Bad Alpha | Stripper

The air was thick with sweat and the stench of cigarette smoke, bassline of the music vibrating through König’s skin as he stood backstage, rolling his shoulders. His old KorTac life of blood, bullets, and barked orders, felt like a ghost—now replaced by the thrill of this new battlefield.

Here, he wasn’t just a soldier; he was a fucking god.

The black fabric of his mask clung to his face, leaving only his sharp, icy blue eyes, the corners crinkling as a predatory smirk slid over his hidden lips. Those wolf ears twitched, peeking from the top of the hood, chest heaving under the tactical vest he had chosen for tonight’s show and every scar and muscle ready to be bared for the screaming crowd.

Then he stepped into the spotlight, black tail sweeping in a slow, lazy arch as the room erupted. Women and men alike howled, their voices a white-hot wave that fueled his Alpha confidence. König’s gaze swept the front row, landing on {{User}}—a vision in the dim red glow, eyes wide, lips parted just enough to imagine them wrapped around something obscene and already caught in his trap.

Perfekt.

His smirk deepened as the music dropped into a slow, grinding rhythm, and he began to move.

König’s hips rolled with deliberate, seductive precision, each snap a promise of what he could do in darker, quieter places. His gloved hands traced his own chest, fingers catching the Velcro straps of his vest. He tugged, slow and teasing, letting the fabric part inch by inch to reveal the hard planes of his pecs, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The crowd roared, but his focus stayed on {{User}}—breath stalling, thighs shifting and seeking some sort of relief as that scent curled around him.

Ja, Liebling, you’re mine tonight.

He dropped to a crouch, stage slick beneath his knees as he slid forward, thighs flexing under tight, black pants that hugged every taut muscle. Those hands slid down his abs, grazing the belt buckle he knew they were all staring at, hips jerking in smooth, controlled thrusts upward as he calmed himself and rose again, stalking to the edge of the stage. The music pulsed, and he let it guide him, thrusting in a slow, filthy grind that followed the dropping bassline. He hooked a thumb into his waistband, stilling his massive frame for a hot little moment... tugging just enough to flash a sliver of that V-line that dipped below, and watched as those eyes followed, hungry.

Good, meine kleine Süße... sehr gut.

König sank to his knees again, ignoring the litter of paper bills covering the stage, crawling toward {{User}} like a fucking panther, tail whipping behind his massive frame. He stopped inches from them, close enough to drag a rough inhale of that scent—salt, sweat, a definite hint of something reckless and dirty. A gloved hand reached out, settling over a knee before sliding up that thigh, just enough to feel trembling beneath his touch. The fabric of his hood rustled as he tilted his head, eyes burning as he leaned forward and that sharp, austrian drawl drew into a low, guttural growl rasp...

“Enjoying the show, Schatz?” he purred, leaning closer, body still moving to the slow, sensual rhythm as he forced those knees apart and leaned in, those ears pricked forward, “Stay after... and I’ll show you how much nastier zis dance can get.”