You are… knot prepared.

A/N Are you familiar with the A/B/O trope? No? Well, I'm sure you'll pick it up.

No one mentioned anything about Illidan being an alpha. You're pretty sure you would've remembered that being on the docket.

"I'd've thought that was implied," Beren grunts, unloading a barrel of lead into a truly unfortunate demon.

"Why on this gods-forsaken floating wasteland would that have been implied?" If you're short-tempered, your companions have only themselves to blame.

It'll be fine, they said.

Just in and out and it's over, they said.

Just like my ex, you think. But unlike your ex, the mismatched "heroes" around you are taking their sweet fucking time.

"Gah, I can smell him everywhere." You don't care that you're whining. Your robe sleeve is doing nothing to stifle the heady alpha scent, and someone dropped your satchel of suppressants down a godsdamned mountain two days ago. You level a poisonous glare at a criminally young warrior, though he's too busy gutting an enemy to take notice. When he takes a blow, you pretend not to see.

Don't piss off the healer, kid.

You're not the only person with healing capabilities in this party (and if this is a party, then you want a fucking drink), and one would think that with something like thirty people and a handful of healers, someone would have an extra suppressant potion in their pack.

That would be an incorrect assumption.

The only other omega in your group is a druid who, when asked for a hit of a suppressant, looked at you with a dreamy expression and told you to "channel your spirit."

Oh-kay, moon-eyed bitch. Not helpful.

You're more offensive than defensive today, blasting demons with the heat of your… well, heat, and the others better just suck it up and pick up the slack. Every ounce of your patience is going into not jumping the very attractive draenei paladin who smells almost as good as the guy you're here to kill.

Speaking of.

"Hey, do you think someone could be sexed to death?" you shout over to Beren. It's too loud to worry about being heard over the battle, and if anyone does hear you—well. It's a valid question.

Beren, world-weary dwarf that he is, doesn't pause in his reload.

"Depends. Is there magic involved?"

"I dunno. Maybe?" You don't really specialize in life drains.

"Just keep 'em occupied til dehydration takes 'em, then." He takes aim again and the subject drops.

Do demonic entities even get thirsty? A more pressing question would be why are you still thinking about this?

The courtyard isn't even half empty yet, and the waves of demons just keep coming. The original idea was to keep it quiet and take the enemies in groups, but it's an open space, and the fel energy makes creatures strong, not stupid. You're not anything close to despairing yet, though, still irritated and horny and half-heartedly blasting demons into the nether from whence they came. May the light embrace you and all that shit.

"I need healing!" someone shouts.

"I need healing," you mock, though you send a jet of light in their general direction.

The stones beneath your feet shudder as the biggest hunk of sentient rock you've ever seen (and you'd wager that you've seen more than the average person) descends on the lot of you.

"Oh, just fuck me up, Daddy."

You don't realize you've said it aloud until you see the disturbed and faintly disgusted expression of the warlock beside you.

"That's Supremus," she says. "Don't be foul."

You shoot her an unimpressed look.

"If half of the things I've heard about your order are true," you say, widening your stance as the demon stomps closer, "then your holier-than-thou tone is hilariously unnecessary."

She scowls, but both of your attentions are rather rudely diverted as the battle begins in earnest.

It only takes a few minutes for your attitude to shift from pissy to something akin to fearful as it starts to dawn on you that this is a fight that could actually be lost. A dwarf warrior is crushed by a mighty stone foot, and it's evident that no amount of prayer is going to bring her back. A mage, standing too close to the melee, is knocked clear across the courtyard, landing at an unnatural angle. No one goes to him.

You have to beat the warlock woman's succubus off of her when she takes a near-fatal hit and goes down. The she-demon seems bent on collecting on her contract and leaving, but you're not about to watch someone's soul get eaten—even if it is her damn fault for contracting a demon in the first place.

"Behave," you growl, nearly braining the succubus with your staff. "She's not dying today, and you have a fucking job to do."

The lust demon snaps her teeth at you, but then pauses, inhaling. Her tongue, long and nearly serpentine, flicks over her lips. You swallow hard as it disappears behind too-sharp teeth and try not to think about the pulse between your thighs.

"Omega," she says. The unholy light in her eyes flares.

"Well-spotted," you snap. You give a none-too-gentle jolt of healing to the downed warlock and straighten up. "Either tend to your master or go kill something."

"I could tend you." The demon slinks closer.

"After that little show of restraint?" You bark out a humorless laugh even as your hands shake. Today isn't the day to test your own self-restraint, but as ever, the universe laughs at your discomfort.

Someone falls behind you, and you knock them with your staff, not bothering to turn around. A spark of light illuminates you from behind.

"Thanks," says the person faintly.

You grunt.

"Hesriel." The warlock is sitting up, coughing. "Help me up."

You and the demon match stares, hers reptilian and hungry, yours likely frustrated and a bit stressed. People are dying, a demon is propositioning you, and parts of you—loud parts—really want you to consider the offer. You refuse to think too hard about the places that tongue could take you.

"Hesriel," the warlock says, insistent.

The succubus relents. Her tail flicks against your leg as she passes.

Fuck demons.

You wipe a sweaty palm on your robe and get a fresh whiff of fel-and-alpha scent. Your abdomen cramps, empty and hot.

Fuck demons.

A shaman kicks up a gale of wind, and somewhere on the other side of the battle, you hear the screech of a druid-turned-moonkin as the wind becomes a cyclone. Your robes twist about your legs and the scent of enticing alpha is replaced by the pungent smell of everyone in your party—their fear, their blood, their sweat—as it's all thrown into your face at once. It's only one brief, uncomfortable moment before the winds shift everything—including the remaining minor demons—up and away in one great funnel. When it resettles, you are left blinking and disheveled. The giant demon—Daddy Supremus—is still pounding away at a small group of plate-wearers. Someone must've cast a barrier at some point, because otherwise they'd have been crushed like so much scrap metal.

"Does he 'ave any weak spots, ye think?" Beren has circled back to you at some point, sweaty and red-faced, but steady.

"Everything has a weakness," you say, which sounds empty and trite in the face of this glowing monstrosity. You're starting to tire, your arms sore from channeling. Magic exhaustion goes farther than muscle pain, and farther than even bone; it's linked to the very heart of you—your soul, you suppose—and when the tug of low mana starts, it feels as though it leeches at your very being.

You suppose warlocks have it worse, what with their ability todrain their own fucking life-force, but that's their choice. You're not very sympathetic towards their "plight" on your best days.

And today, you think as a concussive force knocks you onto your ass, is not my best day.

Beren issues cover fire while you peel yourself from the stone, one aching limb at a time. Having a lower center of gravity, he apparently missed the fun of being sent ass-over-teakettle. Dwarves are a sturdy folk, a racial trait that you find yourself envious of as you wince and heal your protesting tailbone.

"Steady now, 'e's crackin'."

You look up to see that, yes, the behemoth is beginning to break apart, and no sooner have you cast a blanket heal—superficial wounds only, because you're scraping the bottom of the mana barrel here—than a paladin, barrier glowing bright, lands a lucky blow. You're hit with a shockwave of energy as Supremus gives up the fel ghost, spraying everyone with a not-so-fine rain of gravel. From the deafening rumble of stone-on-stone, you hope that your surviving comrades have enough sense to dodge the larger pieces of the rock demon's remains.

You are, once again, knocked on your ass.

"Ye alrigh', lass?" Beren nudges your prone form with one heavy boot.

"'m fuckin' done," you say, one arm flung over your eyes. "Stick a fork in me."

"Tha's no way to be." The dwarf sounds reproachful. "We 'ave a ways to go yet. Best get on up."

Your response—which, for the record, would have been a succinct "fuck no"—is lost as a sudden wave of terror overtakes you. You don't know if it was the sounds of battle that did it, or the scents—that whirlwind of a cyclone may have been your company's downfall—but it hardly matters now. It's instinct to curl in on yourself, to try to tuck away the softest parts as he descends.

"Lass," Beren whispers, though it's hardly necessary.

He's here.

You're not the only one affected as all of the fel energy in the area coalesces and concentrates in one single being. Others are struck dumb, unable to scramble away—and where is away?—as if a great, oppressive hand holds them fast. There's the beat of leathery wings, and a shadow that you feel like a caress. Your exhausted mana pools rally as your fight or flight responses kick in, the scent and sound and taste of predator overriding every other feeling.

Your thighs are wet with slick, the sensation only registering as you try to fold in tighter.

And there's a third option that your body has laid out for you: present. Your need isn't as pressing now, what with the jumble of other emergency claxons ringing out in your brain, but the animal part of you, the part that's been edging forward for the last two days, urges you to turn over, to slide your knees up under the soft skin of your belly, to bare your neck and submit.

The very thought of it terrifies you nearly as much as the presence overhead.

There's a great whoomph of banking wings. You can't feel the fingers around your staff, but you think it's still in your hands. A blanket of fel-laced alpha scent covers the courtyard until you are fairly choking on it, your heat spiking in response. You realize you will die here, drained of mana and your own sense of self, wet and weak and whimpering.

Hooves settle heavily onto the stone not three meters from your position. The solid thud seems very final.

"When I count to three—" Beren's voice is barely a breath at your ear. He's crouching over you now, utterly still, eyes on your foe. "—run."

You squinch your eyes shut in disbelief.

"One."

You don't think you can stand, much less run. The courtyard is frozen, a herd of deer caught in the den of the wolf.

"Two."

Beren shifts, and you can suddenly see him. Illidan. The lord of the Black Temple. He stands head and shoulders above even the tallest of the invading group, legs planted, webbed wings braced for action. His eyes are bound with a strip of cloth, but fel green light leaks through it, wavering in the air like smoke. Even as you watch, his head tilts, raptor-like, towards the only sound in the courtyard: Beren's voice.

"Three."

The courtyard bursts into action as Beren fires, and the spell—magic or not—that held everyone in its thrall breaks. Illidan bears his teeth in a frightening rictus. His fangs, too long to be attributed to his elven heritage, glint in the light of the spell volley. The sound he makes—a growling laugh, low enough to be felt in the stones beneath you—has you panting, terrified and undone.

"You," says the alpha, catching a plate-wearer by his throat and tossing him to the side, "have made a grave error."

The party is in disarray, half making a final, futile stand, half fleeing towards any semblance of safety. The warlock and her demon dash past you, making toward the entry passage.

"Hesriel—" The woman gestures in your direction, and you hardly process the sight before cool arms are beneath you, lifting.

"Hold tight, little omega," the succubus croons in your ear. "I shall take care of you."

You can't help the little moan that burbles up, too overwrought to stamp out the manifestations of your… condition. From your vantage point over Hesriel's (and if the demon is going to be three knuckles deep in you by the end of the day, you might as well use her name) shoulder, you watch Illidan's head snap in your direction, nostrils flaring.

Can he…?

Beren uses the distraction to his advantage, landing a solid shot to the alpha's shoulder. Illidan grunts and makes a swipe for the dwarf, but the hunter is already sprinting away, running towards the only viable escape route.

"Keep goin', I'm righ' behind you," he shouts.

You note with some detachment that your staff has been left behind. It sits near the heart of the melee, a token for the next hapless invaders. It's a shame, really. You liked that staff.

Another body goes flying past, wailing, and you summon up an exhausted little paff of healing and send it wafting in their direction. It distracts you enough that when Beren yells, "Incoming!" you don't even have time to brace yourself for the giant alpha hurtling in your direction.

It's almost ridiculous, you think, that anyone should be this tall. The horns, too, are overkill.

"Allow me to extend my hospitality."

Hesriel jerks as a clawed hand grabs one of her wings. Hissing, she drops you. You hit the stone with a bitten off cry, immediately attempting to roll away from the conflict. A cloven hoof narrowly misses crushing your arm as Illidan snatches the succubus, dangling her by her throat several feet from the ground. Hesriel twists in his grasp, legs kicking, before gnashing her teeth and disappearing altogether in a haze of sulfuric smoke. Illidan is left clutching at nothing as she dematerializes to her home plane.

He sneers. "Faithless."

There's a broken down war machine just to your left, and you make a desperate bid for cover, half crawling, half rolling beneath it. There are far fewer people in the courtyard now, most having either perished or fled in terror. You watch the warlock cast cover fire for Beren, both slipping out of the courtyard and—hopefully—away to safety. You wonder vaguely if Hesriel broke contract by leaving.

You also wonder if Beren saw you fall, and if he'd bother to come back for you if he did. He would be a fool if he tried.

(You hope he's a fool.)

You huddle under the vehicle, praying—it seems a priestly thing to do, even if purity has never been your strong suit—and watching the battle (such as it is) die down. The remaining fighters fall like so much cannon fodder, Illidan ripping through them with unnatural ease. You almost crawl from your shelter and try another mad dash across the courtyard, but then one of the last warriors is thrown against the hull of your hiding place. The crunch of bone yielding to metal is sickening. You don't know the man's name—you came into this party mostly blind, with Beren as your only known companion—but you meet his eyes, and there's recognition there.

"He—lp," he whispers. Blood froths at his lips.

You reach a shaking hand to his helmeted face, completely lacking the mana to do any good, but he's already slipping away, eyes locked on yours. You shutter them instead.

In the time it takes to pull the threads of yourself back together—never mind your fevered flesh—the courtyard has quieted. The stone is cold beneath you, and you lay your ear to it, staring out at the carnage. You see your adversary's legs planted in the center of it, but he's too tall—and the base of the war machine is too low—to see anything else. He's utterly still.

You know what's coming before it happens.

"I know you're there, omega," Illidan says. "I can smell you."

He can probably hear you, too; your heart is a drum beat in your chest.

"You were so eager to see me before, you and your friends." He's moving now, turning in your direction. The uncharitable part of you thinks he sounds like a giant draft horse with those hooves. The way he moves, however, seems to belie the unwieldy appendages. Even with an unclear view, you can tell that he stalks forward with fluid grace.

You flinch back as a clawed hand reaches beneath the lip of the vehicle.

"It's considered polite to greet your host."

Without ceremony, the war machine is flipped over, leaving you huddled and exposed to the open air. You stare at the cleft in Illidan's hooves, gasping out what are probably your last, desperate breaths.

Silence reigns for a moment.

"So much slick for such a small thing," he says in an almost offhand manner. "I could taste you from the ramparts."

A whimper catches in the back of your throat.

He's shifting, and you realize with some horror that he's crouching before you. His thighs are easily thicker than your torso, and bend in the same shape as a goat's. You spare a brief thought to whether they're furred like a satyr or smooth like a draenei.

"Tell me, did you think you would make it so far as to meet me in battle on your own merit?" His claws card through your hair in a mocking caress.

"Fuck you," you say thinly. A shudder runs through you at his touch, your body a battleground of instincts.

"Oh, omega." He draws out the sound, relishing it. "I would break you."

Your eyes follow the curved lines of fel markings up his torso, to the barrel of his chest and over the broad expanse of his shoulders. He is truly massive, you think, and if he is at all proportionate…

You swallow. A fresh gush of slick is your traitor body's response, and you don't have to look up to see the smile on the alpha's face. You do anyway, and watch his lips curl, wickedly self-satisfied, over too-sharp teeth.

"Oh, the thought appeals to you, doesn't it?" His voice takes on the alpha cadence you recognize from other males in far-flung taverns and war camps. Their words, however, didn't have the ability to make you pant in fear-heightened arousal. "It would. How far gone are you? One day? Two? Do you even care that your brethren lie dead at my feet, or is your need so great that I could rut into here, in their cooling blood, and have you beg for more?"

Your eyes prick with tears even as you clench tighter at his words, hot and empty and aching.

"Kill me or fuck me," you spit, "but don't be a dick."

He makes a low rumble that could be a chuckle. "Spirited. Perhaps the gods have not abandoned me as I thought."

You get the impression that he thinks he's funny.

"Oh, they definitely have," you pant. "I'm your punishment."

The alpha throws his head back in a full-throated laugh, and something in you purrs, smug. You squash the sentiment.

"The Den may have use of you," he muses, more to himself than to you. "Shahraz makes a business of pleasure." His voice rounds out the word "pleasure," dropping an octave. A single claw curves behind your ear and skims down your neck, trailing gooseflesh and spiking the fever under your skin.

"Are you going to—ah—pawn me off to a fu—hhh—cking harem?" You squirm against his roving hands, and Illidan finds it easy enough to turn you onto your back and untuck your knees from your chest. You try to curl back up like a beetle, everything in you screaming to protect your vitals from this beast, but he lays a heavy hand over your legs and you're thoroughly pinned beneath his gaze. You feel like a doll.

With the height and strength disparity, he could crush you in one hand, but instead, his fingers find the soft skin of your belly, petting down it with excruciating slowness. Every fingertip is a brand against your already overheated skin, and you can feel each one like a point of light even through your robes. The slow, circling slide of them is a reminder of the aching void inside of you. Your abdomen twitches and spasms, and your swollen breasts ache for the same attention. If you could look away from the dusky hand slipping down your body, you're sure you would see the twin peaks of your nipples through enchanted cloth.

Illidan stops his ministrations at the dip between your hips, fingers spreading wide enough that his thumb rests above your navel, his smallest finger dipping into the fabric at the cleft of your legs. You realize you are making sounds—sounds you're not sure you've made for any lover, as they are too whimperingly, embarrassingly omega—and you fling a hand over your mouth, stifling them.

"None of that," Illidan growls, and presses down, over cloth and skin, where you cramp and twist and burn, your body wanting to be used and filled and left with something more. Something binding. You let out a high, thin keen, back arching, the hand over your mouth flying to grasp at his instead, covering it with your own.

"Please," you whisper, uncaring of the dead eyes watching. "Please, please, please, please—"

"You know not what you ask." He bites off the sentence with a groan that you echo. His thumb works slow circles around your navel almost unconsciously. You try to push his hand lower, but it is unyielding.

"Please," you whimper.

And it is enough.

For the second time today, you find yourself being lifted by a demonic entity. You shiver, mewling in distress as he works a hand under you, careful to avoid raking you with his claws.

"Be still," he growls, but you are too far gone to your instincts to take heed. You want a knot, but there is a predator above you, and you have to escape, you have to hide—

Illidan cuffs your neck with his free hand, pressing just so, and you go limp and pliable in his arms.

"Good," he rumbles, and tucks you high against his chest so that your face presses against his neck. His scent is so strong here—alpha, alpha, alpha, your mind croons—that you can pick up the nuances behind the fel corruption. You stare hungrily at the corded tendons and pulsing vein, watching it tap in time with his heartbeat. You don't bother to second-guess yourself when your instinct says "bite," and Illidan stumbles in his take-off as your blunt teeth find purchase.

"Woman—" He reaches up with his free hand—to disengage you, you think—but instead, he leaves marks on the tender skin of your neck, sharp fingers flexing there as he pulls you in tighter. You hum in satisfaction.

A caustic voice at the back of your mind says that if your teeth were sharper, you could rip out his jugular. Your jaw clenches harder, the alpha's pulse stuttering in response, before releasing your hold and laving at the skin. It's not an apology—you aren't sorry—but it's… something. There is a half-realized idea between the two of you, and it goes farther than a heat and a rut. (And you can smell that now, too—his own need, and the reason for stooping to consider a tiny enemy omega.) You feel like you're teetering on the edge of this realization, the softer ministrations coaxing you towards understanding. You purse your lips and blow on the mark you left, wondering.

Illidan shakes his wings out, tensing around you, and launches skyward. You clutch at fel-marked shoulders in alarm, but unlike Hesriel, Illidan has no intentions of dropping you. Sensing your discomfort—or perhaps wishing you to be still—the lord of the Black Temple rumbles deep in his chest. It's a sound meant to make you go slack, and you do, molding yourself to his front and watching the heavy beat of his wings as you ascend ever higher above the fortress.

"Not goin' to the Den, righ'?" Your voice is muffled against his neck, but this close to his ear, he has no choice but to hear you. You sound—and feel—drunk, the pulse between your legs slowing and muddling your thoughts. Heats are often such hazy things, with only the harsh snap of hips to bring you back to yourself.

"No, little one," Illidan says. "I am taking you to my own quarters."

"Good." Your voice sounds far away. The hand under your ass squeezes, and you groan. "Good," you repeat.

You have no expectations for the alpha's quarters—you have no imagination to spare on it now—but when he alights on the stone floor of his rooms, it feels… right. Dark, heavy fabrics swathe the walls, and scattered rugs prevent his hooves from echoing through the space. In one corner, you see a mass of hangings and an arrangement of pillows and blankets. Your brain says bed, but your instincts say nest. You want him to take you there, thrust deep into your body and knot you, so that both of your scents sink into the fabric and drown you in the hedonistic nature of it all. Your priest staff is gone, your holy raiment is being pulled from your shoulders, and you are more than prepared to spread your legs for a being so corrupted that two worlds have banded together to see him vanquished.

If you're going to the Void, no one can say that you didn't do it in style.

Illidan disrobes you so quickly that you are surprised the fabric doesn't tear. The enchantments were meant to deflect spells, after all, not the desperate claws of an alpha. He has you against a wall, now, robes gone, drenched undergarments torn and tossed away. You wrap your legs around his tapered waist and dig your heels into his back, grinding your slickness into his stomach. It isn't the friction you need, though, and you whine.

"You are—so tiny—" He says between open-mouthed kisses to your neck. He seems to be fixated on your relative size to him, and you realize why when he angles himself so that every inch of your fronts are pressed together, your hips finally, finally surging against his own.

Proportionate indeed.

"Gods," you gasp, near mindless from want.

He strains against his trousers, the length of him curving up to twitch against your belly. He's hot—so, so hot, and you clench down so hard on the emptiness between your legs that you choke on a sob.

"Please, please, please, please—" You take up the litany again, beyond desperation.

"Hush, I must—"

You don't know what he "must," but one of his hands works between you, fisted so that his claws are well away from your skin. At the first touch to your folds, you cry out, head grinding into the wall at your back. He wastes no time in finding the bundle of nerves that sends you spiraling out into the Nether, and he circles it, knuckle rocking over it with intent. His free hand finds your breasts, weighing and kneading them, pinching your nipples to aching points.

"Ah—ah—ah—" You're trembling, your whole body shaking apart.

Illidan's wings curve around to lock you both in shadow, and the heat from your bodies and your panting breaths makes the air near-stifling. His head tips over you, his great, arcing horns kock-ing into the stone above your head. He shifts his knuckle down from your clit to your slick, desperate entrance. You bite down on your lip until it bleeds, trying to thrust yourself further onto his curved fingers.

"So greedy," he says, and you feel it in his chest and in the air around you. You feel everything.

It's not enough.

"Knot me," you pant. "I want—I need—" You need him to fill all of the empty places inside of you before you are driven mad with it.

Illidan grunts, the knuckle inside of you twisting, pressing, but not enough.

"You are not pre—"

"Fucking knot me," you say in a near whine.

You're flipped and facing the wall before you finish your plea. The cold stone is a relief to your steaming skin, but the weight pressed against your back is even better. You arch your back and tilt your neck in submission.

Mate me, mate me, mate me, your body says. I'm soft and yielding and fertile.

His hands slide down your body, and this time there's a bite to his claws. You don't care. Let him mark you; let him claim what flesh he can.

The first touch of Illidan's cock is unreal. He thrusts between your folds, collecting slick, and as you slide along the girth of him, you're struck with the sudden, clear thought that you might die today anyway.

He is far, far too big.

"Ngh—wai—" The words in your mouth turn to dust as he lines up with you, the wide head of him pressing forward, past the tight clench of your entrance. Your palms smack the stone by your head, your knees draw up and out, and still, still he is too big, too much—

Illidan mutters an oath—whether in his native language or in the tongue of demons, you don't know—and slides in another inch.

"I have never—you are so tight—" One of his palms slides low on your belly, and you spare a thought to whether he can feel the solid press of himself through you.

You are sure you will tear, that not a single millimeter more of flesh could possibly fit inside of you, but still, Illidan rocks himself further. Your eyes are frozen wide, your lungs unable to breathe as you experience what has to be the most transcendental pain of your life. There is a brief moment of absolute terror when you are sure you are breaking, and you are both still, shaking out of either pain or restraint. It's the tipping point, because when Illidan jerks again, he slides completely home, and you are full—more full than you have ever hoped to be—and quaking in relief.

"You were made for this," Illidan whispers into your hair. "Feel yourself stretched over me, feel how perfect you are." He takes one of your hands and guides it down to where you are joined, and you feel how tightly you grip him, how you fit him like a silk sheath. A keening sound breaks from the back of your throat.

"Yes, you are perfect, little one, and so soft." He moves, now, drawing out in increments before pushing back in. You nearly sob with the pleasure-pain of it.

The thrusting gradually picks up speed, Illidan drawing one of your knees further up to gain better access, and he finds a rhythm that has you panting anew as the pleasure-pain fades into just pleasure. Your body adjusts, accepting of its new role, and you rapidly crest towards completion.

The protrusion of the alpha's growing knot grinds against your entrance, and you bear down on it even as its size pricks tears into your eyes. Illidan growls a litany of foreign words, his thrusts turning jagged as he convinces your body to yield. He drives home with a hoarse sound, the fisted size of him catching and swelling inside of you. Your completion punches through you, your limbs shaking, your vision becoming a star shower of greys and greens as Illidan continues to make little thrusts, edging his knot further into the grasping heat of you. At last, he stutters to a halt, and the warm rush of seed combined with his fractured promises of having you until your belly swells has you spilling over again, turning your face into his shoulder with a cry.

When the aftershocks die down enough to move, Illidan shifts you so that he can walk the few steps to the nest. He's careful, but even so, the littlest movements has him twitching inside of you, still joined as you are. He lays you both down and settles a hand over your mound, rumbling in satisfaction when you whine.

The afterglow gives you a few blessed moments of lucidity, and you don't waste them on shame or panic.

"I guess you're not going to kill me, then." It's not a question. More of an offhand statement.

Illidan strokes his hand over your mound and hip, nearly purring when you press back into him. "Many deaths you'll die today, little one, and none of them in spirit."

You sink back against him, humming.

You can live with that.

A/N

Welp. I'm never looking anyone in the eye ever again.

But, as ever, I'm going to roll around in my pile of trash and make this a... collection of sorts. Like a rock collection, but with less rocks and more... cocks. A cock collection, if you will.

I'm not doing "requests," per se, but I'm always open to suggestions, and if you have a punny title relating to a ship, a sex thing, or a smutty trope (i.e. A/B/O), LAY 'EM ON ME.