This piece came into life thanks to a challenge from the All Fandoms Fanfiction and Original Fiction Writers Group, "An ABCs of smut!" or simply 26 days of the alphabet of smut. Some letters might not even be sexual or smutty at all, but well, here's trying anyway...
And so it begins!

Ablutophilia: Fetish for baths or showers that usually centers around a naked person lathering themselves up.

A-N: TW for dub-con voyeurism.

Darnassian:

Arane: A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for "nightmare/s".

Jai'sural: "The betrothed's pledge". A jai'sural is a golden metallic necklace, worn by a betrothed female and bound onto the female's neck with magic. Once set, a silver-white precious stone in the form of a tear is shown in the middle of the necklace, representing the favor of Elune. It can be only taken out after marriage.

Illidan

That night, he wakes up with a wonderful sense of relief; he hadn't been into the Azure Dream for more than two weeks and, Goddess, he knows how much he needed that rest. Being able to relax his muscles and fall into a dreamless sleep is one of the few positive things happening to him currently.

Probably the only positive thing happening to him, given what he has been going through the last two months.

Sitting on one side of the bed, Illidan takes a few deep breaths and massages the back of his neck, stretching his back and ensuring his muscles to respond. He rubs his eyes before resting his elbows on his knees, savoring what's left of the aftermath of his last relaxed sleep before starting the night.

As if by cue, his mind drifts into the sudden event that had, as if by accident, triggered and locked the fate of a couple of his closest acquaintances—Hargo's death. A heavy sigh escapes him, reminiscing what had happened after that shocking incident. Silgryn had to escape from Suramar, Arluin had disappeared from sight once more, and Mylenne… oh, Goddess, Mylie.

The woman hadn't only been left to cope with her uncle's quick departure and to mourn the passing of her lover, but—above them all—she had been engaged with Jarod arane Shadowsong, forced to wear that insulting jai'sural everywhere she went.

Illidan stands up abruptly, running a hand through the back of his neck before obliging to his sudden want of breaking something, or accidentally waking his friend from her much-needed sleep. However, is when he turns to glance at his bed that he notices Mylenne's usual spot to be empty—only her silver ribbon rests over the mattress, giving away her earlier presence there.

Somehow knowing she have been there, sleeping beside him for the last two weeks, gives him a huge sense of comfort and uneasiness altogether. For he's aware of how much Mylenne currently needs him, how much she looks for him to find some peace and some sort of escape from the whole turmoil that reigns her life—peace and escape he had willingly offered to her, anyway—how much she unconsciously depends on him to keep her sanity in check. He's the only trusted friend she had left, and Illidan knows too much of what solitude and isolation can do for someone, particularly for such an emotionally fragile woman as her.

But what Illidan hadn't been aware of, is how much he had been starting to depend on her as well. Even his nightmares had—apparently—stopped once she had started to come regularly by his place, sleeping beside him and hugging him tightly to keep herself from breaking into violent sobs once more.

As he walks down the stairs and heads for his small kitchen, he gets conscious that he still doesn't know what to do with his feelings for her—he hasn't known for years by now. At first, it had been her relationship with Hargo what stopped him from courting her, and then her deep need for a real friend in her life; someone in which she could confide, somebody to ground her more emotionally rather than physically—a friendly shoulder to lean and cry on.

And he had been too willing to take the role of a friend, believing that if making himself useful for her, then his strong attraction for her would come to pass. But now, after having her sleeping in his arms for two weeks? Now, after slowly growing accustomed to the warmth of her body next to his, or her unique and so feminine scent of lilies soothing his darkest thoughts?

Now he's starting to have doubts… again.

And there it goes, the very main reason of why Illidan despises being attached in any way to someone: The doubt of himself, of his real purposes behind his actions, of what he really wants.

On his way to the kitchen, he stops after finding his leather boots, leaning over the arm couch before the fireplace and lacing them tightly under the folds of his working breeches. "Had some breakfast already? Hopefully, you left some moonberry jam for me," He says, his voice coming a little rough given the early hour. "… Mylie?"

Walking around, he's only greeted with the leftovers of her breakfast, but she's nowhere to be seen, leaving him as the only kaldorei inside the house. A strong sense of unease assaults him, like a heavy stone settling inside his chest—had she left without telling him? Had he done something wrong?

Fortunately, his imminent panicking subsides when he nudges a pair of leather sandals with the tip of his boot, abandoned close to the door leading to his backyard. So, she's at the cave then, or maybe she just decided to get on her weapon training a little earlier than usual. Whatever she's doing, she's still around, and that's enough for him to relax again.

After deciding to join her in the backyard—and because he can't help with the opportunity to show off his good magic skills to her—he returns to the kitchen and prepares a quick breakfast for him before heading outside. He swallows a glass of water and smears what's left of the moonberry jam onto a slice of bread, eating it on his way to the door.

But then, after taking a glance through the window next to the door in an act of reflex, Illidan is left choking on his food, a hand running to punch his chest and eyes blowing wide at the sight displayed before him.

For she's not actually training with her glaives nor at the cave—in fact, and to his surprise, Mylenne is right there, at the small pool conveniently placed behind his house.

… Wearing only her smallclothes… bathing.

His hand comes to rest over the door, but he's unaware of his nails barely scratching the wooden surface, unable to tear his gaze away from the window. He swallows hard, his heart starting to pump blood into him with a little more eagerness than usual, seeing as how Mylenne lolls her head backwards to let the small waterfall wash and clean her impossibly long violet hair.

His breath hitches when she stretches her back, allowing him a sideways display of her full breasts—her underclothes already wet, sticking in her lavender skin and leaving nothing to the imagination. He's about to jump when she faces him, but her eyes are closed as she washes her face, rubbing and cleaning away the soap falling down her forehead.

Her lilac lips move with her ministrations—as if she's idly humming a song—then a small smirk crosses her lips before turning around, leaving him with the sight of her bare back. His heart goes racing, something close to adrenaline kicking in.

Has she just noticed he's watching her?

But she just keeps going, making no move to hide or sending a single signal to him to let him know she's aware. So he stays, awfully conscious that he shouldn't be watching her bathe and almost hating himself for the hardness slowly growing between his legs, but his feet are rooted in their place and he can't look away, no matter how much he tries to.

He knows he shouldn't be watching her—one of his closest friends, of all people—he definitely shouldn't be keeping a groan from escaping his lips when she bends over to wash her feet, or breathe heavily at the sight of the water running down her back, her smallclothes soaking wet, her skin gleaming after she lathers up then gets clean, remnants of soap dripping down her toned legs…

Illidan starts to hate himself and his horrible demeanor, already feeling like an awful voyeur. And he had done this before—watching people bathe, that is, like Syrana when they were lovers and she occasionally used his small pool to wash herself—but watching her, Mylenne… that's a completely different experience.

But it only takes a stretch of her legs for his golden pupils to blow wide and for his brain to forget even his own name.

Deep, hot desire overtakes the rational part of his conscience, and he's left watching hungrily as she rubs some scented oil over her skin, following the route of her oiled fingers and imagining his own hands running along the expanse of her body. First, smoothing the oil over her shoulders, then the column of her neck, traveling down to the soft skin between her breasts, reaching her lower ribs and small waist, fingers going down, down, down…

This time he can't ignore the tightness of his breeches, almost ripping off the laces in his best effort to find some relief. His free hand travels to idly stroke his length—as if having a life of its own—and his other is still scratching the wooden door, but he notices neither of them as he keeps looking through the window, panting, getting harder and harder within each second passing.

Running a hand through her hair, she then returns to the cascade to wash the excess of the oil, stretching her back once more, prompting a deep groan from him when glancing at the glistening of her skin, both provoked by the oil and the soft moonlight washing over her.

Illidan gets aware of his self-stroking, his breath hitching when a pale lilac hand reaches between her legs. He can't really see what she's doing from his position, so he only can guess—is she stroking herself as well?

His length twitches as if demanding more attention, "Oh, dear Goddess…" He whispers, hot breath fogging one corner of the glass as he leans his head on the window, gripping himself harder, stroking a little more thoroughly.

However, that only leaves him pondering again: Is she really aware of him watching her through the window? She must have, at least in some small rate. After all these years sharing each other's company, she must have some awareness of what she provokes on him.

... Of how infuriatingly alluring, how tempting, how incredibly gorgeous she is for him.

And maybe she is aware, and she secretly likes to be seen washing herself clean. Or perhaps, only perhaps, she actually enjoys teasing him—torturing him, that is—taking pleasure in showing him what he will never touch.

With a heavy moan coming from the back of his throat, his resolve is set. No matter, then, for if he can't have her—even when the odds are currently in his favor—then he'll have whatever he can get from her. Or maybe he might dare for once and start courting her, so to see if she actually returns any interest, however small or nonexistent that could turn out to be.

But then, after she bends her neck a couple of inches, the silver-white light from the Moon reflects on her jai'sural, blinding him with its shimmering for a mere moment before making him flinch away from the window, suddenly coming to realization.

Besides always being an irony for him, the light of the Goddess always brings him to the same conclusions. And Elune is right, after all; painfully, bitterly, unfortunately right—for Mylenne is engaged to another man, promised to marry and spend the rest of her life with someone that's not him.

A deep sense of guilt washes over him, like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown at his face. No matter if the odds might seem turned to his favor because, one way or another, he'll never have his chance with her.

Even if she finds a way to not get married to one of her best friends—whatever small the chance may be for it—then she'll probably lay her eyes on another man, and so forth until she ultimately finds her lifemate, surely a charming noble from the same caste as her that will be blessed with becoming the latest member of House Stareye.

He will never have her as anything but his friend.

A disgusted snort escapes his lips as he readjusts the ties of his breeches, gathering the necessary strength to tear his gaze away from the window and return to the fireplace of his small house, a safer spot for him to start growling and brooding. As well as he knows for Mylenne to be his friend and only—surely forever—his friend, he can't help with the growing need of punching something when the reality of it all snaps at him in the way it just did.

And he hates himself at times like these; hates his doubts, his feelings, and his painful longing for a woman he can't have, take nor claim as his.

But what he despises more of it all is his utter need to kick open the door, rush across the backyard and just bend her over, burying himself into her afterwards with one swift movement of his hips—engagement, friendship, teasing and Goddess be damned.

So he writes a quick note to her, hands slightly trembling, and heads to his secret cave, only to scream away his frustration without prying ears.

And maybe, to forcefully finish what she already had started.