“I can’t– I can’t fake something like that.” Mythandragos shook his head, massaging the back of his neck with one hand. “It doesn’t feel right to me, like lying but worse. I’m just going to go talk to her– worst that happens is she says no, right?”
The hooves were strange, as was the tail. The rest of it, even the horns, Mythandragos was familiar with, even if he wasn’t pleased with it. No, the strangest part by far was the sky– so vast and blue and empty.
He didn’t realize Atassa had stood up until his own body was suddenly standing next to him, a hand questioningly resting against his head. “Myth?”
It was strange hearing his voice. “This is just– this is really strange, ‘Tassa. Is this…” He gestured wordlessly at the sky, unable to put a name or word to what he was experiencing. “Is this what it’s always like for you?”
Atassa turned her face to the sky, his much longer hair whipping around her face, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her freeze and knew she’d finally seem them.
Sexpollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it
The potion bottle was delicately made, with little dredges of liquid still clinging to the walls, and met the bedside table with a dull clink. Mythandragos shivered pleasantly, curling up by Atassa where he could nuzzle her neck and needily press against her.
She laughed, chiming and beautiful, and pulled him close.
Few Withered remained: The bulk of a second assault on Senegos had been driven away, but evidence of their damage still littered the arcane pools. Some two dozen or more whelplings– the last ones, Senegos had said, the last children of the blue dragonflight– lay among rocks and bushes and bodies, drained and dying. Some already deceased.
One among the many had given Atassa pause with heart-dropping, blood-freezing suddenness. A whelpling, larger and older than the others, with curling tattoos of arcane runes– and, on one shoulder, the mark of the Kirin Tor.
Even as Atassa pulled him free of the rubble, Mythandragos was using her steadfastness to pull himself up and then, in turn, draw her close into an urgent kiss. It was sweet and brief and almost immediately he broke it, forehead resting against hers with a hand against her cheek, breathing heavily. “Be careful, Atassa– I thought you were going to get hit!”
“Me be careful? You’re the one who could’ve been hurt–”
“I know! I– I know, I was just– I was so worried about you–!”
Great wings darkened the sky overhead, casting a shadow over the unusually couple. The shadow circled once, twice, three times– then landed with a rush of wind and surprising delicacy. A great blue head lunged forward, stopping just shy of Mythandragos and Atassa. She wasn’t the largest dragon they’d ever seen– and she was a dragon, not a drake– she didn’t even hold a candle to Alexstraza or Deathwing, but all the same she was huge.
“It’s good to see you, little one.” The anatomy of a dragon didn’t quite lend itself to subtle muscle movements like smiling, but it was there in her voice. Her great snout bumped into Mythandragos’ chest, nuzzling him gently. “Your mate as well. I trust you’ve both been good?”
The Exodar was so full of life. It was broken and shattered, more so by the recent Burning Legion invasions, but the people themselves were as whole and glowing as they had ever been. Mythandragos always forgot that people lived like this, that they were allowed to live like this, with friends and families and lovers.
“–Oh! Uh, yeah, yes– sorry…”
He hurried to catch Atassa, falling in step with her as she lead the way to her designated quarters, deep within what remained of the once-mighty ship. Within sight of where their Naaru once had been.
Ash fell from the sky as thickly as snow in Winterspring, covering and staining everything it touched. You couldn’t see the sky, and beyond the clouds was… nothing. Mythandragos shuddered, pulling on his own internal reserves of arcane to weave illusions around them that matched the glimpses of people he caught passing by outside the nook they hid in.
Something–someone?–passed nearby that was unlike anyone else. Myth could feel them–it?–at the edge of his consciousness, for one– like knowing where another mage was by the arcane energies they put off. But they felt different, more metallic, like the coppery taste of blood in your mouth, and judging by how the energy signature was growing closer… they knew Mythandragos and Atassa were there.
If you like, another trope/scenario of your choice
Mythandragos settled back against Atassa’s front, idly flicking through a thick, arcane tome he’d recently acquired. He felt hands in his hair as Atassa started playing with it; running her fingers through the longer stuff and scuffing against his shaved sides.
“What are you reading, Myth?” She asked, voice heavy with that beautiful draenic accent. “I’ve never known you to study from books.”
“It’s on Norixius’ advice,”mused, shifting so Atassa could rest her chin on his head and read between his tiny horns. “He’s been talking a lot” (”What’s new there?” She teased, and Myth snorted) “about how my magic is ‘tainted’ with fire and not pure arcane. That’s not true, and it’s pissing me off, but I just… don’t know enough about how it works to give an educated argument.”
Hence the book,” he affirmed. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to brush up on my fundamentals. If it proves him wrong and strengthens my flame– all the better.”
