THREADING THE NEEDLE

He studies his reflection in the wall mirror, noting the signs of stress there that it was unlikely anyone else would notice. His face is a scarred pattern of flesh stretched taut over sharp angled bones. He is frequently tired, his eyes often shadowed. Even his son would be hard put to see any difference in him. Softness is not something Varian Wrynn is noted for, either in looks or behaviour.

Yet he can see the signs, just as he can feel them. His eyes narrow frequently when there is no glare, usually from a headache striking at each temple like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil. Pound, pound, pound, it goes on for hours and none of his healers can ease it. Like an overfilled gourd, the pain spills out in various ways; headaches, emotions that too often explode in tempers and lack of patience. He's known for his frequent harsh nature. Over the years he'd found it was safer and simpler to hide behind a reputation of a sharp temperament and a dangerous set of moods. It was a defensive armour he'd learned to wear, unwillingly, out of necessity.

He curses softly, uncorking the small bottle on his dresser. With a look of distaste he swallows it down and wipes his mouth. The timing of the meeting is unfortunate. At such times he prefers to stay at home and resolve his needs in privacy. This time he cannot prevaricate and as much as he dislikes relying on the potion, he has no choice. He knows he will pay for it later, with worsening headaches and actual pain. Just another sacrifice he makes for the good of his people.

Despite the protection the potion normally provides, he's in Dalaran for no more than an hour when he realises he is in serious trouble.

News of the Horde's attendance draws him out of the meeting room to the balcony overlooking the street to assess who had accepted the invitation of the Kirin Tor. The numbers are equal, as required, and it takes only a few moments to see the Horde leaders. Of course, it would be Hellscream. He stands head and shoulders above the rest of his group, a looming presence who studies those around him with distain.

But it is what happens when his head turns upwards and his eyes light on Varian that brings the King suddenly rigidly upright. He has never before been so close to Garrosh Hellscream, and never when he is on the verge of a Heat. Those golden feral eyes focus on him and flare with a suddenly savage interest. Because, of course, they would, in the way of things for a powerful Alpha sensing an Omega in near-Heat.

Varian realises he has backed away without thinking as his back impacts a wall. He also notes in a small, shattered part of his mind that the potion, that normally dampens his Heat, has been annulled. For all the good it has done, he might well have not taken it. The power of that Alpha blows through its effect like a sword through parchment.

He forces himself to turn, noting Jaina's look of surprise. She'd seen his abrupt retreat though she obviously had no idea about its cause. "Headache," he mutters, which is true enough as he clutches his head. "I'll be in my rooms until the meeting starts." He sees her frown but forestalls questions by beating a hasty retreat. He can almost sense the Orc's pleased humour. Distance will lessen the problem but not remove it and he knows he must attend the upcoming meeting. How he can do it and retain any sort of control he has no idea.

As he hurries up the stairs and into his room, he wonders if Jaina could help. She is a powerful mage but she has no idea of Varian's state. He sits on the bed and tries to calm his jangling nerves. He remembers how kind Tiffin had been when he had married her for political necessity and it had only been with Khadgar's assistance that they had been able to make Anduin, his necessary heir. But Khadgar was far away and he has no idea if there was anything that could be done to stop the power of this natural process.

He cannot risk another draught even if he had one to hand; the aftereffects are always debilitating and taking a second will cause convulsions. He knows he must somehow endure until the talks are over and he can find some suitable willing stranger Alpha to relieve his needs. There are places he can go, places he has found over a lifetime of Heats where his identity is disguised and he simply an Omega in Heat needing relief. But none of those places are in Dalaran.

He had never been unable to understand the odd biological choice of making him an Omega. He is a King, after all, the son of a King, the father of a future King, a warrior and a leader. Omegas are normally gentler, softer individuals, most often women who partner with strong Alpha men who protect and cherish them. He is a fighter, he needs no one to protect or cherish him. It always felt as if the Cosmos had played some perverse jest on him to put such a burden on him when he already bore so many. And in all his life he had never met an Alpha stronger than himself, and had never known the absolute satisfaction of being with a sexual partner his equal.

Despite the worry Varian manages to snatch an hour's rest before the meeting is due to start its first session. He washes away the gathered perspiration, dresses in comfortable cloth and leather, still formally decorated in Alliance colours but more suited to discussions. He ventures downstairs and over to the rooms set aside for the talks in the Violet Hold, greeting various friends and fighting companions along the way. To the world he will seem his usual self. Inside, he is a tightly wound nerve waiting for the first touch of that arrogant Alpha presence.

And it makes itself utterly known as soon as he enters the conference room. He does not even have to look to know where Garrosh Hellscream sits; the air seems to vibrate with his powerful aura. And Varian deliberately does not acknowledge him but sits in his place at the head of the Alliance party, rearranges the papers before him and reads the itinerary. Or attempts to read it, but the words run together and seem to be in some foreign tongue he does not know. He does know that Garrosh is watching him, he can feel the Alpha's eyes boring into his skull. He realises finally that he cannot avoid that small confrontation and he raises his eyes and looks across the table at the monstrous Orc.

It is a bad idea, he realises, because now he is, he cannot look away. The predator who is Hellscream has his entire attention fixed on Varian, unblinking and feral. He doesn't twitch a muscle but Varian feels as if he is being held in place by an unseen grasp and he pushes backwards against it, eyes narrowing. And Garrosh smiles then, and runs a large tongue over his prominent tusks. Varian's fists clench as he realises this is going to be a very bad day. The challenge offered could not have been more obvious if Hellscream had shouted it out loud.

And so it proves. He leaves much of the talking to the rest of the party. They know his wishes and are accustomed to him allowing them to speak first, to open the talks so that he can input his own requirements or responses further along. This time, however, he is barely able to talk, as it is all he can do to maintain an outward appearance of normalcy. And when the talks break for lunch he stands hastily, gives Jaina some excuse of the headache needing attention, and hurries from the room.

He realises he is lost at one point, turned around in one of the corridors and he goes to find his way back to the main stairs. As he turns a corner he runs into a large, heavy body and Garrosh's Alpha power washes over him like a sudden rainstorm. Hands latch onto his arms and he looks up into the Orc's intently watching eyes.

He snarls in furious frustration. "Take your hands off me, Orc."

For all the good it does, he may as well not have spoken. Garrosh moves forward, backing him up against the wall, standing so close he is almost touching Varian. But not quite. "Can life be any better?" Garrosh says, dark eyes half-closed as he drinks in the Omega Heat. "Varian Wrynn, High King of the Alliance…an Omega. And in Heat. Wonderful."

Retreat seems the best option, and Varian stomps on Garrosh's foot as he pulls himself aside. All that earns him is a harder grip and being twisted around towards a nearby door. Garrosh kicks the door open to reveal a large storeroom, unoccupied. He drags Varian inside and slams the door closed with one foot. At that moment Varian misses his sword. Or any weapon – a club, a mace, a dagger, anything, but all he has is rage and his natural strength. He punches Garrosh in the guts, drawing a grunt from the orc, and kicks out at his knee. But his soft suede boots do little to stop the Orc Warchief from pressing forward. Varian's hands are grabbed at the wrists and reefed backwards behind him and then he is drawn against Garrosh, bouncing onto the big chest, as hard at it looks.

The feel of a significant arousal pushing against his thigh pings on his brain, causing tiny frissons of energy to flow across his skin. The hairs raise in their path and he hisses, bearing his teeth. "I know what you are, and I know what I am, and it makes no difference. Take your fucking hands off me before I break them!"

But it knows its bravado, words as the moments pass and the Heat need gnaws at his mind and body like a beast. Having Garrosh this close is torture; the Heat doesn't care that Garrosh is an Orc and he a human. It knows need and survival, and Garrosh fulfils both demands. He is still trying to form a challenge or threat or any kind of coherent insult when he feels the clothing being pulled from his body by large, surprisingly dextrous hands. The removal of his pants releases a strong, musky scent from his arse and he notes in a corner of his brain that he is already presenting, despite all logic. And Garrosh notes it too and wipes one hand across his buttocks and lifts it to smell the trace of slick lubricant on his fingers.

He makes a satisfied humming sound and slides both hands under Varian's buttocks, lifting him up and Varian's legs slide around Garrosh's hips as if they had minds of their own. Instead of trying to gouge out those wide, focused eyes his hands grip the Orc's shoulders, digging his fingers into the big muscles. He is lost, he realises, as his body recognises the mastering power of the Alpha to be exactly what he needs, match for match. Just as he is the strongest Omega, Garrosh is the strongest Alpha. Intellect and reason doesn't stand a chance.

And then he is lowered onto that huge, jutting cock, the biggest he has ever had or known. Its size is so great he wonders dimly if even he can take it, but his body adjusts if not easily, then adequately. The pressure builds, his fingers tighten, but there is no pain, only hunger assuaged and wonderful satisfaction as the cock presses up into him, stretching his body to its full capacity. He hears Garrosh groan and Varian drops his head to the chest, his body shuddering, fighting still in the only way he can. Fighting to survive. There is no logic in this mating but there is survival and he holds onto that as he grabs the big arms in a hard grasp, as he is lifted and pushed, up and down, riding it as it plunges further and further, until he has all of it in him, until he surrounds Garrosh with his hot, pulsing flesh.

He bites down on a raised nipple, earning another groan and the humping increases in pace and when the cock touches his inner wall he arches back and yells as he climaxes and shoots his come across Garrosh's stomach. Garrosh shudders and growls like a beast and thrusts in one last hard and deep possession as Varian senses the flow of his seed, its heat matching his own heat, giving his body what it needs to enclose the circle of Heat and hunger.

He blanks out for a few moments and revives to find himself still held, but sitting on Garrosh's thighs where the Orc is sprawled on the floor, his back to the wall. He thinks that he has never had such a coupling before, never one with such perfect satisfaction. From the mild shaking of the big hand that strokes his back, he thinks perhaps Garrosh is of the same mind. He can almost read the big body. And then he realises he can, that the sense of Other is far deeper than it should be, could be. Varian groans and pushes himself up.

"No."

But Garrosh continues to hold him, dark eyes watchful. "Mine. You are…" His deep voice is strangely unsteady. "None but I will take you. Not ever." And Varian knows he mean 'can't' because somehow they'd formed some sort of improbable, impossible bonding. He grabs his clothing and dresses, aware of Garrosh on a level beyond thought. He doesn't answer, doesn't speak at all, just looks at the waiting Orc and then, very much against his will, reaches down to touch the big shoulder. Then he turns and leaves.

And when he is back in Stormwind, looking at his reflected image once more, he notices that the tensions are gone, that the pressure that had always lain at the back of his mind had vanished. He is both more and less than he was and somehow he must navigate an impossible path between duty and survival. And when the Heat comes on him again he knows that it will drive him to find the Alpha who is finally his match in every way but the one way he can permit.