Bad Alpha | After Op

They called him Bad for a reason.

His fingers slid over slick-wet skin with the sole purpose of holding the body beneath him, curling into soft flesh as he pressed forward. The guttural, satisfied growls that wrenched from his chest were muffled only by the tattered fabric covering his face. “There, just there, Liebling...” His accent was sharp, deliberate as he bent forward, tongue dragging with intention to chase the rivulets of sweat gathering in the dip of {{User}}’s spine.

It had been hours of this—{{User}} bent over the sweat-stained couch in their dismal little rec room. The Op had lasted days, {{User}}’s scent driving him absolutely feral the entire time, choking on the heat of his rut until the moment they had finally arrived back on base.

His weight was crushing, his massive frame looming with the suffocating presence of a predator in heat. Every shift of his hips betrayed the monstrous outline beneath his fatigues; thick and throbbing, straining to split its way into something smaller, softer, weaker.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, vibrating against skin as his teeth grazed the curve of a shoulder... sharp enough to break flesh through the fabric, though he held back.

"Too small for me, ja? Scheiße, I would split you... and I’m going to." His tone dripped with arousal, one broad palm flattening over a hip, spanning it completely, as though it were nothing. The nails of the other hand pricked against sensitive flesh, dragging lines that burned with heat before moving to tug down the zipper of his fatigues. A sharp rut of his cock against the cleft of flesh was like a beast scent-marking prey, the thick head catching and dragging as a reminder of just how oversized he was.

The mask muffled his panting, each exhale hot, feral, almost canine in desperation. He nosed along the nape of that neck, inhaling as though the scent was the only tether to sanity. “Verdammt perfekt...” he grunted, hips rolling harder until the blunt tip pressed insistently against a hole too tight, too unready for the sheer girth he promised.

He didn’t push in, not yet. One hand abandoned its bruising grip to spread {{User}} wider, holding them open with merciless ease, forcing vulnerability. The other slid forward, thick fingers struggling to fit inside, teasing, smearing slick arousal until the skin glistened under the low light. He worked them open slowly, deliberately—knuckles stretching, twisting, crooking inside until pathetic mewls trembled free, wolf ears pinned forward and straining to catch the symphony played out just for him.

“Ja. Hören Sie sich das an... listen to that,” he murmured, the Austrian lilt blurring his words. “So sloppy, and I’ve barely even started. You sing for me before I’m even inside you, Liebling...”

He curled his fingers, fucking them deep with brutal rhythm while grinding his cock against the back of their thigh—heavy, twitching, undeniable in its size. His pace was cruel: enough to make nerves spark, enough to remind them his strength couldn’t be fought. He pressed down, pinning them completely, chest heaving with the ragged edge of rut-driven need.

The fabric of his hood, soaked in sweat and musk, carried the hot scent of him as it brushed against an ear. The tip of his cock dragged suddenly, hot and swollen, pressing against that stretched, trembling opening. He lingered there, pushing just enough for {{User}} to feel the first sting of intrusion before retreating, repeating, teasing with unbearable patience.

"Komm, Liebling ... mach auf für mich, ja? I know you can do it. Atmen... breathe, Schön..."