I do not own Warcraft.

Arthas Has A Very Bad Day

...

It had all started with that damned nap.

Sleep. It was not a thing the Lich King generally indulged in; and so, in hindsight, he easily recognized the catalyst of all his troubles: it was a personal failure that would live in infamy.

On this fateful day, and even after inadvertently letting loose a mighty yawn directly in Anub'arak's bristly face, Arthas had still insisted he was not especially sleepy. He guessed he was just bored with the monotonous routine of running an undead kingdom. So black and white it was, with only the uplifting splash of red to occasionally raise the spirits. But as he was accustomed to the tedium – it was his own creation, after all – he found it a bit irksome when he nodded off during Kel'Thuzad's report on the growing problem of guild-related graffiti and noise pollution in Naxxramas. It was at this point that the Dark Lord decided a little nap might be in order.

Kel'Thuzad was the first to express concern over this decision. With something vaguely resembling distress ambling across his bony features, the archlich had offered to prepare him a rejuvenating tonic.

Arthas felt compelled to decline. "I seem to recall you kindly doing the same for Razuvious just recently."

"Nooo…" The lich was fudging. Arthas sighed his displeasure. "Yes, my Lord…" Kel'Thuzad admitted, ducking his head contritely, "But I maintain my innocence; it was not deliberate. Yes, it is true he wrecked my lab in a drunken rage, but why would I respond to what is a common occurrence with such deliberate malice?" For his reply, Arthas arched a cynical eyebrow. "Very well, my Lord, but why would I ever think to give a purgative to an undead? Besides which, it makes absolutely no sense that it had such an effect. I'm not certain he even has bowels…"

"Apparently not anymore…" Arthas replied dryly. Presently, they were blown all over Wintergarde Keep. Not terribly appreciated by the good folks of the Alliance. "All the same, I do not need rejuvenation, Kel; what I need is a little lie down," the Lich King added, with a gesture of finality. "Not even slightly apocalyptic. Trust me."

...

So it was then, that the Lord of Terror, Jailer of the Damned, a man of many well-earned and ominous titles, set aside his plans for the global obliteration of all life, and took a slight detour in his daily routine of crushingly-heartless dominion over the enslaved dead. It stood to reason, he decided, that even an evil archetype, such as himself, occasionally had need of some downtime.

He did not restlessly stalk the dark corridors of his forbidding Citadel; nor did he diabolically cogitate upon the Frozen Throne – the very literal seat of his terrible power. No. While he had always found both these activities relaxing in the past, he felt a deeper commitment was presently required. Therefore, dismissing all others' grave qualms as to the dubious state of his ordinarily perfect malice, the Lich King went instead to his private chambers. Passing through Sword's Rest, he ridded himself of Frostmourne's gloomy company, as its constant, whispered portents of woe and morbid doom were becoming every bit as tiresome as Kel'Thuzad's had been.

"I slept for the better part of a decade once, and you didn't say peep," Arthas reminded the distressed runeblade, "It's just a nap…" he added, before continuing, alone, to his fearsome boudoir. Here, he proceeded to set aside his armor. When it too began voicing some apprehensions over his suspicious conduct, his response was wordless: he angrily kicked his demonic accouterments across the room, where they lay scattered and forlorn, but sensibly silent. Satisfied, the Dark Lord of the Dead fell into his bed, relaxing with a deep, contented sigh.

Perhaps it was insignificant in the great, grisly scheme of things, this tranquil sigh; but had the Lich King truly been himself – that being entirely at odds with serenity – he would have instantly recognized it for what it was.

Fate's grim harbinger.

...

When Arthas woke sometime later from a very pleasant nightmare of messy mass destruction, he became aware of two things almost immediately. First, he was intensely thirsty for a tankard of Dun Morogh stout. He grunted wonderingly, raising up on his elbows. This was when the startling second matter came to his attention. He was profoundly, nay, prodigiously aroused.

"Fuck…" he whispered. Clearly, some part of his brain thought that was a splendid idea.

After the shock of realization abated somewhat, Arthas began to feel comfortably furious.

'Somebody's messing with me,' he decided.

Considering how incredibly long the list was of those who might feel a tad confrontational toward him, 'who' was the only truly valid question. The pointlessness of asking 'why' could not possibly be overstated.

As this was obviously a spell, and clearly one based upon uncontrollable emotion, Jaina had to be considered first, of course, for two reasons: Impetus and Application. As to the first, it was widely known and remarked upon that the sorceress still brooded obsessively over their past relationship. And to such an extent that Arthas was actually beginning to feel slightly embarrassed for her. The second matter was pretty much covered by the fact that only a select few possessed the magical skill required to compel him to feel any emotion whatsoever, outside his habitual wrath and gloating malevolence; and Jaina was definitely one of them.

Still, knowing Jaina exceedingly well, Arthas was quite convinced that if the mage could, in fact, perfect such a spell, he would have long since been on her leash, stripped of all free-will (and, if memory did not fail him, almost certainly his clothes), happily accommodating her every whim.

Arthas rubbed his neck thoughtfully, suddenly remembering the studded dog collar she had once enjoyed making him wear… By the Dark, he hadn't thought of that accessory in years.

A soft snicker of malicious laughter escaped him. No one would ever believe the wickedness proper Lady Jaina Proudmoore had gotten down with when they were alone. His eyebrows peaked in recollection. The things she had done with a riding crop, alone…

Arthas sighed. Evidently, that sort of behavior – the master/slave relationship – was only disreputable when he did it.

Sometimes, when it occurred to him to think of it at all, he truly regretted all that mindless lust and wildly-orgasmic sex he and Jaina had so frequently indulged in when they were together. Such rampant, steamy sentiment. How disgusting. Although he had been very proud of himself at the time, her long term memory had now become his curse.

She was going to redeem him if it killed her.

Arthas grew contemplative. No. Poor, pathetically deluded Jaina could never bring herself to harm him. It amused the Dark Lord no end that her mooning, swooning, overly romanticized concern for his well-being was her one exploitable weakness. Of that he was immovably confident.

He nodded, satisfied, turning his thoughts to his more dependably homicidal enemies. Sylvanas, for example. Now there was one who would jump at the chance to tear his gonads out through his nostrils. He would concede that hers was a reasonable response, considering his somewhat less than gentlemanly behavior toward the little elf. The question was: did she have the power for this particular kind of spell? Possibly… He pondered further. Could she even remember what these sensations felt like, so as to project them onto him? He rather doubted it. She was as devoid of feeling as he was. Arthas frowned resentfully. Or had been.

He glanced down. Still, this matter held no sway over his wrath. It was not a calming balm upon his abominable intentions; therefore, it was but a distraction, a mere nuisance to him, and the Banshee Queen would never waste her time with anything less fulfilling than excruciating pain. No,Sylvanas would go straight for the gut-wrenching torture. There would be no mistaking her actions for the deeds of another.

Most telling, in that regard, this spell had no familiar darkness in it, no comforting malice, no harm whatsoever. In fact, it was hideously warm and fuzzy. Worse, it had the dangerous potential of being… pleasant. Arthas damn near gagged.

Wasn't Sylvanas, then.

Could it be the insidious work of the Argent Crusade? It would be just like them to send some silly, Light-infused balloon of Happy Thoughts his way in an attempt to permanently disable him. Another glance down and he was forced to reconsider the possibility.

Again, no. That distinguished Order would likely croak en masse and swan dive straight into their glorious, mind-numbing Light at the mere suggestion that their actions might be responsible for this irrepressible monument to masculinity. Arthas snorted with evil glee.

Strike the righteous off the Big List.

Easing carefully out of bed, Arthas slowly crossed to the window – the great, turgid wand leading the way.

"Well, this won't do at all," he protested irritably. "How the hell am I to get into my armor?" he shook his head, sternly addressing a certain seditious body part, "Don't make me deal with you, mutinous fool…" he threatened, "I will, you know, if you insist upon impeding me. You are, in effect, useless to me now, and you must surely know it." The shameless rebel organ adamantly disagreed. Arthas eyed it bitterly, "You think to command me!" he growled. "Go ahead then, explode! Think you will be missed? Bah! Matters not at all to me!"

The unrelenting rigidity not only persisted, but actually – alarmingly enough – increased. "Fuck it!" shouted Arthas indignantly; he was sorely beset, "Alright! I suppose a cultist would do…"

Considering that his traitorous body appeared to be presenting arms at the mere suggestion of his consent, he could only assume such was a definitive 'yes'.

...

Well, that had been distinctly unpleasant, the Lich King sourly decided, quite some time, and several cultists, later. Now he was overheated, sticky and still hard enough to mine saronite.

Ridiculous. Indecent. Degrading. Outrageous. Arthas had a whole thesaurus of descriptive adjectives for his present condition.

Finally, he had taken Kel'Thuzad into his confidence, but the lich had seemed suspiciously amused, and yes, possibly even aroused. Of course, with that mostly skeletal frame and a fixed grin permanently plastered on his face, it was, admittedly, a bit difficult to be entirely certain.

"A line has formed in the Halls of Reflection, my King," he reported gravely.

"A line?" Arthas couldn't decide if he was appalled or flattered.

"Word has spread about your dilemma," Kel'Thuzad said, "You have many devoted minions, my liege. All are eager to… ah, serve…" His second-in-command paused to ponder, stroking his bony chin with a skeletal finger, "Perhaps you should take this opportunity to just get it out of your system," he added helpfully. "So to speak."

The Lich King covered his eyes with one hand, "This will probably be the very day Fordring makes his move," he grumbled, "If so, then perhaps I will just stroll out onto the ramparts and salute him!" Glowering testily, Arthas hobbled stiffly around the chamber; he was terribly uncomfortable.

"I would bet gold Varian is behind this somehow," he accused momentarily. "Believe it or not, there was a time when that grouchy bastard actually knew how to have fun…" he glanced at Kel'Thuzad with an evil smile, "We were a force to be reckoned with in those days, Kel... challenging and defeating entire armies of lace underwear..." Arthas snickered wickedly, "Father was so embarrassed he threatened to have us both fitted with chastity belts." Another laugh escaped him.

"Perhaps the good king should have seen it as a sign of things to come," Kel'Thuzad offered, creaking laughter. "I must say, in spite of this matter, you do seem in a very good humor, my King," he commented, not realizing the import of his words until they were uttered. It was a remark that sobered Arthas instantly.

"That is the dastardly intent," he hissed. "Yes, I see it now!"

"My Lord?" Kel'Thuzad inquired, aghast and a bit alarmed by the Lich King's suddenly thunderous expression. To his surprise, he realized he had actually rather enjoyed the laughing king; the swift return to grim normality was rather unexpectedly depressing.

"This…" Arthas pointed an accusing finger, "it is but the beginning," he nodded grimly. "This is more perverse, more deviously-cruel than even I suspected." He contemplated on that for a moment, "I suppose I should be envious of their pitiless guile," he concluded.

"I fear I do not follow, my liege."

"They know they cannot prevail against my might! They know they will fall, helpless, before my great power… yes!" the Lich King began to limp angrily around the chamber, "They think to undermine my will! To lay waste to my dominion with their subtleties!"

"Forgive me, my Lord," said Kel'Thuzad, "but this seems well past subtle," he gestured delicately and Arthas glanced down, finding the previously settled issue was rising yet again to beleaguer him.

"Aw shit," the King groused indignantly. "How long can this possibly go on?"

Kel'Thuzad sighed, "Well, you are immortal, my Lord, after all."

Arthas actually paled; and Kel'Thuzad would have blinked at the unprecedented sight, but he had neither lids nor lashes to flutter. In something like compensation, his eyes glowed a bit brighter still, and Arthas was fairly certain he did not much like the looks of that.

"Alright," the Lich King said fiercely, "I want everybody you've got on this problem. Close down the damned Fleshwerks if you must! Stop all torture and get rid of half the prisoners – they're no fun anyway. I don't want to see even one more barrel of Plague produced until this matter is dealt with. I want results, Kel, and I do mean I wanted them yesterday! Understood?"

"Yesterday, my Lord?" Kel'Thuzad mused, "Shall I make a trek to the Caverns of Time?"

"Oh GODS, it's a fucking figure of speech!" Arthas gestured wildly, at his wits' end, "Just do something! Anything! Reverse this spell! Amputate!"

"Is that not a bit extreme, my King?"

"Extreme?!" the Dark Lord bellowed, "Have you any idea how painfully chafed I am?! No, you're an over-dressed sack of bones! How could you possibly empathize? Just get me back to cold, unfeeling normal!" Arthas drooped – although not entirely – and with a bitter sigh, he said, "I'm going to go sit on the Frozen Throne awhile, and then I'm taking a nap…" he glowered, "and not a word from you about it! I'm fucking exhausted. Literally." He shuffled wrathfully away, only briefly glancing back to snarl: "Don't you dare fail me, Kel'Thuzad…"

...

"Arrthaass…"

The napping Lich King sat bolt upright in bed, staring wildly around his chambers. All was silent, all was still. He sighed his relief; it had just been a terrible dream. No doubt a direct result of his… condition.

"Arrrthaasss…"

The Dark Lord froze; he would recognize that voice anywhere. "Holy shit!" he whispered, "It's Jaina!"

"Where are you, Arrthaass?" The voice was echoing throughout Icecrown Citadel; there was no knowing the direction of her approach. The Prince of Darkness sat tensely waiting, wide-eyed, clutching his covers to his chest.

'I've got to get out of here,' he thought frantically, struggling out of bed. 'If she finds me, she'll light me up like a wicker man…'

Glaring at his unruly loins (someone was certainly delighted by the prospect of company), Arthas had just wrapped his chain mail top sheet around his hips when suddenly the door to his chambers flew open, crashing into the wall, sending ice shards flying.

"There you are, Lich King," said the mage triumphantly, as she stepped into the room.

'Goddamn, did she always look that good?' the stunned Arthas could not help but wonder, just as she sent a fireball directly at him, vaporizing his impromptu loungewear. Shocked, he gasped. He had loved his armored sheet set! It had been a Winter Veil gift from Lana'thel!

"Now see here!" Arthas shouted, furious and deeply offended, his hands flying to conceal and hopefully press into submission the untoward response to this aggression from his suddenly alerted groin.

"Oh no you don't…" Jaina cried, and mere seconds later, magical shackles encased his wrists, jerking his hands up and out.

"Argh!" the Lich King roared, "Ow! Oof…" he grunted, as he was slammed forcefully back, and quickly restrained, helplessly crucified against the wall by magic.

"Jaina… sweetheart…." he endeavored to appease, as she drew nearer. With terrifying familiarity, her eyes roamed wantonly over his naked, incapacitated body. As he remembered it well, Arthas could not suppress a cringe of trepidation at that hungry look of intention. The sorceress waved a finger and suddenly a leather gag clamped his jaws, forcing itself between his teeth. Arthas croaked his pointless objections, causing a lascivious smile to overspread the mage's flushed features.

"I understand you're having a problem, Arthas," Jaina murmured, approaching. He shook his head wildly, eyes huge, long hair flying. She chuckled, titillated by his resistance, "Let me help you with that, darling…" she smiled craftily, "As I am the only one who can…" Arthas's eyes widened further with this terrifying revelation."You underestimated my determination, dearest one. My resolve to reacquire you…" She snapped her fingers, and he felt the once often-encountered, studded collar cinch snugly around his throat. "A dangerous mistake, my sweet," she added. The riding crop appeared in her hand in the next instant; he whimpered.

"I'm feeling a little… tense, Arthas," Jaina crooned, coming to stand before him. Still her eyes wandered, feasting on the sight of him – the long, frosty mane of glowing hair, sleep-tousled upon his shoulders and chest... very soon she would give it a reason to be tangled. She stroked his smooth, taut skin, remembering well the feel of his intoxicating embrace, and gazing at him as she did so with a hungry leer that Arthas found as unsettling as it was oddly stirring.

Jaina smiled; in all its icy glory, that perfect body she had so pined for was now entirely vulnerable to her every desire. And made even more attractive to her for his supposed unobtainability. 'We will see about that...' she thought, her eyes flickering to his face, so pale, so arrogant and cold; he was cruelty made delectable flesh – and yes, still so very handsome. She snorted happily, ogling him thoroughly and appreciatively – every long-lost inch of him.

Never had Arthas felt so objectified.

"In fact," Jaina continued at last, "I've been tense for years… thanks to you…" Slowly she traced the contours of his abdominal muscles with the tip of her riding crop, giving the prime flesh a few light, but stinging lashes, and smiling as his snowy skin quivered from that rousing sensation. 'Yes, he always liked it a little rough,' she recalled, giving his navel a sensual nudge. Eyes gleaming, she reached to stroke and then to grasp him decisively.

Arthas flinched... Oh, that was... intimate...

"Did you miss me?" she purred, giving his thrilled penis a firm, caressing squeeze.

Its reply to this question was so demonstrably obvious that Arthas staggered in his restraints, suddenly lightheaded as blood surged from all points, plummeting with a fixed purpose – leaving his muscles weak, his brain gasping for oxygen, and one particular part of him defying gravity with a vengeance.

"That's what I'm talking about…" Jaina growled softly; peering up into his anxious face. "Do you have any idea how needy a woman can get after years of neglect?" she whispered. Arthas tried with desperate futility to plead with her around the gag. He struggled; she smiled. "What? Did you think I'd just forget about you – the same way you forgot about me? Nooo…" Again, Arthas shook his head, garbled sounds of denial escaping him, mingled with grunts of protest and stifled groans of damning, unbearable pleasure as she began to very gently punish him. She leaned close, taking one of his nipples between her teeth. "Now, best prepare yourself, my love," she hissed softly around the eagerly stiffening nub, "We have a hell of a lot of catching up to do!"

...

Jaina Proudmoore was standing out on the battlements, spine straight, hands on her hips, stark naked, in a sleet-filled gale; she was gazing victoriously out over her newly-reclaimed beloved's icy kingdom.

Kel'Thuzad gaped; she was going to catch her death – all flushed and moist as she was… He sighed, rearranging his chains with oddly clattering fingers.

'Oh my,' he reflected, 'the chill is doing wonders for her profile… such an alluring assortment of hills and valleys… and why the hell am I thinking these thoughts?!'

There was a muffled grunt from the other side of the room and the lich turned toward it curiously. By the Darkness! It seemed as if a cyclone had struck and deliberately demolished his master's bed! The lower left corner of the structure had completely collapsed; the canopy was in pieces, and one of the massive skull-festooned bed posts lay felled across the floor. The furs were piled high, blankets twisted, the feather mattress sagging off its frame. All was in chaos. An exploded pillow had left, in the wake of its destruction, a snowy layer of fluff over the bed and its immediate surroundings. Horrified, the lich could only stare in wonder at the devastation.

There was another sound, a sort of wheezed moan and the twisted mound of furs and blankets heaved slightly. Kel'Thuzad started, levitating high into the air; he bounced straight up to the shadowy security of the domed ceiling, and from that vantage point, he surveyed the inexplicable wreckage. He mused, and very likely would have pursed his lips worriedly had he still possessed them to do so. Tentatively, the lich floated back down to the floor, drifting nearer to the destroyed bed. The blankets surged and settled.

"Ohhh… gods…" came a groaning voice that was entirely familiar to him, despite its obvious, total exhaustion.

"My Lord?" the lich shrieked, "Are you in there, my King?"

"Uuuuuhuh…" was the reply, "oooohhh…"

"What terrible magic is this?" Kel'Thuzad whispered, aghast.

The voice croaked out a string of words; but only two were intelligible, "...brutal… pussy…"

The archlich certainly knew how unforgiving Mr. Bigglesworth could be when he did not get his way; still, he could not immediately recall that particular spell. Even so, it was without question a most potent one, to have laid so low the very Lich King, himself.

A hand emerged from the upheaval; once so all-powerful, now so limp, it lifted, waving about in an aimless, fatigued manner, as if seeking an anchor or some lost solace, and Kel'Thuzad rushed closer to aid his poor, trounced

King.

"My Lord! Are you injured?" he cried, receiving only a faint moan of anguish and the truly devastating admission:

"Help me, Kel... I feel... fantastic..."

Yet, even as he moved towards rescue, a rush of chilly air buffeted the room, followed by the cheerful declaration, "Back off, bone-boy! Touch him, and I'll roast you!"

Kel'Thuzad bobbed back, leaving the desperate hand waving disconsolately, "Nooo…" the Lich King moaned pitiably from his hidey-hole. "No more, Jaina… I implore you… no more…"

The sorceress strolled toward the bed, a veritable goddess, in all her pink, womanly glory, soft flesh bouncing prettily in the most breathtaking manner. The lich gasped, feeling a tingle from… well, somewhere, and one so strong it nigh rattled the chains girding his desiccated corpse.

'Sometimes,' Kel'Thuzad thought with a wistful sigh, 'I wish someone would come along and just give me a big, long hug...'

"My work is not yet finished here," the mage proclaimed as she pounced onto the bed and began digging into the bedclothes with lustful abandon, quickly unearthing her wilted prize.

His white hair sweaty from exertion, and as tangled as Jaina had promised herself it would be, Arthas strove to escape by frantically burrowing deeper into the heap of blankets. Laughing merrily, the mage recaptured him with ease. Deftly and with a marked ferocity of purpose, she lay to with her siege — mercilessly tickling Arthas's ribs, and quickly reducing the Dark Lord of the Dead to a helpless, breathless, madly-giggling shadow of his former, forbidding self.

"You…" Kel'Thuzad accused, pointing a finger, "You were the agent behind this cruel and savage assault upon our Lord's… person!" He gasped, "All along, it was you…"

"No Kel… no," Arthas panted, "in the name of all that is unholy… do not provoke her…"

Jaina snickered, glancing up only briefly from her intentions, "I am the greatest archmage of my time," she shrieked, "with the highest levels of magic at my command. Did you really think I would not act?" She raised a fist that shimmered with power,"What sort of weepy, spineless fool do you take me for?"

She laughed cruelly at their shocked disbelief, as she wove her webs of enchantment, pinning the now weakly-struggling Lich King beneath her. Trapped, and quickly subdued by the fierce press of her long, smooth limbs and dangerously bulging bosom, the Death God could only gasp in despair, his resistance faltering and doomed, as she again made him feel entirely too alive, stealing from him all hope of deliverance from her merciless power.

There would be no return to the dark chill for him!

And then, the dreaded moment arrived, when all thoughts of flight were driven explosively from Arthas's traumatized mind, his back arching with unendurable pleasure, as he was taken and overwhelmed by the devastating storm of emotions forced upon him by his ferocious conqueror.

His fate was sealed.

Finally vanquished, expecting no mercy, and racked with terrible bliss, the Lich King collapsed, succumbing to his captor's might. He gazed up at her with wide, pleading eyes as the glowing blue mist of his ousted powers dissipated, only to be greeted by the most feral grin of conquest. The soft laugh that followed chilled him to his thawing marrow.

"And you thought I didn't have it in me…" Jaina whispered.

…