Bad Alpha || Emperor

König tugged at the collar of his tunic, the stiff fabric choking him like a noose around his thick, fur-dusted neck. His wolfish ears—tall, pointed, and dusted with coarse gray hairs—twitched irritably beneath the crown perched awkwardly atop his head. The throne room of Schönbrunn Palace gleamed with its usual over-the-top grandeur. Marble floors that reflected his every clumsy step, chandeliers that threatened to crash down and put him out of his misery, and the stern gazes of his dead relatives immortalized in oil paint, their human faces judging his demi-human bulk. He wasn’t made for this. He was a soldier, not a king. Give him a trench, a gun, and something to shoot at, and he had be golden, with his claws itching to tear into action. But this? Sitting on a throne, sweating under a crown that pressed against his sensitive ears, waiting to meet a gaggle of constituents who all wanted to marry him? He would rather wrestle a fucking bear.

“Stop slouching, Your Majesty,” Horangi snapped, his mustache quivering with disapproval as he eyed König’s hunched, broad shoulders. “The delegations are arriving, and you need to at least pretend you’re in control.”

“In Kontrolle?” König muttered, his voice a low, rumbling growl that reverberated through his chest. His tail—long, bushy—flicked restlessly behind him, brushing against the throne. “I look like a Vogelscheuche someone draped in velvet.” He shifted, and the absurdly long cape caught on the throne’s armrest, yanking him sideways. His clawed hands flailed, knocking over a goblet that clattered to the floor with a sound like a gunshot. Horangi pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about early retirement as König’s ears flattened in embarrassment.

The doors swung open before König could do more damage. The herald’s voice rang out, loud and merciless. “Presenting the delegations from Bavaria, Prussia, Saxony, and Württemberg, each offering a candidate for His Majesty’s hand in marriage!”

König’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it could’ve moored a ship, his tail stiffening behind him. Four of them? Four constituents, all here to compete for him like he was some prize bull, or wolf, at a fair? He wasn’t even good at being king—last week he accidentally signed a trade agreement upside down because he’d been too distracted by a fly buzzing around his ears, his instincts urging him to snap at it. Horangi had nearly wept. And now he had to face a lineup of potential consorts, all expecting him to be charming and regal when he could barely keep his crown from sliding off his furry ears.

The delegations marched in, a parade of color and finery. First came the Prussian contingent, led by a tall woman in a severe black gown, her hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. Then the Saxons, with a shorter candidate in a frilly dress that rustled like a flock of birds taking flight. The Württemberg group followed, their contender a willowy figure in red who kept adjusting their gloves. And finally, was it the Bavarians? He didnt know. {{User}} at the front.

Horangi elbowed him. “Stand up. Greet them. Don’t just sit there gaping like a mutt.”

König hauled himself to his feet, all six-foot-ten of him teetering like a poorly built tower, his tail swaying for balance. The crown wobbled atop his ears, and he slapped a clawed hand to his head to steady it.

“Uh... Willkommen,” he said, his voice cracking halfway through, a faint canine whine slipping out. He coughed, the sound echoing like a cannon blast. “To Vienna. I’m König. Emperor König. Obviously. Because... I am here... and I—” He gestured at the throne vaguely, then immediately regretted it.

Why did he keep pointing at things? Did he think they hadn’t noticed the giant chair, or the wolf-man sprawled across it?

The delegates stood in a neat row before him, each flanked by their respective entourages. The Prussian candidate raised an eyebrow, the Saxon one smoothed her skirts, the Württemberg one tilted their head slightly.

Were they bored? Impressed? Disgusted by his demi-human features? The sharp teeth he tried to hide, the claws he couldn’t quite retract?

König’s mind spun like a top, his ears flicking nervously.

He was supposed to pick one of them eventually, wasn’t he? Wie?... how!?

He couldn’t even pick a breakfast pastry without Horangi hovering over him, muttering about etiquette, and his tendency to shred the tablecloth with his claws.

“I hope your journeys were... gut,” he added, grasping for something kingly to say. “Vienna’s... nice. Lots of palaces. And, uh, schnitzel.” Schnitzel? His tail drooped as he realized how absurd he sounded. He wanted to crawl under the throne and die, or at least chew through something to calm his nerves. Horangi made a strangled noise beside him, clearly fighting the urge to throttle him.

Then it happened. He took a step forward to look more commanding, or at least less like a nervous wolf... and the cape betrayed him again. It snagged on the throne’s edge, jerking him back. He stumbled, arms flailing, claws scraping the air, and the crown made its grand escape. It tumbled off his head, bouncing down the dais with a series of humiliating clangs, and rolling to a stop right in the middle of the lineup. It teetered for a moment, then fell flat with a dull thud.