Work Text:
“Kael’thas,”
The utterance stirred him from slumber, his eyes pulling open tiredly. Low, gruff, his named played along lips that spoke ancient tongues, that once whispered dark and beautiful things into his hair. That was a voice he had not heard in quite a long time, and one he couldn’t misplace even if he wanted to. The silken sheets pooled at his waist as he pulled himself up to behold his most secret dreams coming to fruition.
“Illidan,” he answered, his voice escaping in mere breaths of awe. He could feel his face flushing already, heat rising in his chest and colouring his cheeks, like he were some bashful maiden before her groom. There he stood at the foot of the bed, like he’d wanted - like he’d waited for, everything about him power and strength and domination. Just like he’d remembered. Just like he’d missed.
“Have you no respect for your master, little phoenix?” Illidan questioned as he advanced, his arms strong and secure as they wrapped around the lithe figure of his faithful. Kael’thas answered the embrace with a kiss, his fingers tracing the patterns on his lover’s skin as he pulled him fully onto the bed.
“Lord Illidan,” the prince corrected himself. He closed his eyes, sighing with longing as he held on tighter to the fel-corrupted, clawed fingers running through golden hair, powerful wings wrapping him up, hiding him from the world. Kael gasped as he felt teeth on his neck and his back being pressed down into the mattress. “Master,” he whimpered, his voice soft and full of need. He had always been so proud of himself, felt some need to be in control of everything and everyone around him. Illidan had made him fall in love with being utterly powerless, at his mercy, until he was begging, screaming for more, for release, for fulfillment. It had been so long since they were like this, far too long--
Kael’thas gasped as he clutched at his bedsheets, his eyes finding the ceiling above him. He pushed his hair out of his face, his breaths soft and panted, the smooth skin of his chest damp with sweat. A quivering sigh fell from his lips as he sat up and looked around, only to find himself desperately alone. His brow lowered, eyes closed, knees tucked up to his chest as he let out a tormented groan, his body aching with a need for what was gone forever.
Illidan was gone. Couldn’t he simply accept that and continue on? Even if the demon elf weren’t lost to him for good, he was still full of pathetic longing for the Whisperwind harlot. He knew what they were - he was just something to warm Lord Illidan’s bed. Attachment, he’d learned, was foolish and fickle and fated to fall apart somehow. He was destined to be betrayed, abandoned, hated by anybody who ever bothered to see him as more than a Prince, anybody who dared to truly know him. Either that, or they ended up dead.
But he couldn’t stop himself from loving Illidan.
He laid himself down with a strangled whine, burying his face in a pillow and shouting his frustration into it, his screaming muffled by the cushion. He hated himself even more for it as he felt tears welling in his eyes. He held the blankets in fists, his knuckles white, whole body shivering and shaken with sobs. The screams tore through his throat, ugly and raw - he couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t, he kept screaming and crying in pain until he felt his head spinning, his voice dying out into a whimper. It was harder to pull himself up to a sit this time, his body didn’t want to move.
“Your Grace?” one of his servants called for him from beyond his door, “is everything alright?” they questioned, opening the door and stepped inside carefully. Kael’thas regarded them with a neutral expression, the green of his eyes burning less brilliantly than usual after his fit of tears.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Kael’thas asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. The servant stared at him for a moment before nodding slightly, knowing it wasn’t in their place to wonder.
“My apologies, your worship. I meant not to intrude upon your rest,” they said meekly, taking a step back and shutting the door behind them. Kael laid back down upon his bed with a weary huff of a sigh. ‘His rest’, they said, as if he ever found any. There was a good reason why everyone said there was no rest for the wicked.