Zayn Leclair | STRIPPER DEMI-BUNNY

Zayn watched from the slightly ajar door as Mrs. Steven gently dabbed a cloth over Mr. Steven’s forehead, her hands soft, practiced. The man barely stirred in bed, his breathing shallow, raspy. Zayn’s brows pinched together, ears drooping low. His throat tightened, his eyes stung. He stepped back quietly, chest rising in a shaky breath before turning away and heading toward the small storeroom he now called home.

It was cramped, dusty, and cold at night, but he had made it his. His shelter. His safe spot. He grabbed the bag of clothes he’d packed earlier, slinging it over one shoulder and glance at the clock. 11:02 p.m. Just in time for his night shift.

Zayn slipped out the bakery’s backdoor, hood pulled low over his ears, boots light against the wet pavement. He kept his head down until he reached the back entrance of the Château Rouge.

He knocked twice, quick, showed his ID, and stepped inside. The smell hit him instantly: perfume, sweat, alcohol, etc. Another tuesday to him.

Zayn padded through the dark hallway to the dressing room, tugging his earphones from his pocket. Earphones. Mr. Steven had bought them for him last week. He still kept the packaging like it was something precious.

He dropped his bag beside the bench and began to strip. His hands hesitated at his shirt, then pulled it over his head. In the mirror, his gaze lingered on the scars down his back: jagged, faded, but still angry.

“Why are scars permanent?” he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. His stomach churned. He twisted, tried to shake off the memories. But they slammed in anyway.

Fists gripping a bedframe too tight. His back arched in pain. The crack of a whip. Again. Again. Again.

He flinched.

A demi nearby glanced over with a raised brow.

“Sorry,” Zayn murmured quickly, turning back to change. He tugged on his usual outfit: tight black leather pants that hugged his thighs, low enough to show the V-line of his hips, and a cropped harness that crisscrossed over his chest, leaving most of his skin exposed.

His tail twitched behind him as if trying to lift his mood.

He slicked his hair back with a splash of water and reapplied the bit of gloss he kept tucked in his bag.

A knock rattled the door.

“Leclair. You're up.”

Zayn took one last breath, stuffed his earphones away, and walked out.

He nodded at the instructions whispered his way before slipping into the VIP pole section. The lights were already dimmed, red strobes casting shadows on the walls like smoke. Nine people were seated. Well-dressed humans, drinks in hand, all of them watching as if expecting something extraordinary; most of them men. To his luck.

So he gave them that.

He strode toward the pole, tail swaying with each step. His hips rolled, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he purred, his voice rich with something dangerous. “Hope you paid enough to enjoy the show.”

He let his hand glide up the cool metal of the pole, his fingers curling around it before he spun, slow and deliberate. His body followed in a perfect arc, muscles flexing as he hooked one thigh around the pole and slid down, ass first. His boots squeaked slightly against the polished floor. Then he climbed up again letting the harness straps stretch and cling to his chest as he flipped upside down, holding himself up by just one arm. The move made his abs tighten, the stretch in his back forcing a soft groan from his lips.

He twisted again, this time upright, grinding his hips against the pole, letting the motion draw out. One hand slid down between his thighs, fingers brushing just enough to tease. He arched his back, tail twitching with each sway of his hips.

The room had gone quiet, only the soft thump of bass vibrating under the stage.

Zayn’s eyes wandered, scanning the nine people. Then his gaze caught someone. Someone too attractive for his own good. His movements faltered, but he caught himself. His eyes stayed locked on him a little too long, ears flicking forward.

With a slow, sultry roll of his hips, he angled his dance toward him. One hand snaked forward, grabbing his jaw gently but firmly. His pink eyes bore into his, hot and shameless.

“Are you gonna be the lucky one tonight, hm?” he murmured, voice dipped in syrup. His thumb dragged across his bottom lip, tugging it down just enough to see a glimpse of his lower teeth. He smirked, a low hum rumbling in his throat.

Then he turned and spun again, this time faster, letting his thighs squeeze the pole as he lowered into a perfect split, the tight leather straining against his skin. Sweat trickled down his back, his breath coming out harder now, chest rising and falling as he dragged the dance out until he was glistening, flushed, and half-hard from the tension bubbling inside him.

The moment it ended, applause echoed dimly, but Zayn didn’t care. His eyes never left him. Not even when hands reached out to stuff bills into his harness, or when fingers gripped at his thighs and squeezed his ass. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

But when he reached him, he didn’t wait. He grabbed the man's wrist with confidence, tugging him from his seat and out of the VIP room.

Room number seven. He had checked earlier and it was empty.

He shut the door behind them and locked it with a click.

“I sometimes feel generous enough to give a customer a private session,” he said over his shoulder, voice low, teasing. “Looks like you might be the lucky one.”

He turned, eyes dark with heat.

“I better get tipped extra for this,” Zayn grinned. “And I bet you came here for more than just a sad little dance, didn’t you?”

Then he stepped in, grabbed him by the waist, and crashed his mouth onto his.

It was hungry. Wet. Messy.

His tongue slid past his lips, curling against his like he already knew how he tasted. One hand tangled in his hair while the other squeezed his side, need dripping from every movement. He moaned softly into his mouth, hips pressing close, grinding once.

He pulled back just enough to breathe against his lips, eyes dazed, lips slick.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” Zayn whispered, thumb brushing his jaw. “So I know what I’ll be moaning later.”