s scared. Even though his face looks as it always does, solid but not quite, flesh-coloured but not really, Richie can tell that he’s scared. He’d grown quite good at reading Eddie now, like an old paperback, dog-eared and over-read. Mike’s outside. He’s watching Mr. Chips frolic in the lake, chasing sticks and stones and his shiny red ball that Mike keeps chucking into the water. Richie watches the dog out of the corner of his eye, and, if just for a moment, he forgets.

But then Eddie makes a noise, a choked sort of noise, caught half-way between a whimper and a cough, and he remembers. Of course he remembers.

Eddie. Eddie. Eddie who had looked at Richie with pleading, insistent eyes, muttering “Rich? I -- I don’t know if I can do this without you” when they’d been sat outside on the decking, moon watching, stars listening.

Stan had erected what looked like a large metal tube in the centre of Richie’s living room. It was almost as tall as the ceiling, and Stan had babbled the whole time that it took him to build the device, hair swept off his face with a thick elastic headband, eyes sparkling. Eddie hadn’t moved for hours, just stood in the corner of the room, watching Stan like a rabbit watches a fox. Cautious, ready to skitter away into the safety of the undergrowth at a moment’s notice. Richie crouches down next to Stan, leaning close enough so that when they speak in hushed tones, Eddie won’t hear them.

“Are you sure this won’t hurt him?”

Stan didn’t look up, and continued fiddling with one of the cables.

“I told you. He can’t feel pain, at least, not yet”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean! Not yet,” Richie hissed, scandalized.

“Well, he might feel a, well, he might feel a tingling sensation if this works”

“What do you mean if!”

Stan looked at him, face a careful mask of cool indifference.

“I told you. This is never a guarantee. Energy is -- look, energy is complicated. It’s far more complicated than you could ever imagine. Manipulating it, it’s hard. It’s more than hard. It’s almost impossible. It doesn’t always work”

“What happens if it doesn’t work?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Should I know?”

Stan put the cable he was holding down, and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans before offering one to Richie. Richie accepted it, and let Stan haul him to his feet.

“Richie. I want you to be prepared, for … for the worst possible outcome. There are three outcomes, as I see it. Three outcomes I’ve seen before, anyway. The one we want, the one that will probably happen is that this process works and I can pull him through and he’ll be corporeal again. It could go a bit wrong, though. Bits of him might … not convert. He might be, missing things”

“Missing things?” Richie whispered, voice faint.

“Maybe. Maybe missing things. Probably not.”

“What’s the third outcome?”

“Well, the third outcome is that I lose him”

“Like, you misplace him?”

“Sort of. The worst outcome is that he gets absorbed into the reaction and I can’t stop it in time to pull him back out again, if that happens, we need to, you need to --”

A shrill beeping noise cut through Stan’s words.

Richie grabbed his phone off the table, and glanced at the screen.

From: Mike Hanlon (Plumber):

Calm the fuck down, Rich. Breathe. I can tell that you’re freaking him out from out here.

Richie looked up, and locked eyes with Mike, who was still outside with Mr. Chips but was now gesturing wildly at Eddie, who still hadn’t moved.

“I’m calm, Staniel. I’m calm as a fucking serene stream in Norway. Explain to me again how all this works?”

Stan huffed, “I’ve told you this about fifty times now. The accelerator is a large circular metal chute, sort of like a waterslide, or an inside athletics track. We fire electrons into this chute, and they accelerate around a magnetic field. So, once they reach around three-hundred thousand kilometres per second, they shoot out of a small opening, bounce off a small slab of gold, and smashes into Eddie and, hopefully, he’ll be recorporialised!”

“So it’s based on luck?”

“It’s not nothing to do with luck!” Stan snapped, stalking over to the control panel of the device, “it’s not anything to do with luck and everything to do with science. If my calculations are correct, and they almost always are, it’ll go without a hitch”

“And what if your calculations are wrong?”

“Well, I suppose the absolute worst case scenario is that I might accidentally create a very small black hole,” Stan said, breezily, as if he hadn’t just admitted that this process could cause the end of the world as they knew it.

“A black hole?!”

“Well, I’ve never created one before, so I have no reason to think I’ll create one now”

“So I assume you’ve done loads of these reanimation things before then?”

“Recorporealisations,” Stan corrects, “and I’ve done … enough. Enough to know I won’t create a black hole”

“How many is enough?”

“I have done six”

“SIX!” Richie practically screeches, a noise so high it scratches at the back of his throat.

“It’s six more than you’ve ever done! Look, I need you to stop second guessing me, Rich. I’m good at this. I know exactly what I’m doing. You’ve gotta trust me if you want this to work”

“I trust you”

Both Stan and Richie turn around in shock. It’s Eddie. Eddie who has barely spoken for the past seven hours, Eddie who Richie was half-expecting to disappear through the floorboards, his new favourite trick, and never appear again. Eddie, who Richie had grown … used to. Eddie had become a fixture of Richie’s life in a split second, swift enough that it was unnoticeable. As reliable and constant as the tide.

– x –

They’re standing outside Richie’s house. It’s dark. The house is silent and still, a statue in the fog. Stan’s stood next to the kitchen tapping away on a thing that looked like a circuit-board. Mike caught Richie’s hand in his as soon as they’d stepped out into the garden. Eddie was inside. Eddie was inside, alone, standing inside Stan’s homemade electron collider, and Richie wasn’t with him. Richie had allowed himself to be ushered outside, like a sheep, to await further instruction.

He’d left Eddie alone, inside what was for all intents and purposes a large metal box, waiting to have electrons slammed into his chest at hundreds of thousands of kilometres an hour.

“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked no one in particular. Only the wind responded.

Stan was shouting through the living room window, and Richie could hear Eddie’s replies, voice floating on the breeze like autumn leaves. Scared, shaky but sure.

“Now, when I yell ‘hold your breath’, that’s when you’ll know the machine has been turned on”

“Do I actually have to hold my breath?” Eddie responds, and Stan grins.

“Yeah, if you breathe out you might expel some energy and then you might wake up with no lungs!”

Richie’s stomach drops. “Stan?” He asks, voice and hands trembling.

“It was a joke! Eddie, Eddie, I’m joking, you don’t have to hold your breath, you’re going to be fine. We all good? We all ready? Alright then, gang, wagons roll! EDDIE! HOLD YOUR BREATH”

– x –

Nothing happened.

Richie expected a repeat of earlier, with the huge blooming mushroom of light, the fire in the sky, the noise. Instead, his nerves were rewarded with silence.

The silence stretched until it was thin and flabby, until it had wrapped its way around his throat multiple times, constricting, suffocating, until he could take it no longer.

“Did it work?”

“We haven’t been sucked into a black hole, so it worked in that respect”

Richie ripped a handful of grass out of the sodden earth and threw it at Stan’s head. A ridiculous display of rage.

“You know full fucking well that isn’t what I meant”

“We have to wait fifteen minutes. It needs to cool down, Eddie needs to … Eddie’s going to be in a lot of pain right now, his body is … unstable. He needs to fight it alone”

“He’s in pain?! If you don’t want more grass shoved down your fuckin’ oesophagus you’ll get the fuck out of my way”

Mike immediately yanked him back, a strong arm wrapped around Richie’s heaving chest.

“I know yer scared for him, kid. I know. You gotta trust Stan, okay, if he says we cannae’ go in, we cannae’ go in. He’s fine, it’s gonna be fine,” Mike muttered into Richie’s ear, low and steady.

“Richie, if you touch him, he’ll explode. His body isn’t stable. You’ll kill him,” Stan said, plainly.

Richie wrestled against Mike’s arm, occasionally yelling Eddie’s name fruitlessly into the night.

Fifteen minutes came and went. Stan didn’t move.

“What are we waiting for, Stan? I wanna go get my boy”

“Let him come to you, Richie,” Stan said, staring through the living room window, an odd expression on his face.

Richie was about to ask what was wrong, when the door swung open. A man stood in the door way. A man who was entirely naked, apart from a sheet he’d draped over himself in a sort of makeshift toga. A man with wild hair, strong shoulders and one arm.

Eddie.

[fanficimagery]

Imagine dating Viktor. A friend of his, Fleur Delacour, is getting married and he's taken you as his plus one. Even though a wedding is such joyous occasion, some people just didn't get the memo.

Author's Note: Let's just say that at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries (Order of the Phoenix), Harry + friends and the Order were able to take down Voldemort by some miracle. This is fanfiction so just go with it. 

Viktor X Reader

Being invited to Fleur Delacour's wedding to one Bill Weasley left you feeling all sorts of excited. Viktor's friends in Bulgaria had become your friends, as had your friends become his friends, but these were completely new people you were to meet.

While you had unfortunately missed the wedding ceremony itself, you and Viktor managed to portkey in while everything under the marquee was being transformed for the reception. Fleur was a vision in her wedding dress and her dashing husband was of the friendly sorts. They were happy you and Viktor could make the reception, and after congratulating them one last time they were off to greet their other guests.

Viktor had left you alone to grab some drinks, but ended up getting distracted by a witch in a red dress. And while the witch in question is rather pretty, you are very comfortable in your relationship with Viktor and trust him immensely.

"Ruddy pumpkin head," someone grumbles from somewhere behind you. "Who invited him?"

As subtly as you can, you peer over shoulder to see what drama shall unfold. It's another redhead, plus an individual who can only be Harry Potter after you spot the telltale scar of his on his forehead. Following his line of gaze, you can only snort when you realize the redhead is glaring at Viktor.

Your snort catches the boys' attention, the redhead flushing as the dark haired wizard chuckles. "Sorry for eavesdropping."

The redhead gulps and tersely nods, and Harry sheepishly grins. "Are you a guest of the bride or groom? I don't think I've seen you around before. Ron here," he elbows his friend in the ribs for not introducing himself, "is the brother of the groom. And I'm Harry- a friend of the Weasley family."

"Y/N," you introduce yourself with a smile. "And I guess you can say I'm a guest of the bride. Only I just met her just today, but my date has been friends with her for a few years now."

"Oh yeah? Who's your date? Maybe we know him," Harry says.

Smirking at the opportunity that's just landed in your lap, you gesture over your shoulder and point. "I've been dating that ruddy pumpkin head for nearly two years now." Ron's eyes widen and Harry roars with laughter. As Ron tries to stammer out an apology, you wave him off. "It's fine. But by the glares and name calling, I take it the pretty witch my boyfriend is talking to is Hermione?"

"He tell you about us?" Harry asks, suddenly uncomfortable.

You nod. "Yeah. He was very fond of the friends he made when he visited Hogwarts for the tournament. Especially those who didn't fawn over him because of the quidditch star he is, but I don't blame him one bit. All the fake interest and constant questions must be annoying," you say with a wink and internally breathe a sigh of relief when Harry loses some of the tension in his shoulders. From Viktor you had heard how Harry Potter really wasn't the fame chaser some tabloids made him out to be, so you threw that little tidbit into the conversation so you'd let Harry know you weren't about to nag him about his Boy Who Lived/Conquered status.

The three of you are saved from coming up with other topics of conversation when Viktor and Hermione finally join you, and introductions are made all over again.

"It's so nice to meet you," Hermione gushes. "I've heard so much about you."

"You as well," you chuckle as Viktor proudly tucks you into his side.

The five of you then strike up a conversation as everyone is let back under the marquee for dinner, music, and the dance. As you and Hermione seem stuck in a conversation about your jobs, Viktor, Harry, and Ron take it to mean you don't want to be separated any time soon and find a table with enough chairs for the lot of you plus Harry's girlfriend as well.

Then over dinner, it comes to light that you work in the magical department of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History as a curator and cursebreaker, and Hermione is hooked. Ron eagerly supplies that his brother, the groom Bill, is a cursebreaker as well. Viktor then happily explains that you look over newly discovered artifacts, both magical and not, before they're cataloged. He's so proud to explain what your job entails and the fact that you've been offered a similar job in England which is why you're transferring at the end of the year.

"I've got a good chunk of money saved up," you say with a fond roll of your eyes. "This lug," you then say while gently elbowing Viktor, "asked me to move in with him and well.. I can't tell him no, it seems."

"I am her veakness," Viktor shyly admits, eyes glued to yours as he grasps your hand and kisses your knuckles.

"Just as I am yours, my love."

"Blimey," Ron mutters. "They're worse than Harry and Ginny."

"Shutup, Ronald," Ginny huffs before her expression softens as she gazes at the other couple in question. "They're cute."

"Adorable, really," Hermione muses.

"And totally boink like bunnies." There's a moment of silence before Ginny cackles and the three males at the table turn red at your words. Hermione is laughing as well, face hidden in her hands and you grasp Viktor's face in your hands while kissing his forehead in apology. "I couldn't help myself," you chuckle.

"Troublesome vitch," Viktor mumbles, his lips twitching in amusement.

You wink in response. "As if you'd have me any other way." Settling back in your seat, you also offer an apology to Harry and Ron who are still red around the ears, but both boys wave you off. Ginny is dabbing away tears, still choking down giggles as Hermione sips some water to hide her smile behind her glass.

Bill and Fleur soon make their way towards the middle of the dance floor, and the newly married couple open up the night of dancing by sharing their first dance together as husband and wife. The rest of the Weasley family and close friends make their way towards the floor to circle the happy couple, and you watch as a fluttering horde of butterflies encircle the married couple as they twirl while staring lovingly into each other's eyes.

Standing up from your seat, you scoot over and settle down in Viktor's lap. Wrapping your arms loosely around his neck, his arms encircle your waist as he presses a kiss to your chin. "Vould you vant somesing like zis?" He asks, gesturing the party around you.

"Is this your way of proposing, Krum?"

"Ne," he chuckles. "Ven I propose, you vill know."

"Oohh. When, huh? Not if?"

Viktor meets your eyes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know you are only vitch for me." He then quickly presses a chaste kiss to your lips, chuckling, and you bite back a squeal when you feel one of his hands smooth down the small of your back to lightly grab at your ass. "Love you."

"Love you too, you ruddy pumpkin head."

His head falls back as he barks out a laugh. You're smiling at him and thinking about summoning another drink when a sudden hush falls over the party. Viktor's immediately alert, as are you, and he grasps your hand as he stands before pushing passed several guests. In the middle of the floor is a hawk patronus. The moment it's beak opens to relay it's message, witches and wizards start to panic.

"Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley have been attacked. Prepare yourselves. They are coming. They are coming. They are-"

Cracks of apparition resonate all around outside the marquee before blue, purple, and green curses are suddenly flying.

Amidst the screams, witches start apparating children out of the place and the elder generation apparate out to safety. Numerous of others stay behind to fight.

Back to back with Viktor, your wand slips into the palm of your hand and immediately you erect a protective shield. You can hear Viktor sending off curse after curse, occasionally erecting his own shields to stop the spells being thrown at him.

"Fleur!" Bill's terrified shout distracts both you and Viktor in the lull you suddenly found yourselves in, and you watch as the newly married couple gets separated. Fleur seems to hold her own before her wand goes flying and then her hands are grasping at the skirt of her dress to make it more easier for her to run and dodge.

"Viktor," you breathe in horror when you realize two wizards in the old deatheater regalia set their sights on the bride.

"I know. Stay low," he tells you.

"Aim high."

You squeeze his wrist in reassurance before holstering your wand, and then concentrating as best as you can you kneel down while letting your animagus form take over. In your place remains a hissing black panther. Viktor erects a shield to protect Fleur and you lunge across the floor, your teeth clamping onto the wand arm of the wizard who first attacked. As he yells and you use your weight to drag him down, you then unsheathe your claws and drag them down his chest while sinking your teeth into his neck.

A cutting hex hits your ribs and you yowl angrily, but a large black dog- or is that a Grim?- tackles the other deatheater.

"Y/N!" Your head snaps up and you meet Viktor's worried gaze, your whiskers twitching. The commotion around you is starting to dwindle, so you don't worry about watching your own back as you paw around for Fleur's missing wand. Finding it, you gently grasp it within your mouth before walking it over to the rather astonished witch. As she cautiously takes it, Viktor kneels down and presses a hand to your bleeding wound. "You are hurt, my love."

Your ears twitch and then you're transforming back, sitting on your knees with a grimace. "Just a scratch."

"Blimey. That was bloody brilliant." You glance over your shoulder to see an older wizard standing between Ron and Harry, the wizard's hair falling to his shoulders in dark waves with the grayest eyes you've ever seen. "Sirius Black at your service, sweetheart."

Harry grins. "He was the shaggy dog who avenged you."

Huffing a laugh, you fall forward on Viktor while gesturing a wave behind your back. "Thanks for that. I'm Y/N."

As Viktor helps you up to your feet, Bill gently collides with Fleur as he hugs her to his chest. Pressing kiss after kiss all over her face, he finally tucks his wife into his chest while looking to you and Viktor. "Thank you. Both of you."

"S'what friends are for, Weasley." Viktor glances down at you, scooping you up in his arms within the blink of an eye. Your arms immediately go around his neck and you furrow your brow at him. "What?"

"You are slurring vords. Come. You need Healer."

You blink and belatedly realize just how slow you are to actually reopen your eyes. "O-oh." As Viktor hums and starts marching through the lingering witches and wizards to get you looked at, your head falls onto his shoulder. "When we g'married, deatheaters are not 'vited."

Viktor huffs an amused laugh. "Okay, love. Vatever you vant."

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin Date Night (Part 5)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. After attending the festival, Pallas confesses his feelings to Telurin, but the death knight has concerns that Pallas may have been too inebriated to think clearly. (Advisory for some erotic content.)

Pallas looks as if he is starting to become very tired from the drinks he had, so he takes Telurin’s hand, allowing the death knight to lead them back to where their clothes had been discarded. The priest dresses himself a little clumsily, then picks up the stuffed talbuk Tel won him, and returns to his side. The fireworks explode in rapid succession in the distance as a last hurrah, then the sky is silent. “I think it’s time we got back.” Pallas says, his softly glowing blue eyes looking up at the death knight in the gathering twilight.

Telurin, just finishing up buckling his last gauntlet back into place, nods. He's been quiet since his explanation, but his eyes have barely left Pallas, watching his every move. He places a hand on the center of Pallas's back, between his shoulderblades, and uses it to lead them back to the road and to the city. They pass a few others on the way, small groups of people making their own way back to their homes from the festival, or heading back from their own secluded sections of the lake. In the dark, no one looks at the pair of them oddly, and though the main floor of the inn is still filled with revelers, they're the quiet sort and when they get to their rooms, the sound of the crowd below is only detectable as a faint hum.  

"Mmmnm..." Pallas mumbles sleepily and tipsily after Telurin finally closes the door behind them. He laughs. "I had fun. I just... Bed now..."

The priest manages to get his priest's cassock off before falling over onto the inn mattress on his stomach, the stuffed talbuk bouncing to the side. He closes his eyes and passes out almost instantly, the alcohol apparently hitting him now.

Telurin looks fondly on as his little Anchorite collapses onto the bed, apparently passed out. He takes his time to first strip out of his armor and clothes, so that when he comes to bed to help Pallas out of the rest of his clothing, it’s with hands that are not covered in metal, so that he can feel what he's doing. He strips Pallas out of the rest of his clothing with gentle hands that caress Pallas's pale skin more often than they have to, but eventually Telurin gets him stripped and folds the Anchorite's clothes neatly next to his stacked armor, and joins Pallas in the bed, pulling up the blankets around the both of them, enjoying the feeling of Pallas sleeping in his arms.

Pallas blinks dozily as he feels Telurin begin to touch him. He is tired and not feeling entirely present, and he trusts the death knight enough to let him continue what he is doing. He did not expect Telurin would peel him out of his clothes, however. The touching and the texture of the death knight's cool hands causes goosebumps to prickle over his skin, and the tips of his ears and cheeks darken. It feels so intimate, for the death knight to be gently touching and undressing him in this way, and Pallas feels arousal from the attention alone.

By the time Telurin is holding Pallas and brought the both of them under the blankets, he's more than a little turned on, his half-hard cock brushing against the death knight's inner hip in accidental contact. He tries to nuzzle closer into the crook of Telurin's arm and his chest, his eyes closed.

Telurin smirks as he feels Pallas brush up against him, and responds by continuing to trail his fingers over Pallas's body, down his spine and back up his hip, across his upper thigh. It's a neutral touch, not pressuring Pallas to respond any more than he has, not insistent even as the death knight’s hand wanders back up over his ass and along his tail, he doesn't stay long before moving on to other places.

Pallas shivers and mumbles something that sounds like Telurin's name. He is tired, but the moment feels so intimate, that even the death knight's light and non-pressuring touches are causing him to become aroused. Part of it might have also been a desire for comfort after his crying. It wasn't as if Telurin was trying to push Pallas away from him after what the priest had told him.

The priest opens his eyes to look up at Telurin's face. He lets his hand drag down the front of the death knight's body, over his chest and stomach and his inner hip, before running his fingertips along the death knight's shaft, stroking him with feather light touches.

"I thought you were tired, little one." Telurin smirks as he feels Pallas's hands over his length, already hard under the Anchorite's fingers. He doesn’t stop his own wanderings, but rather moves them to more arousing locations, rolling one of Pallas's nipples, squeezing his perfect handful of an ass and teasing the underside of his tail.

"I am," Pallas murmurs, his heartbeat quickening to a flutter as he feels Telurin's fingers playing with his nipple, and then moving downward to squeeze his ass. He says in a soft voice, raising his tail to feel the other man's rough fingertips against his entrance, "But I don't want you to stop."

There was more to it for Pallas than pleasure. The intimate touching was causing him to feel very close to Telurin, but he wasn't certain if he dared mention more emotions in that vein this evening, while he could still feel the alcohol's effect and the death knight could even still smell it faintly on his lips.

The priest moves, sliding his slender leg over Telurin's much thicker one, and bringing his body close enough to allow their cocks to touch together. The contact of the death knight's hard length causes his breathing to deepen, and his leg muscles to tremble finely. Pallas keeps his eyes on Telurin's face, his own face blushing as his little hand moves downwards enough to gently palm one of his testicles, and then the other.

There's a pleased sound that comes from the death knight as Pallas palms his balls, a low rumble of contentment. His fingers press more insistently against Pallas, and he brings his other hand to both of their cocks, encircling both of them and rolling his hips toward Pallas, sliding his erection along the other draenei's.

"Then I won't." Telurin purrs, trading his tail for his fingers as he reaches for the oil.

Pallas squeaks as Telurin starts to rub him under the tail with the tip of his own tail, then lets out a low, shaky moan when he feels the death knight's large hand wrap around both of their cocks, bringing them together. The feel of the other man's iron-hard length and size is heady in and of itself, and to feel Telurin thrusting in his direction with his broad hips and huge dick magnified the sensation.

It is a little like seducing a marble statue covered in soft skin, for the curious lack of inner warmth. The undead state of Telurin's body is less frightening or 'wrong' to Pallas these days, even if the other man always carries a faint aura of necromancy and darkness about him. It is less an evil thing, and more simply what is there, like a condition or battle wound that would always exist.

The touches and erotic movements, and the quickened beating of his heart, bring Pallas a little more out of his sleepiness. He coos softly, then looks into the death knight's face. "Let me suck you," he murmurs. "Please." He wanted to feel Telurin's cock in his mouth, to suck him all soft and intimate despite the carnal nature of the act.

Telurin pauses, stretched over Pallas, one hand on the oil, and it may feel almost like he's against the idea save his cock twitches against Pallas's, and when he pulls back he's got a devilish grin on his face.

"If that's what you wish..." He says, leaning back and resting against the headboard. "There's no need for begging." With a final stroke of their cocks he releases them, eyes half lidded with desire.

Pallas smiles in response to Telurin's devilish expression. His own is considerably more soft and dopey. He shifts his small body to the death knight's side, brushing his loose, long white hair out of the way, then carefully takes hold of the base of Tel's cock. His pretty lips are soft, as he gently kisses over Telurin's length and the underside of his erection, then slips his mouth around the crown, suckling on it and administering tiny licks to the tip.

His cheeks blush continuously and his heart is thumping in his chest, as he focuses on making Tel feel good, warming his cock with his mouth and the fingers of a hand. His eyes, with their long lashes, flick up to Telurin's face.

Telurin moans encouragement at Pallas as soon as he feels the Anchorite's small, warm hands grip his base, feels the warmer brush of his lips against sensitive skin. //Light he is good at this...// he thinks, taking in the sight of lips now wrapped around his cock. Has to close his eyes against it, tilt his head up and tense his legs to not thrust up into that mouth as Pallas's tongue licks across the tip. When he looks back down Pallas is watching him, the knowledge of that making his cock twitch once more in his mouth. Telurin brings a hand to the side of Pallas's face, thumb along one colored cheek.

"Blushing? There's no need for that, my dear." The death knight purrs, voice filled with desire and affection, love even though he can't admit it, even to himself. The feeling in his chest, tight and wild and fiercely protective, he refused to call it a name, but it was present in his voice, the undertone of it present whenever he spoke to Pallas but magnified now, when pleasure lowered his defenses.

The warm undertone in Telurin's voice sends thrills down Pallas's spine. It gives him an indescribable feeling of joy and connection to be one of the few individuals who could cause Telurin to relax and open up. He reveled in the frost death knight's happiness. It was like a secret flame that burned in the other man's cold body.

"I can't help it," Pallas speaks in the darkness in a low whisper, removing his lips from Telurin long enough to speak. He strokes the death knight's hip and inside his thigh, then returns his fingers to his cock, his eyes heavy-lidded. "My heart's beating really fast. I get excited whenever you touch me."

That pulls another pleased rumble out of Telurin, and he brushes his thumb over Pallas's cheekbone once more, before moving on to stroke his horns and hair.

"I should touch you more often, then." He replies. "As often as you require." The tip of his tail is still teasing the underside of Pallas's and now he curls it around the Anchorite’s thigh.

Pallas is still tipsy, and his thoughts aren't as cohesive as they might normally be. However, this also has the effect of loosening him up. He laughs breathlessly when the end of Telurin's wandering tail starts snaking between his legs and teasing in-between his buttocks. "Where do you think you're going to put that...?" he asks, before leaning his head back in to lick carefully over the head of Tel's cock again, then attempt to take it back into his mouth, steadying it with a hand.

"Where do you want me to put it?" Telurin purrs, his teasing more focused now, at least until Pallas licks him and takes him in his mouth once more. His fingers curl in Pallas's hair, around a horn, but he doesn't do more than hold just yet, savoring the feel of the Anchorite's mouth on his cock. "...My other extremities are busy and you were quite specific." He says once he's gotten himself under control once more.

[shadowphoenixrider]

The Broken and the Lost

(And thus the inevitable Broken Shore fic. A note; this occurs in the same universe as @galleywinter’s A Prayer You Can Borrow. There are, of course, differences, but assume that some of the events taking place there occur offscene here, and vice versa. Now, without further, ado, I’ll tag @fer8girl and @elfgirl931, and let the angst begin.)

They had failed.

Khadgar gazed at the growing reports with mounting despair. The casualties were phenomenal, and each list seemed worse than the last. Hundreds, probably thousands were dead, and many more missing after the failed assault on the Broken Shore.

The archmage cursed himself again for his mistakes in the Tomb of Sargeras. It had been all he could do to call the Alliance and Horde to arms, in a desperate hope that if they moved quickly enough, they could throttle the invasion before it got its roots down.

No. They could not.

They’d barely made a dent, and the demons carved into them in return. Champions and heroes from all cloths had had their numbers gutted; not even Tirion Fordring had been able to hold up against the Legion’s might, and it was only through the Light’s grace and the quick thinking of the Alliance hero Camdyn Morris that Varian Wyrnn had narrowly avoided a similar fate. Khadgar clung tightly to the small mercy.

But dark rumours were beginning to swirl. According to some of the reports on his desk, the Horde had apparently quit the field with no warning, leaving the Alliance undefended and almost crushed by the demons’ onslaught. Whispers of betrayal were starting to rise, fuelled by the said rumours, but Khadgar couldn’t believe them. He’d spent time with champions of the Horde; they placed so much emphasis on honour, and their rallying cry was ‘victory or death’; surely they wouldn’t have just left the Alliance to their fate. Not without reason.

Khadgar’s heart twisted tightly in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Thinking of the Horde invariably brought him to Draggka. They’d not spoken or even exchanged letters since he began his solo hunt for Gul’dan, but he knew the troll hunter well enough to know she would have answered the call to arms. She would have been at the Broken Shore. Did she manage to flee with the Horde? Was she one of the many cut down by the sea of demons? Was she wounded? Light above, was she in her death-throes, crying out for him as her life steadily ebbed away?

The archmage’s stomach churned, and he swallowed down the wave of fear, pain, and bile. Immediately it became crystal clear why he’d been reluctant to let anyone in close; the thought of losing the woman he loved in such a way threatened to rattle him down to his marrow, and for a moment, he wondered if he could go on. Had Khadgar doomed himself by giving his heart away to her?

The elder mage snorted, clenching his fists. No. Their time together had been all too brief, but he would not trade those moments with her away just for safety. He’d done it before, and paid the price. Besides, he knew very little, if nothing, about her and the Horde’s status. The Kirin Tor’s current partnership with the Alliance meant Khadgar had to rely on his own sources for news, and they’d given him all they could; some had even perished on the Broken Shore.

The not knowing was killing him.

“Archmage, sir?” A call from outside his study door broke him from his thoughts. “The Skyfire is making its way to Dalaran. They have many fel-injured onboard and Jaina requests your assistance and expertise when they arrive.”

“Understood.” Khadgar replied, a plan starting to form in his mind. “What time are they slated to arrive?” 

“An hour, sir. Maybe two. They’re flying against a headwind.” Came the reply. Good, that’s plenty of time.

“Thank you. I will need some time to prepare, so I am not to be disturbed until they arrive. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir. I’ll let the others know.”

Khadgar waited until the footsteps faded away, before he began to cast a teleportion spell, casting his mind out to an orange desert, of tall rocks and termite mounds, and the great iron walls of the forbidden city, at least to his kind. He focused on a particular spot of the desert where he knew he would be hidden, and the archmage felt the entire world fall away for a moment as his spell completed, magic flaring brightly around him.

Then there was coarse sand under his feet, and a chill wind at his skin, but Khadgar was already tapping into Atiesh’s power, quickly launching himself into the night sky as a raven.

He knew that something was wrong as soon he was on the wing. Great torches had been erected on the roads leading to the main gate to Orgrimmar, and in the surrounding area, casting bright, flickering light over what had to be the gathering of the entire Horde. All the races were present, mostly mingling together as one, but Khadgar could see defined blocs of orcs, trolls and so on. They had clearly suffered as much as the Alliance had; few were unwounded, many leaning against their fellows to support them, and some were even borne on stretchers, healers attending to them.

Khadgar followed their gaze to a hastily constructed platform above the throng, where the leaders of the Horde were clearly in attendance. As he flew closer, the mage saw they were standing around the unmistakable shroud of a body, and his heart all but stopped as he took stock of who was there. All the races were represented, but Thrall (Go’el, he reminded himself) was present, instead of-

No.

Sylvanas Windrunner turned to speak to the assembled crowd then, and the mage was sure a hush would have fallen over them, if it hadn’t already been present.

“Vol’jin is dead!” Her unearthly voice rang out across the desert, and Khadgar heard some heart-broken wails lift from some of the Darkspear trolls. His own heart sunk in his feathery chest. “In his dying breath, he named me Warchief.” She lifted her chin, and the archmage felt a chill at how much the gesture reminded him of Alleria. “Who among you will help me avenge him?”

The roar that came from the Horde shook the air, and Khadgar felt that their cries alone could keep him aloft without a single wingbeat. They were howls of a wounded beast, full of anguish, despair, and that of furious revenge, and despite himself, Khadgar felt his hollow bones fill with hope. From his time with Draggka, he knew that although the Horde tended to bicker amongst itself, it was a family of outcasts, and woe betide anyone outside of the circle who hurt them. He had no doubt that the Horde would be eager for blood for their fallen leader, and to redouble their efforts against the Legion. Good. We cannot lose hope now, he thought to himself.

Khadgar banked away at that thought, scanning the crowd as their yells gave way to their fatigue and grief, some beginning to disperse. Worry began to gnaw at him again as he looked for his hunter, building as the crowd shifted and moved and he still couldn’t find her. The occasional false positives made it worse, and he had to resist the urge to clack his beak or curse in frustration.

It was only when he reached the peripheries did the avian archmage spot a familiar trio; a pair of red-haired trolls and a red scaled raptor around their legs. Khadgar’s heart somersaulted in relief to see Draggka alive and seemingly no physically worse for wear, even as she leaned against her older brother, his arm over her shoulders to hold her close. A great weight lifted from him at the knowledge she’d not lost her loyal companion nor her brother either. We’ve lost enough people today.

The mage dropped as low as he dared towards them, and clapped his wings together, the only thing he could think to try and attract attention, without being too obvious. To his relief, Spike immediately lifted his head and saw him, uttering a soft grunting bark to alert the siblings.

They glanced up, and words were quickly exchanged between them before Dranka sprang into the air, his lanky arms splaying out into wide bat wings, body bending and contorting into the shape of a bat. He lacked Khadgar’s agility, but his large wings allowed him to join the raven mage in only a couple of wingbeats.

“Come.” The bat-druid spoke. “Sistah be following us. Know a place ya won’t be seen.”

Khadgar nodded, flying in the wake behind the druid and trusting his night-sight to guide them away from the gathering and into the blackness of the desert.

“Here.” Dranka spoke, fluttering down to land on a small outcropping of rocks, which formed a kind of half-cave shelter from prying eyes. “I be watchin’ for danger. Take as long as ya like.”

“Thank you, Dranka.” Khadgar said, transforming back to human just before he landed, his boots kicking up a spray of sand. “I, I’m sorry for-”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” The druid replied, shuffling awkwardly on his large wings and stubby back legs. “Not ya fault.”

But it is. The archmage thought bitterly, watching Dranka take wing again, flapping away to leave him and Draggka alone. He turned to see the hunter round the corner, Spike at her side, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Her armour was battered and worn, with deep, fresh scars in the plating on the mail. The far-off torches didn’t give enough light to see if she had any new bruises (and he wasn’t sure if her regeneration wouldn’t have healed them already) but she had no obvious wounds aside from bandages he could glimpse through the broken sections of her armour.

“Draggka-” He began, but he was swiftly interrupted by the troll’s single, sorrowful utterance.

“Khadgar!” She closed the gap between them in barely two strides, throwing her arms tightly around him as if frightened he would evaporate at the slightest provocation. Khadgar hugged her just as tightly, letting Atiesh fall to the ground hold her properly, careful of the bow on her back. Spike curled himself around both their legs as well, rumbling softly.

And then she cried.

It was a wail, the beginnings of a lament of a shattered woman, and Khadgar’s heart broke, tears burning at his own eyes as the hunter he’d known to be so strong, able to weather the fiercest of storms seemed to fracture apart, clinging to him as he were the only piece of driftwood that would save her from drowning.

Sobs wracked her body enough that Khadgar wondered if her legs were going to give way, the thought making him hold her ever closer, tucking her head under his.

“I’m so sorry...” He murmured, the words feeling so pathetic and inadequate he almost wished he could stuff them back into his mouth.

Draggka hadn’t just lost her admired Warchief. She’d lost her Chieftain, the leader of her very tribe. Vol’jin had been the Darkspear, for all he’d heard from her. It was his strength that had guided the tribe through Garrosh’s reign, and it was his leadership that had turned them against their revered ancestors, the Zandalari. He’d been a legend, for all intents and purposes, both to the Horde and Alliance.

Now he was gone. Who would lead Draggka’s people now? Khadgar had never asked, but the troll had never spoke of a successor, not of children, nor of equally strong second-in-commands. It was almost as if no-one had even thought it was an outcome...

The mage felt wetness trickle down his cheek, and he realized his grief was leaking through. Much like when a wound only begins to hurt once it is observed, the enormity of the emotions suddenly struck him, turning his lungs to stone. Draggka’s bright amber eyes, her wide, beautiful smile, the rich Zandali accent that clung to her voice when she spoke Common, and he could have lost it all. In his mind’s eye, he saw their last day together, of him promising to meet her after Gul’dan’s defeat, that they would begin to properly further their relationship, of even hoping for peace to start to settle between the two factions.

Instead, he had failed to stop the warlock, and now hundreds lay dead and his lover wept in his arms, her Horde and tribe devastated. If he’d just been quicker, if he hadn’t dithered, if he’d just killed Gul’dan when he’d had the chance, none of this would have happened.

The archmage’s breath shuddered when he inhaled, struggling to keep his own pain inside when it was oozing out from between his fingers. Someone had to be strong in the midst of all this misery and despair. Khadgar had to regroup the nations, find another way; the Legion would not wait, would not allow them to mourn.

Yet all he wanted to do was hold Draggka and never let her go, and despite himself, Khadgar felt his whole body shudder with his own sobs of injustice and anguish. The war against the Legion had barely began and already so many were dead, and he felt awful for coming apart when he should have been Draggka’s port in a storm, yet trying to stop it was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with only his bare hands.

Draggka shifted against him then, and he lifted his head to see her looking up at him, eyes red and puffy, her cheeks covered in dark streaks. He noticed that some of his raven feathers were still tucked into her hair braids; they were ragged, singed and one was broken entirely, but it gave him a strange sliver of comfort to see she still had them.

“I...I failed.” Khadgar croaked out, his voice thick like tar. “I’m sorry.”

She reached up to him, gently cupping his cheek. Despite the situation, the feel of her calloused fingers against his skin sent pulses of warmth through him, and he leaned into her touch, letting it soothe him slightly.

“Da Legion killed dem. Not you,” she said quietly. “Ya did ya best. Dat’s all ya could do.” Her hand drifted to the back of his head, urging him down so their foreheads touched. “You came back to me.”

Something in her voice made a hard lump form in his throat, and the archmage had to swallow past it to speak.

“I promised I would never leave you alone again,” he said, and despite everything, a brief, small smile found its way onto his lips. “I needed to know you were alive. Nothing was coming through.” He closed his eyes, squeezing her closer. “Thank the Light and your Loa for keeping you safe. And Spike, and your brother.”

“Dey kept ya safe too.” Draggka whispered. “I coulda lost ya in dat tomb too.”

The thought chilled Khadgar down to his bones. He remembered clawing at debris and the frantic flight across the sea, demons snapping at his tail feathers. So easily he could have met his end there with no-one to know but Maiev. Or worse...Khadgar shoved aside the memories of his brief return to Karazhan; now was certainly not the time to think of it.

“I promised you I’d come back in one piece,” he said instead, wiping away the tear tracks under her eyes. Khadgar sighed. “I’m sorry Draggka, but I can’t stay for too much longer. I will be needed in Dalaran soon, and...and...” He closed his eyes. “My love, I am loathe to ask this of you in a time like this, but...I need you to join me in Dalaran at some point.”

“Why?” The troll asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“I need your help to convince the Kirin Tor to readmit the Horde back into their ranks.” Khadgar explained. “Some will not agree with this position, and it is a...controversial thing to ask now. But now I see we face a far greater threat than I ever imagined, and we must be at our full strength to overcome it. I...I need you as a witness from the Broken Shore, to tell the Horde’s side of the story. To be a testament to your people’s valour and honour, despite-.” The mage glanced away. “I’m sorry. You’ve barely had time to mourn and I...”

There was a pause.

“Dey tink we betrayed dem, don’t dey?” Draggka said quietly. Khadgar felt his heart cringe painfully, and he could only nod. The troll let out a cry; a Zandali curse by the sounds of it. “Why? Why did I not fire da flare! Why we not give a warning?!”

“Hey hey, Draggka.” Khadgar soothed, Spike rumbling nearby. “You did your best in your situation. And you came home alive. That’s the main thing. There is no honour in death.” She glanced up at him. “I know, it’s everything the Horde stands for, but-”

“No, I know.” The hunter swallowed hard. “Dat...Dat be what Vol’jin...” She shook her head. “Dere be no honour dying dere. Our deaths gotta mean someting.”

“I agree. I need your side of the story. We need the whole story. A world at war with itself cannot stand against the Legion for long.” The archmage nuzzled his head against hers, sighing. “I wish I didn’t have to ask you this.”

“Needs must whilst da demons drive.” Draggka replied. “I know.” She returned his touch with her own, before pulling back, standing up to her full height, Spike returning to her side. “Call me, and I will come.”

A weak smile flashed across Khadgar’s lips.

“I can do a little better than that.” He reached into his bag, taking her hand and placing a small stone into her palm. “A hearthstone, tied directly to Dalaran.” He explained, as she turned the dark stone over in her hands, examining the pink Kirin Tor symbol embossed into its surface. “Use it when my servant contacts you, and I’ll meet you where I bound it. We repositioned the city in the area of Deadwind Pass to defend the Eastern Kingdoms, just above Karazhan. It seemed a wiser option than leaving it alone in Northrend.”

“Won’t I be thrown out?” Draggka asked, whilst Spike gently picked up Atiesh in his mouth and offered it to the elder mage, who took it gingerly from him.

“No. You’ll be expected by then, and I’ll be with you if we’re challenged.” Khadgar replied. “You’ll have time. I have duties to perform when I get back , and getting a meeting will take some wrangling.” He took a breath. “I fear I will anger Jaina with this request, but we must do whatever is necessary to bolster our strength. I wish I saw an alternative that did not involve tearing open her wounds.” He smiled wryly. “Get some rest if you can, my dear. Keep Spike close.”

The raptor rumbled what sounded like an assent, and Draggka stepped forward to kiss him gently, Khadgar tasting the salt of her tears on her lips.

“I will,” she said as they pulled back, smiling sadly. “See ya soon, Khadgar.”

“See you soon, my love.” He managed a smile too, before he summoned his magic, teleporting himself back to Dalaran. As soon he felt himself coalesce back in his quarters, Khadgar hurriedly wiped his face on the back of his gloves and brushed off the desert sand that clung to his robes, hoping to hide the evidence of where he’d been. He’d cut it a bit fine; he’d only just finished when his door banged loudly.

“Archmage Khadgar, sir! The Skyfire is docking at Krasus’s landing!”

“I’m coming!” He called back. The young-old mage took a steeling breath, resting his hand on his door. Alright. Here goes nothing.

And he walked out into chaos.