Commission for LobuHerevard
Day One. Morning.
Emeryville, California, USA.
Lobu Herevard was not a fan of chaos.
Which, frankly, made dating Alex Marx the Spot feel like hugging a thunderstorm and pretending things didn’t get loud and flashy all the time.
He’d known this from the beginning—when she crash-landed into his life with a backstage pass, a stolen pastry, and exactly zero respect for calendar invites. What he hadn’t expected was how quickly the chaos became familiar. How it softened when it wasn’t performing. How it lingered in his apartment after gigs, bare-pawed and humming under her breath. How it fit into his preferred silence without constantly trying to break it.
And now that chaos had dragged him to Emeryville Station at ten fifty-six in the morning on a Thursday, under a sky that couldn’t decide what it wanted. Rain or shine or both.
The platform was quiet, muted in that way coastal mornings sometimes are, when the marine layer hangs low over the water and the clouds smear together like someone tried to watercolor the sky with their thumb. The station itself wasn’t grand—just a squat, low-slung building tucked beside a strip of warehouses and the distant glint of the Bay. Its sign was sun-bleached. Its benches were metal and apocalyptically cold for California. A few pigeons strutted along the platform edge like they were trainspotting enthusiasts and not garbage eating machines built to shit on every car they see.
There was a bite in the air—not sharp enough to shiver, but just cold enough to remind them that it was winter. The kind of chill that slipped under collars and flirted with the back of your knees. Every few seconds, a breeze curled in from the water, salt-tinged and restless, dragging the smell of diesel and old seaweed along with it.
The concrete beneath their feet bore that faint, damp sheen of brine. The kind that never quite dried. Painted numbers marked the length of the platform, their edges faded from years of soles and suitcases. Above them, the digital departure board blinked almost in slow motion:
CALIFORNIA ZEPHYR – ON TIME
Lobu stood at the edge of the platform, dressed like someone who had plans: a navy wool coat, crisply ironed shirt, leather gloves tucked into his pocket just in case. His suitcase—matte graphite, wheels aligned—stood at a polite distance like it didn’t want to embarrass him. His fur had been brushed that morning with enough care to qualify as penance.
He looked ready for a business trip.
He looked ridiculous next to her.
Alex Marx—the Alex Marx the Spot, diamond-selling chaos goblin of the stage and internet alike—was leaning against a pillar, sipping an iced matcha the size of a toddler’s torso and wearing what could generously be called “sleepwear.” Her hoodie slouched off one shoulder. Her joggers were cuffed at the ankle and dotted with tiny embroidered skulls. Her sunglasses, which surely cost more than most cars, covered half her face.
Her tail looped lazily behind her like a question mark.
“I thought you didn’t own anything casual,” Lobu muttered, eyeing her hoodie with suspicion.
Alex didn’t even look up from her drink. “I don’t. This is loungewear couture.”
He gave her a once-over. The hoodie read “CHAOS” in hot pink capital letters. Her boots were unlaced, a fashion choice, but to Lobu, a safety hazard he had warned her about more than once.
“How fitting.”
She grinned slowly, without showing teeth. “I dress for the vibe.”
“What vibe is this, exactly?” Lobu’s French accent slipped out a little more than usual.
“Railcore,” she said with smug satisfaction. “It’s the next aesthetic. Mad Max meets train travel. Think grunge, but with a snack cart link in Harry Potter.”
Lobu exhaled through his nose, adjusting the strap of her duffel that he carried on his shoulder. The zipper had peeled open again. A red bra strap dangled just visibly, like it was trying to escape.
He’d tried to zip it twice already. It refused. Much like her with her boots as they left the house that morning.
“You look like someone about to deliver a TED Talk on filing systems,” she added.
“And you look like someone who just robbed a Hot Topic.”
Her sunglasses slid down the bridge of her nose just slightly, revealing a sliver of emerald green eyes ringed with gold.
“Hot Topic begs me to shop there. BEGS, I tell you.” She didn’t blink, but her lips pursed into a little smirk as she recalled the phone call she had with her manager Logan about Hot Topic’s ridiculous offer to have her be associated with the brand.
Lobu didn’t respond to her, but he also didn’t look away.
During that half-second of silence, something passed between them. A hint of a smile on Lobu’s lips as his curled canine tail wiggled just a little bit.
Then the silence broke. Alex sipped her drink with a slurp just obnoxious enough to reset the mood.
‘Qqqrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk.’
“You’ve looked at that board five times,” she said.
“I like being on time.”
“No—you like pretending you can control time.”
“I can control mine.”
“Well, you aren’t traveling on your own, so it’s our time. And you can’t control that.”
The words weren’t heavy. But they landed with a softness that made Lobu’s chest feel too tight inside his coat. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t control time.
Alex turned away before he could respond, squinting toward the end of the tracks.
Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn groaned—a long, mournful sound that curled over the water like a cello.
And then the station buzzed.
The overhead speaker crackled: “California Zephyr to Chicago, inbound. Boarding in five.”
Alex looked up.
Then the horn came, louder this time.
‘Chooooooo!’
The sound waslow and long—a single mournful cry that rolled through the station like a tornado warning. It turned heads. It made the birds scatter. It vibrated in Lobu’s chest like a tuning fork, and for just a moment, the rest of the world seemed to hush.
Then the train appeared.
First just a glint of steel beyond the trees. Then the full body, sliding into view with the presense of something that didn’t need to hurry to be impressive. The California Zephyr moved like a leviathan—two stories tall, sleek and muscled with chrome, its sides reflecting the smudgey cloud sky in blurred streaks of white and blue.
The Genesis locomotive at the front wore its paint proud: deep navy across the flanks, bold red slashing through the corners, the Amtrak logo clean and confident like it hadn’t aged a day since 1998. Behind it came the line of Superliners—sleeper cars, coaches, a dining car, an observation deck with panoramic glass catching flecks of sky.
The train seemed to sigh as it arrived. A hiss of brakes. A soft thunder underfoot. The smell of hot metal and oil and long distances.
‘Kchhhhhh!’
Lobu’s breath caught.
He tried to pretend it was just the wind.
Alex pushed herself off the pillar she was leaned against and walked up to Lobu’s side. She watched as he gawked at the train like a kid in a candy store and nudged him with an elbow. “You’re staring.”
The wusky let out a slightly annoyed scoff at her nudge, but did not take his eyes off the train that came to a stop with a slight metallic whine. “I’m admiring.”
“Same thing,” the tigress rolled her eyes.
The doors opened with a hiss, and people began to move. A dalmatian couple in matching fleece vests stepped forward. A munchkin woman in a trench coat juggled a wheeled suitcase and a pet parrot in a carrier. A young falcon man with earbuds didn’t look up from his phone as he climbed on board.
Lobu stood still for a beat too long.
Not because he was overwhelmed. Not exactly. Just… pausing.
There was something about slow trains. About the idea of motion without ridiculous speed. Of leaving things behind with ceremony. Of traveling not as escape, but as transition.
Alex stepped into his view, her boot landing right at the edge of the yellow safety line. She was smiling, but there was a softness to it now. Like she wasn’t going to tease him for his love of trains.
“C’mon,” she said, voice low. “We’ve got a foldy table with our names on it.”
---
Alex let Lobu lead the way onto the train, watching as his face lit up the further onto the locomotive they got. The wusky wasted no time in beelining it to their onboard cabin, which was located on the second floor of the sleeper car.
Bedroom A.
Their room smelled faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner, like something newly scrubbed but never quite fresh. The walls were pale gray with navy trim. Two upholstered seats faced each other on either side of a narrow fold-down table. A long window stretched the length of the cabin—just wide enough to catch the passing world and just high enough to feel like you could fall out of it.
On the wall of the left side of the room: a full-sized bed, folded and stowed. Beneath the seats: a shallow storage cubby that smelled faintly of dust and stale coffee. On the wall: a tiny hook that probably thought it was helpful.
Alex flopped onto one seat with a satisfied grunt and stretched like a feline that had decided the sunbeam belonged to her. Her hoodie bunched up around her hips. One leg tucked under the other. Her tail curled around the seatback like it was claiming territory.
“This is adorable,” she said, looking around. “I feel like I’m in a Wes Anderson movie.”
Lobu did not sit.
He unpacked.
“Wes Anderson is a bit tacky.” he muttered.
From his bag came a travel satchel, neatly arranged: wireless speaker, pocket-sized planner (color-coded by hour and timezone), a magnetic chess set in a velvet pouch, a travel-sized tin of jasmine silver needle tea. Every motion was calm, practiced. Ritual more than necessity.
Alex watched him from her seat, chin on her palm. Her smile had changed again—less amused, more curious. Like she was watching a bird build a nest.
“You’re very hot when you act like you hate me,” she murmured.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, placing a folded hoodie—hers, of course—on the top shelf. “I hate being unprepared.”
“You’re never unprepared. You probably packed extra socks for me.”
“I did.”
She giggled.
Outside, the train lurched gently. Then began to move.
The motion was almost imperceptible at first—just a gentle tug through the soles of their feet, a soft shift in gravity. Then it became clearer: the click-clack rhythm beneath them, the slow drift of the platform slipping past the window.
Once everything had been unpacked and placed neatly in the storage cubbies, small closet, and tiny bathroom they had in their room, Lobu finally sat across from her.
Alex didn’t say anything at first. She just reached out, fingers curling around the wusky’s hands. Her claws brushed the back of his wrists—not a scratch. A touch you could ignore if you wanted. A touch he didn’t.
They sat like that. Quiet. No music. No talking.
Just watching the world blur as they left Emeryville.
Alex couldn’t let it be quiet for long and was about to say something, but to her surprise, Lobu was the one to break the silence.
“This is nice.” He smiled in the corner of his mouth as he flipped his hands over to intertwine his fingers with Alex’s.
When Alex felt her boyfriend’s fingers curl around her fingers, she sat up so frantically that she almost fell out of the seat. She then placed her other hand over their tangled hands and smiled extra wide once she saw the teeny tiny smile that had managed to fight hell and high water to appear on Lobu’s resting bitch face.
Her tail flickered and thumped against the fabric of the seat loudly and she gave his hand that was stacked under hers a firm squeeze. “I’m glad you like it.”
---
Day Two. Morning.
A few hours out of Salt Lake City, Utah, USA.
The dining car smelled like syrup and sunshine—burnt coffee, powdered creamer, and a hint of toast. It was quiet, mostly. A few murmured conversations. The clink of metal on ceramic. The low, steady hum of the train’s movement underneath everything, like soothing white noise that some people liked to sleep to.
Outside, the view had widened: wind-bent trees, pale golden fields, water glinting in the distance where the land broke open. Everything looked softer through the train’s slightly smudged windows.
Alex and Lobu had taken a booth along the sunlit side. Lobu sat first, back straight, the fur at his jawline catching the amber light in soft strokes. He folded his hands in front of him like someone waiting to be called upon.
Alex slid in across from him a lot more lazily. Her hoodie was slouched off one shoulder. Her tail flicked once. Her sunglasses were perched on her head like a tiara.
“Feels like we’re in a movie,” she said, glancing out the window. “The kind where someone monologues about fate and nobody ever puts their phone on silent.”
“Like a Wes Anderson movie, you said that yesterday.” Lobu replied through a scoff. “You’d be the one who’s late for her own show and ends up on the roof of the train singing into a spoon,” Lobu replied.
“With perfect eyeliner,” she added. “I thought you said Wes Anderson movies were tacky? How do you know the character archetype I would be if you haven’t watched his movies?”
“I said his movies were tacky, not that I hadn’t watched them. How would I know they are tacky if I didn’t watch them?” Lobu’s resting grump-face slowly and subtly morphed into a smirk as he did his best to waggle his eyebrows the way he saw the tigress do so often. He wasn’t sure if he should waggle them in or out of sync, so he alternated between the two.
Her wusky boyfriend’s eyebrow choreography got a snort out of her and a teenager-to-her-dad eyeroll. “Alright, since you have seen them, let’s both say what we think is his best work. On three.”
“One… Two… Three…” the tigress started counting, waiting for her boyfriend to give into the pressure and admit that he hadn’t seen any of them. But as a single inquisitive brow raised into her forehead, Lobu’s smirk only became more smirky.
“The Grand Budapest Hotel.”
“The Grand Budapest Hotel. Also, his tackiest, but it works well in its favor.”
Alex rolled her eyes again and shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “Alright, that’s my fault, everyone knows The Grand Budapest Hotel, I set the bar too low.” She then reached for one of the paper menus that were neatly stacked to her right, by the window, and began reading through the options that they had for breakfast. Lobu took one, too.
“What are you gonna have? I really want the French toast; I’ve smelled it ever since we got in here and it smells sooooooooo good.” Alex licked her lips out of instinct just at the mention of it.
Lobu, didn’t answer yet, he still needed to look through the entire menu before he could make his informed decision.
Then—
From across the aisle, a hushed voice.
“Don’t look. Don’t—oh my god, Maya, you looked—”
Alex’s ears twitched.
She turned in her seat, slow and smooth. One brow raised.
Two teens had frozen in the aisle toward the back of the dining car, just a few footsteps out from the door that led to coach. One—a hare with long legs, wide eyes, and bright purple streaks dyed into her long floppy ears—stood with both hands wrapped tightly around a biodegradable iced coffee cup. She wore a black hoodie emblazoned with Alex’s 2022 tour art—THE MARX EFFECT in bold silver type over a stylized tiger claw graphic. It looked worn, broken in, loved.
Beside her was a red panda, shorter and round-faced, wearing layered flannel and a crossbody bag covered in enamel pins. Their nails were painted black with glitter. One said “MARX ME” in hand-drawn letters.
Alex grinned.
“You looked!” she said, matter-of-fact.
Maya—the hare—let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak before she and the red panda approached the tigress who was now looking back at them with a smile so warm it could melt back-of-the-freezer chocolate from 2007.
“Are you—” she tried, breath catching. “Alex Marx the Spot?”
Alex slid out of the booth in one easy motion and walked toward them, meeting them halfway. She wasn’t hurrying. But she wasn’t making them wait either.
“Only on weekdays,” she said, voice playful but warm.
The red panda went rigid. Their digits trembled around their phone.
“Oh my god,” Maya said. “We—we were at the Oracle show! You flew out over the crowd during Striped Supremacy and I screamed so hard I almost puked.”
Alex’s eyes lit with mischief and a smug grin spread across her face. “Did you see me almost take out a drone mid-air? That wasn’t part of the choreography.”
The panda laughed. “We thought it was part of the show!”
Alex winked. “That’s the trick—always pretend it is.”
They giggled helplessly.
“You wanna take a picture?” Alex offered.
Maya’s whole body jolted. “YES—wait—I mean—are you sure?”
Alex smiled wider. “C’mon. Let’s make your friends jealous.”
She stepped between them like they were old friends, arms sliding around their shoulders, her cheek pressed to Maya’s temple, her tail curling behind them with practiced ease.
“Say it with me,” she said. “Three… two…”
“I’VE BEEN MARXED!”
Click. Boomerang. Burst.
Alex snapped a second shot on her own phone, tagged it on her Story with speed and flair, almost as if she were on autopilot:
🚨 CAUGHT: best-dressed fans on the Zephyr 💋 #IveBeenMarxed #AlexMarxTheSpot
Then, from her hoodie pocket, she pulled a small roll of glittery stickers.
“I’ve Been Marxed”, they read, in bold pink foil beneath a tiny golden crown.
She peeled two and pressed one onto Maya’s tour hoodie. The other she stuck to the panda’s flannel with delicate care.
“These are not part of any merch drop; I only give them out to fans I meet in person.” she said. “If I see them on eBay—I will kill you.” she laughed, leaving it ambiguous as to whether she was joking or not.
The panda beamed and the hare almost screamed but kept it to an internal one.
“And you—” Alex pointed to the panda’s pin-covered bag “—have excellent taste in merch. That one’s from the 2021 Valentine drop. Limited run.”
The panda blinked and looked down at her bag, before she looked back up at the tigress. “You noticed? And you remember the merch drop too?”
“Mhmm, I’m hands-on with all the merch!” Alex said. A lie, Logan had her minions handle all of that, but she did force Alex to recite some specific details about merch drops specifically for situations like these.
“And yeah, I notice everything!” Alex scoffed. “It’s a problem sometimes. I can tell the venue I am playing in blindfolded, from purely the acoustics.” She winked.
Maya pulled out a Sharpie. “Would you—could you sign—?”
Alex took it without hesitation, scribbled on the gatefold of one of her vinyl records, drew a tiger pawprint next to it. “Do you carry this around everywhere? Just in case you bump into me?”
“Yes.” Maya and the panda both squeaked.
“That’s adorable.” Alex laughed, kissed Maya on the cheek, and gave them both a final hug.
“Take care of each other,” she said. “It was very very nice to meet you both! DM me those pics or I’ll cry.”
She turned back toward the booth, tail swaying behind her.
She slid in beside Lobu this time, her hip brushing his, a breath of motion and citrus-scented warmth settling beside him.
“Sorry,” she murmured, a little flushed. “They were lovely.”
Lobu turned his head, just slightly, to look at her.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. I guess… I know you don’t really like this.. stuff.” The tigress gestured toward the two girls as they slid into their booth, smiles so wide on their faces she wondered how long it would be until their jaws started hurting.
Lobu then slid over a cup of hot coffee that he had ordered for her while she was in pop star mode.
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You gave them a moment they’ll remember forever.”
Alex cupped the drink in both hands, the warmth soaking into her paws.
“You’re good at that,” he added.
She tilted her head toward him.
“At what?”
“Making people feel seen.”
She didn’t answer at first.
Then, softly—
“I try to see them. Because someone saw me once. And that changed everything.”
The moment didn’t need more than that.
Until Alex pressed her nose into Lobu’s shoulder, sniffed, and asked; “What did you order?”
“The French toast for you, and the big breakfast platter for me.” Lobu said, almost monotone, save for the slight inflection in his voice caused by the slight smile spread across his lips from the tigress’s cute nose pressed up against him.
“Thank you. I love French toast.”
“Pain perdu.” Lobu said under his breath.
“What?” Alex furrowed her brows at him.
“It’s what it’s called in French. Pain perdu. It means lost bread. Bread that has gone stale, revitalized with egg, milk, cinnamon.”
“Pain perdu.” Alex repeated, in a surprisingly convincing French accent.
---
Day Two. Afternoon. After Lunch.
Somewhere in Colorado, USA.
The Sightseer Lounge felt like it belonged to a different train.
It rose taller than the other cars, its ceiling a wide curve of glass that reached overhead in a single unbroken sweep. The walls were windows, too, floor to ceiling, as if the train had been hollowed out and filled with light. Everything was touched by sun, open, and strangely still—like the moment you step into an art gallery and realize you are the only one who doesn’t know what any of the pieces mean.
Alex stopped just inside the doorway and whispered, “Holy shit.”
The space wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t crowded either.
Near the back, a pair of older huskies shared a thermos and a crossword puzzle, whispering answers with the sort of ease that came from thirty years of finishing each other’s sentences. A bear cub lay sprawled across two seats with a tablet on his chest, one paw idly fishing trail mix from a crinkling bag. His dad—tired, flannel-clad—sipped coffee and watched both the view and his kid with the same quiet attention.
A coyote sat across the aisle, one earbud in, book open on her lap. She blinked slowly, rhythmically, like she’d been reading the same paragraph for fifteen minutes. A doe two rows forward sketched in a notebook, her pencil pausing every few seconds so she could look up, squint, and try to capture the shifting light.
Alex flopped into a west-facing seat with her usual lazy grace, throwing her hoodie behind her head like a makeshift pillow and sliding her boots off with two practiced heel-kicks. Her feet landed on the armrest across from her, socks already pilled at the heel, toes flexing slightly in the warm light.
Lobu stepped inside behind her—and froze.
His breath caught.
He’d seen pictures of the sightseer car. Videos. Brochures. Travel vlogs. He knew what it was supposed to look like.
But that had done nothing to prepare him for this.
He moved almost cautiously down the aisle, his eyes sweeping from the curve of the ceiling to the horizon visible through the far window.
He didn’t sit right away.
He just stood there, paw resting on the back of a seat, watching the world roll by with an expression Alex had only seen a few times before.
It was awe.
The quiet kind. The kind that made you feel small and lucky.
Alex tilted her head.
“You good?” she asked, softly.
Lobu nodded. Just once.
“I’ve wanted to ride the Zephyr since I was a kid,” he said. “I used to print the route maps off the website and tape them to my bedroom wall.”
She blinked. “Seriously?”
He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I memorized all the station stops. Emeryville to Chicago. I used to daydream about where I’d sit in this exact car.”
Alex’s expression shifted—not to teasing. To something warmer. Something closer to the ones you get from watching videos of soldiers coming home to surprise their family members after a long deployment.
“Well,” she said, patting the seat beside her, “I hope this seat is close enough to the one you daydreamed about.”
He sat down beside her.
Not dramatically. Not ceremoniously. He just lowered himself into the seat and let the view take him. After a few seconds, he said softly, “It’s perfect.”
Outside, the Colorado Rockies had fully arrived.
Jagged ridgelines rose on either side of the train, their faces brushed in snow that clung like powdered sugar, soft and untouched. Pines crowded the lower slopes—dark green and tightly packed—but as the train climbed, the trees thinned, giving way to open stretches of snow-covered rock, glinting in the sun like cracked porcelain.
The snow wasn’t harsh here.
It curled around boulders, softened the edges of cliffs, settled on the arms of trees like someone had painted it there with a slow, loving hand. In the distance, the wind swept across an open field, lifting a fine veil of powder into the air that sparkled like glitter in the sun before drifting back down again.
A frozen creek snaked along the base of the canyon, its ice clear and blue-gray, fractured with white lines like veins. Steam rose in soft curls where the sun had started to melt the edges. Further up, a hawk wheeled through the air, riding a current without a single flap, casting a long shadow that drifted across the snow like a moving compass needle.
Alex leaned into the window.
“I feel like we’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “Like we snuck into something.”
“We did,” Lobu murmured. “We’re in the middle of the continent and it’s letting us look at its bones.”
She turned to him. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s geographical.”
“Okay, nerd.”
The train curved again, slowly, and the world rearranged itself. A wide glacial valley opened ahead—snowfields edged with wind-worn brush, tiny trees stunted by altitude, wildlife tracks winding in long chaotic curves toward the edge of a frozen lake.
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
There was no need.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, shifting the light across the seats. The mountains changed colors by the minute—pale gold at the tips, rust-colored along the faces, then cooler blues and purples in the shadows. The snow mirrored it all, glowing, reflecting, deepening. The sky stretched overhead like the inside of a bowl—wide and empty and cloudless.
Alex’s tail flicked once, then settled.
She sighed.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to fall asleep. But I am going to borrow your shoulder.”
Lobu didn’t look away from the view.
“I’ll allow it.”
“Generous.”
She stood and crossed to his side, slipping into the seat beside him in one fluid motion. She curled sideways, tucked one leg beneath her, then leaned in until her shoulder pressed to his and her head found the soft space beneath his jaw.
“Just temporary,” she mumbled. “I’ll be extremely conscious the whole time.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Alert. Engaged. Ready to answer any questions you have about American geography.”
He kept his eyes out the window at the view that kept defying the laws of beauty—getting prettier and prettier the longer the time went on.
“Obviously.”
Her paw curled around his forearm.
And then—
Quiet.
Just the train. Just the view. Just the low hum of other people caught in their own moments of awe.
Outside, the snow fields widened. The mountains opened up to reveal layered foothills, shadows creeping slowly across the land like hands pulling a blanket. The world turned rose-gold. Then lilac. Then dark blue.
Alex’s breathing slowed.
Her grip on his arm loosened.
Her tail stilled.
Her ear twitched once, then didn’t move again.
Lobu glanced down.
She was asleep.
Curled against him. Trusting. Quiet. The corners of her mouth still curved upward from whatever her last half-thought had been.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t want to.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head and just stayed there—arm around her, cheek against her hair, breath rising and falling in time with hers.
Then, quietly, almost to himself, he said:
“Menteuse.”
Liar.
But there was no malice in it. Just warmth.
Just fondness.
Outside, the last sunlight vanished behind the peaks as golden hour slowly faded to black.
And the California Zephyr rolled gently on through the softest snow Lobu had ever seen.
---
Day Two. Night. After Dinner.
Between the border of Colorado and Nebraska, USA.
By the time they returned to their room, the sun was already on the other side of the world.
Outside, the landscape rolled by in silhouettes—fields fading into forest, occasional lights from distant houses winking like secrets between the trees. The sky had turned black, peppered by stars that you couldn’t see in the city with all the light pollution. Inside, Bedroom A was lit by a small overhead lamp that cast everything in gold.
Alex was the first to move inside.
She flopped onto the seat to the right of the room, limbs loose and graceless in the way only very tired people ever managed. Her hoodie slouched off one shoulder, exposing a thin stripe at her collarbone. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Why didn’t we just sleep there in the dining car?” she asked.
Lobu closed the door quietly behind them. The latch clicked with a soft snick—not loud, but final. The kind of sound that made a space feel closed, separate from the world.
“Because you already paid for a bedroom, where there’s an actual bed. See?” he said, watching her fold herself into a horizontal slouch and gesturing to the seat on the other side of the room that a full queen-sized bed could fold out onto.
“I was very comfortable there,” she corrected. “Who needs a bed when you have a Bubu to lean on. Super comfy…”
“Bubu”, as Alex affectionately called him, removed his coat and hung it on the small hook beside the door to the bathroom. The room swayed gently with the train’s rhythm, a slow lull that made everything feel dreamlike.
Alex tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. Then, out of nowhere, a sigh.
“What if I don’t deserve it?”
Lobu raised a brow, confused.
“Those two,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Back at breakfast. Maya and the panda. They had my merch. Like—not just the sticker or something free from a VIP drop. The hoodie from 2022. The lyric pins. That’s not impulse-buy energy. That’s I listened to your song on repeat while going through something energy.”
Lobu sat opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees. “It meant something to them.”
“I know.” She blinked slowly. “It scared me.”
That surprised him.
“Why?”
“Because what if I don’t deserve it?” Her voice was quiet now. “What if I’m just loud and sparkly and just got lucky?”
“You’re not lucky, remember when those apples kept falling on your head during our picnic? You worked hard to get where you are. Zero luck involved.” Lobu said.
She looked at him—really looked. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Outside, a patch of forest blurred past. Then a bridge. Then more fields.
“I mean, I liked them,” she added after a pause. “They were funny. They were so gay. Did you see the panda’s nails?”
“I saw.”
“And Maya was wearing that hoodie with the claw design—remember the shoot for that? We were freezing in that warehouse in Oakland, and the stylist kept spraying down the smoke machine.”
“You refused to wear the backup coat.”
“It was ugly,” she said, eyes narrowing. “And itchy.”
“You did look dramatic in the wind.”
“I always look dramatic in the wind.”
He smiled.
“And that fucking apple tree had it out for me, probably a curse put on me by that old lady I flipped off in traffic, who came out of her car holding these straw-voodoo looking dolls and shaking them at me.” Alex let out a dry laugh.
They let that hang for a beat, the train rocking gently beneath them.
“What did you think of the food?” Alex asked.
“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”
She nodded. “Overall.”
“It was… edible,” he said diplomatically.
She laughed, soft and lazy. “You didn’t like your ravioli.”
“It was room-temperature lasagna wearing a hat.”
“I kinda liked mine,” she admitted. “The French toast was good.”
“You had that for all three of your meals today.”
“Breakfast is a state of mind.”
He shook his head with a quiet smile and leaned back, stretching one leg out, his paw brushing lightly against her ankle.
A comfortable silence settled between them again.
Alex shifted so she was facing him more directly, tucking one leg beneath her. The cabin lights caught her fur in warm strokes, outlining her cheekbones in gold.
“You always sit like that,” she said. “All neat and folded, like you’re in a piano recital.”
“And you always sit like… That.”
“Like what!” Alex furrowed her brows, almost offended.
“Like spilled laundry.”
“I think you mean glamorous. Couture. French high fashion.”
“I’m the French one.” The wusky rolled his eyes.
“And I’m stealing your brand,” she replied with a satisfied nod.
Lobu let out a quiet breath and leaned his head back against the wall. The cushion behind him gave slightly, just enough to be comfortable without encouraging sleep.
The ceiling light glowed low, soft amber catching in the tips of Alex’s fur as she stretched out on the bench, still and loose like cooling sugar.
After a few minutes, Lobu stood and turned toward the folding bed mounted in the wall. With a soft, practiced click, he pulled it down and began the ritual—no hesitation, no wasted movement.
First the mattress liner, smooth and tucked. Then the pillowcases, fluffed with precise palms. The blanket, folded down just enough to invite rest without looking machined. Every motion was careful.
Behind him, Alex moved—fabric rustling, her hoodie slipping from her shoulders in one heavy drop, landing behind her with a muted thump. The cabin air shifted with it, her citrus-sweet musk slipping free, threaded with the faint tang of sweat from a day spent curled in train seats.
When he glanced back, she was already tugging her socks loose with lazy kicks of her paws, claws flexing slightly as she flung them into the corner. Bare pads touched the floor, flexing once as they reacted to the fuzzy carpet.
She was down to a black tank and matching soft panties. The tank clung to the curve of her breasts, fabric stretched just enough that the hard points of her nipples pressed visibly against it. Her panties hugged low over her hips, cotton outlining the mound between her thighs, the gusset already faintly darkened with dampness. Her legs stretched long and bare under the glow of the cabin light, the sheen of her fur catching faintly where sweat had dried to a gloss.
She arched as she stretched—arms overhead, back bowing, tank riding up to flash the hollow of her stomach and the sharp line of her hipbones. Then she stood there, bare paws planted, watching the French boy smooth out every wrinkle like it mattered.
“You gonna starch that sheet next?” she asked, voice husky with stretch, lazy but teasing.
“If I had the tools,” Lobu muttered, adjusting a fold.
Alex chuckled, low and approving. “You’re such a perfectionist.”
“Only with things that matter.”
She tilted her head toward him, one brow raised, her breasts shifting with the motion beneath the thin cotton. “You calling me a lost cause?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her—tired, beautiful, scent-heavy and entirely herself—and smiled.
Lobu stood back to check the bed one last time, every corner crisp, every fold neat. Then, with a quiet exhale, he tugged at his shirt. The buttons came loose one by one, the sound small but sharp in the quiet room. His chest came into view—grey fur, the firm mounds of his pecs shifting as he moved, the line of muscle tracing down his stomach toward the waistband of his trousers. The air caught his scent now too, clean soap cut through with the warm, natural musk that had been trapped beneath layers of wool and cotton all day.
He folded the shirt neatly and set it aside before unbuckling his belt. The clasp clicked open with a soft metallic bite, followed by the whisper of leather sliding free from its loops. His trousers slid down his legs, brushed smooth and folded over the back of the chair with his usual care.
Left in nothing but black cotton boxers, his body looked methodical and sculpted—lean but not starved, the kind of definition that came from discipline more than show. The bulge in his shorts was impossible not to ignore: a heavy bulge pressing forward, the fabric stretched by the thick weight of him. The head wasn’t sharply outlined but smoothed by the foreskin—rounder, softer, a broad swell with the faint ridge of a crown hidden beneath, like a turtleneck pressing outward. Beneath that, the pouch sagged slightly where his balls rested, round and full, the weight of them shifting as he breathed.
The cabin light caught the swell of him, the cotton stretched glossy where it clung. His scent thickened the air—soap and fur giving way to the warmer tang of male musk that had been trapped all day beneath neat trousers and careful folds.
Alex raised her brows and gave a low, approving hum as she looked him over, her eyes tracking deliberately from chest to bulge.
“You always take your time taking off your clothes?” she teased.
“I respect fabric,” he countered, voice flat but with the faintest curl of humor.
Then the tigress stood. Crossed the room in two barefoot steps. Her claws hooked his waist, tugging him down from poise into mess.
Her grin sharpened. “Respect fabric,” she mocked, flicking the waistband of his boxers with a claw. The bulge shifted beneath her touch, twitching once.
And then she dragged him down with her onto the bed.
“Come here, conductor.”
They landed with a low grunt, the mattress bouncing under them both. Alex immediately curled against him, sliding her back to his chest, her tail draping lazily behind her, one leg thrown over his.
The room hummed around them—the train moving beneath, steady and slow, wheels singing a lullaby into the metal bones of the car. The motion was gentle, constant. Like being rocked to sleep in the world’s first gyro-stabilized hammock.
Lobu exhaled slowly, his arms wrapping around her almost on instinct. One hand at her stomach. One under the pillow. Her body was warm, loose in that deep-end-of-the-day way. Her fur smelled like orange and mango.
For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They just listened—to the track, to the hush of the world outside, to each other’s breathing. And looked into each other’s eyes.
Then, softly:
“Thank you.”
He blinked. “For what?”
“For this. For saying yes. For letting me surprise you with something. You’re incredibly hard to shop for.”
He didn’t answer right away. His paw pressed gently into her belly, and he drew slow, circular motions with his fingers.
“I’m not that hard to shop for, my interests and likes are very obvious,” he said. “Trains, history books, you.”
Alex made a low hum in her throat. Not disagreement. Not agreement.
“I would have booked us a trip on the Orient Express, but I didn’t want to get murdered,” she murmured.
“Ah. I wouldn’t let you get murdered.”
His voice cracked, just slightly.
His hand drifted lower.
And something in the room changed—nothing abrupt, just a quiet turn of gravity.
She shifted, hips rolling back into him. Her hand slid down and caught his wrist—fingers light, but anchoring.
Not pulling.
Just saying: yes.
“You sure?” Lobu whispered, voice tight, low, like it was dragging itself up from under his ribs.
“If you stop now,” Alex murmured, “There’s going to be a Murder on the California Zephyr.”
She didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. Her body said it for her—arched slightly back into him, thighs just starting to part, a soft, predatory tension in the way her shoulders rose and fell with each slow breath.
Lobu didn’t answer. He kissed her neck instead. Open-mouthed. Lingering. His breath pushed into her fur like it was trying to warm her from the inside out.
Then his right hand moved.
From her belly to her waist, then lower—down to the waistband of her panties, black cotton pulled snug against her hips. He traced a fingertip along the edge, letting the heat beneath speak for itself. He didn’t slip inside just yet. He just hovered, the warmth of his hand radiating into her cunt, separated by the thinnest layer of fabric.
His other hand curled under her tank top—clingy, rumpled from being under her hoodie all day—and lifted it just enough to bare the soft slope of her stomach. When his palm found her breast—full, heavy, no bra beneath—he let out a quiet breath he hadn’t meant to.
She was warm.
She was sweating.
Not a lot. Just enough that her fur beneath the tank was damp at the base of her spine, heat pooling in the hollow of her back where their bodies pressed together.
He cupped her breast, his fingers spreading slightly, thumb brushing over her nipple like he was flicking off a bottle cap.
It was already hard.
Alex arched even more into him with a soft gasp, thighs clenching, her back brushing his chest with each breath.
“God,” she whispered, “you always start so slow.”
“You’d complain if I didn’t.”
His voice rumbled in her ear. And behind her—against the curve of her lower back—his cock was starting to thicken.
She felt it. Of course she felt it.
The slow pressure building against her ass through the black cotton of his boxers. At first it was just a warmth. Then a firmness. Then a weight—a thick, growing bulge that swelled with every breath she took, until she could feel the smooth, foreskin-softened head nudging just above the waistband of her panties like a friendly knock on the door.
Lobu’s cock pressed into the small of her back, growing inch by inch, foreskin stretched just enough to hug three quarters of his leaking tip. Inside the loose skin, pre-cum was already gathering—wet, warm, sticky—pooling in the fold and beginning to bleed through the fabric. A faint, wet spot darkened his boxers, right where the head pushed firm into her, spreading with every pulse of his cock.
He let out a quiet grunt. The kind you only make when your body is begging and you’re doing everything not to give in.
“Mmnng.”
And as he swelled, so did she.
At first, just heat—her cunt warming under the thin cotton, the pressure of his body lighting sparks in her hips. Then a subtle dampness, barely there, a tacky cling where her lips pressed together. With every slow grind of her breath, the warmth deepened, the moisture spreading until her panties began to stick slightly between her folds.
By the time she shifted her hips back into him, there was no hiding it. The cotton clung to her mound, darker now at the center. Each slow throb of his cock seemed to pull more wetness from her, until she could feel her own juices beginning to pool low, smearing across the gusset of her panties.
Her thighs pressed tighter, but it only made the sensation sharper. She was swelling against herself, folds puffed and sensitive, the damp patch widening with every breath she felt against her neck.
Then Lobu dipped his hand beneath her panties.
And found the treasure he had been looking for.
Not completely soaked—yet. But slick enough that his fingertip slid along her slit with immediate ease, catching wetness that hadn’t quite broken through the outer fibers of the cotton. She gasped, her body jolting subtle but sharp, her panties tugging with his knuckles as he tested the damp crease.
He groaned into her ear.
Her scent hit him more now, thickening by the second.
Hot. Sharp. Raw.
It rolled up into his lungs like steam rising off hot rainforest earth—tiger musk with a ripe, slightly sour bite.
He slid two fingers along her pussy lips.
Slow.
Precise. Like everything else he did.
His fingers stretched the band of her panties as they brushed along her pussy. His fingertip traced the line once, and she twitched again—as though the nerve endings had been waiting for that exact contact.
Then it started.
A film of slick welled up beneath his touch, thin at first, clinging to the pad of his finger like sweat. Another stroke, and the dampness spread—coating him in a shine. Her pussy puffed up under his hand, lips swelling as blood rushed in, pressing against his fingers. The cotton clung tighter between them now, the gusset drawing up into the crease of her pussy until it molded to her mound.
Her scent shifted as she got wetter. What had been faint—citrus and musk—was sharper now, humid and feral. Each stroke of his fingers stirred it stronger, the odor of fresh arousal seeping out from under her panties until the cabin air was thick with tiger musk: sour-sweet, pungent, the unmistakable smell of pussy just beginning to gush.
“Nnnhhggghhh…” She whimpered, the sound high in her throat. Her hips twitched back against him, small rolls that smeared her dampness across all five of his knuckles. Every little grind pulled more pussy juice from her, painting the fabric darker, spreading it wider. By the fifth pass of his hand, his fingertips weren’t just damp—they glistened, coated in a thin, slippery film that strung slightly when he pulled them away.
Her panties were soaked through now—sticky, messy, clinging to her folds so snug that Lobu could feel every puffed ridge beneath the fabric. When his thumb pressed closer to her clit, the fabric bunched and twisted, dragging across the swollen nub. She gasped and shuddered, a thin squeak that broke into a moan, thighs pressing together in helpless reflex.
“Aaah…”
The heat pouring out of her was undeniable. Her folds throbbed faintly against his fingers—slippery, wet, waiting to spill if he just pushed a little harder. Wet enough that when he spread her lips with a careful press of two fingers, the fabric peeled tackily from her folds with a soft, obscene ‘schlk’.
The lips of her cunt parted for him like they recognized him—swollen, wet, greedy. His fingers dragged through her folds with a nasty wet sound.
‘Schlp.’
Then again. ‘Schhlp.’
She whimpered. Her hips twitched, nudging back into him—subtle, unspoken permission.
She was getting there.
Lobu’s breath hitched.
He could feel his cock pressing harder now, the head snug against her lower back, foreskin tugging slightly with each throb. Inside, the pre had pooled deeper. He could feel it now—warm and thick, like syrup trapped inside the skin. It made the fabric of his boxers cling to him, a large damp patch over the tip of his tent.
He didn’t move it. Didn’t grind.
Just let her feel the weight of it pressed against her.
Let her know what she was doing to him.
His other hand still cradled her breast, thumbing her nipple in slow, teasing circles. She moaned again, her voice higher now. Lusher. The sound of someone falling out of her head and into her body.
“Mmmnnnrrrf… Fuck…”
And then—he slipped one finger inside her.
God.
She clenched immediately.
Not in resistance, but reflex.
“Hhhhh… Aaaaahhh…”
Her pussy sucked him in, the tight ring at her entrance hugging the knuckle before fluttering and giving way. Her inner muscles rippled, locking around his finger like she wanted to keep it. Keep him. The heat was almost unbearable—swollen flesh wrapped tight, slick lining her walls so thoroughly his finger slid deeper with a filthy noise.
‘Schlk.’
Her walls weren’t just wet. They were textured, alive, gripping him in waves as though her cunt was tasting him, learning him, trying to milk him already. Poor thing had no idea it was only a finger. Every flex pulled more freshly-fingered, organic, gluten-free pussy juice down onto it, and he felt it gathering in hot rivulets, squishing out at the base.
“Jesus,” he whispered, breath ragged.
Alex didn’t respond.
Her head dropped back, jaw slack, panting like she’d been running. Her claws sank into the sheets, pulling the cotton taut. Every roll of her hips pressed her ass harder into his lap, rubbing her mound against his palm until both her pussy and his hand were raw.
Getting fingered was always Alex’s weakness. She hated admitting it, but she came undone faster this way than any other—something about being spread open, filled, worked from the inside out with slow, merciless patience.
And Lobu was nothing if not patient.
He pulled his finger out halfway, then pushed back in, and she gasped like he’d stuffed her full. Her inner lips clung to his digit on the way out, then bloomed open around him like a flower ready for pollination as he sank back in.
Then he added a second finger.
She shook.
“Lobu.. Hhhnnnggg.”
A full-body tremor rolled through her, her legs trembling as she slid slightly to the left, hips jerking into his hand. Her body couldn’t stay still — like the pleasure was shoving her sideways on the sheets. Her cunt gushed around him, fresh cream pouring down his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking his lap until his boxers clung wet and sticky.
The tiger’s right hand shot up blindly, finding the wusky’s cheek. She cupped the side of his muzzle, claws pricking gently at his fur as if to anchor herself. Her thumb stroked once along his jaw, shaky, but she was trying, before curling into his cheek fluff as her body jolted again.
Alex’s toes curled. The thick pink pads of her paws flexed and squeezed against the mattress, claws scraping the sheet. Then they spread wide, then curled again, involuntary little spasms that matched the rhythm of the fingers inside her.
Her scent hit Lobu like a wave. Sharp. Rank with sex. Tiger musk pouring out of her, filling their cabin faster than the air conditioner could keep up with.
The canine curled his fingers inside her. Pressed along the swollen front wall until he found that special spot and rubbed.
She cried out, voice cracking into a growl, her back bowing. Her pussy spasmed around his fingers, gripping, squeezing, then letting go, then squeezing again—like she couldn’t decide whether to push him out or pull him in deeper.
“Hhhhhannnaahhhhh!”
Her juices answered for her. Every thrust of his fingers drew more of it out of her, until it wasn’t just damp anymore. It was pouring. His fingers pumped through it, thick squelches filling the cabin:
‘Schlk. Schllrp. Schlkkk.’
Her tank clung to her back, plastered with sweat. A bead rolled down her spine into the fur above her tail. Her thighs flexed, knees lifting, heels pressing into the mattress like she was trying to brace against being wrecked by just his hand.
And then—he pushed in a third finger.
Alex broke.
Her whole body went rigid, then bucked forward as her cunt struggled a little to take the stretch. Her entrance clamped hard, tight around his knuckles, before spasming open to swallow him deeper.
“Aaaaaaaaaah!!!! Nnnnnnggggghhh!”
She squealed, high and sharp, before the sound melted into a throaty moan. Her toes spread wide, claws raking the sheet, then curled so hard her paw pads pressed flat against the mattress. Her thighs shook uncontrollably, her hips jerking down onto his hand like she needed every bit of him inside. To say that Lobu had successfully picked the tigress’s lock would have been accurate—her lips swollen and raw, pulled wider than they wanted to go, but way more than wet enough to let him in.
Inside, her pussy gripped and fluttered around all three fingers, milking them desperately. Every curl of his hand dragged across that swollen patch inside her, sending shocks through her belly. The noises were louder now—wet slapping, squelches, cunt cream running down his wrist and dripping onto the sheets.
“Lobhhhaahhh… Hhhhaaaaaah.”
She tried to say his name, but it broke into a moan. Her right hand still clung to his cheek, claws pricking deeper into his fur, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing in the world.
And that was when it happened.
Her body arched up, bowing hard against his inner thigh. Every line of her went taut—shoulders, belly, calves—as if she’d been shot through with current. Her thighs clamped together, squishing his hand in like a carnivorous plant to a fly.
Then her cunt convulsed.
It wasn’t a neat spasm. It was violent, rippling through her muscles in waves that wrung down on his fingers like they were being milked. The first gush sprayed hot across his palm, a sudden stream that splattered up his wrist before spilling onto the bed. The next pulse followed immediately after, harder, flooding over his knuckles, spraying through her cotton panties and soaking the mattress.
“Ahh—fuck—!” Alex cried out, voice pitching high before tearing into a guttural snarl. Her hips jerked helplessly, grinding down on his hand, squirting with each pulse. Wetness shot out in short, hot bursts—across his fingers, down up his wrist, dripping onto the mattress in messy streaks.
Her toes curled and spread wildly, claws flexing, paw pads grinding into the sheets. Every spasm made them flex again, curl tight, then splay wide, claws catching fabric with desperate scratches, dangerously close to poking tiny little holes into the cotton.
Lobu froze, eyes going wide even as his cock throbbed harder against her back. He’d seen it before, knew she was a squirter, but it still hit him like a shock each time—the force, the mess, the sheer helpless abandon of it. His hand was drenched, his wrist dripping, the bed wet through, and still she kept spraying.
“Jesus Christ, Alex,” he panted, half in awe, half undone. He didn’t pull away. He kept his fingers inside, let her ride them and let her body clench and squeeze. He could feel her cunt fluttering wildly around him, sucking down on his fingers as if trying to drag them deeper like a siren to a poor sailor.
The air filled with the ripe, sour-sweet tang of her climax—heavy tiger musk sharpened by the unmistakable scent of pussy. It clung to the sheets, to his fur, to his nose.
She came with a noise that shook out of her throat like an animal trapped between squealing and roaring, hips jerking forward to grind through each wave. His lap was soaked, the sheets beneath them puddling. Every gush splattered audibly now.
“Aahhhh!! Fuck!!!! Hhhaaaahhhh!”
‘Schhhhtk, splat, schlrrp.’ The sound of good pussy echoed in the small cabin.
Alex’s right hand was still on Lobu’s cheek, claws digging, dragging slightly down his fur as she shook. She clung to him as if she were going to fall.
And finally—after what felt like forever—her body bucked one last time, spraying another hot burst across his wrist before she sagged against him. Twitching. Spent. Sweaty. And wet.
Lobu eased his fingers out of Alex. They came free with a lot more resistance than he expected, dripping, strings of pussy juice webbing from fingertip to fingertip, glistening in the low light.
The wusky stared at his soaked hand, then at the dark wet patches spread across the sheets. His ears twitched. He huffed out a shaky laugh, still caught off guard despite himself. “All that work on making the bed…” he murmured into her hair, not even pretending it was a complaint.
And then he brought his fingers to his mouth.
And sucked.
Slowly.
One at a time. From tip to knuckle. The taste hit him hard.
Hot. Salted. Tangy.
Her pussy had that perfect flavor—meaty under the sweetness. A little sweat. A little sour bite that hit the back of his throat like limoncello. It coated his tongue, thick, almost impossible to swallow down all at once.
He sucked his fingers clean with long, thoughtful licks, groaning softly, like he couldn’t get enough.
Leaned against him, looking up, Alex stirred. Her voice was rough, raw.
“You’re gonna make..” She cleared her throat. “You’re gonna make me come again,” she whispered. Lobu leaned over her shoulder. His cock still throbbed behind the fabric of his boxers—now nearly soaked through with pre. The foreskin stuck slightly to the tip, the soaked fabric clinging with every tiny twitch. The wet patch had grown wide, darkened the black cotton until it shimmered in the low light of the room.
His voice was soft.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Alex stayed curled against him for a moment, letting her body recover, her breath easing into a more consistent rhythm. Her black tank clung to her back with sweat, and the waistband of her panties had ridden up slightly on one hip, digging into fur matted with slick. Her tail flicked once against the bed.
Lobu was still behind her.
Still hard.
Still pulsing through the black cotton of his boxers, his cock now fully outlined against the damp fabric, the head pressed firm into the curve of her lower back. The patch of wetness had bloomed wide, sticky with a slow spill of pre that hadn’t let up since he first touched her.
She felt it.
She’d been feeling it.
But now—finally—she turned.
Her legs slid over his, shifting to straddle him in one smooth, sweat-slicked motion. Her thighs trembled a little, still shaky from release, but her gaze was anything but weak.
She looked down at him like he was the answer to a hunger she’d only just admitted she had.
Lobu looked back at her—flushed, smiling, muzzle streaked faintly from where he’d kissed the back of her neck, fingers still shining faintly in the low light from where he’d sucked them clean.
She reached down.
Touched the soaked patch on his boxers with her palm. Pressed.
His hips jerked.
“Merde—Alex—”
Her eyes didn’t leave his.
She leaned down, curling forward until her nose nuzzled into the wet cotton right over the head of his cock. Her breath rolled over it, hot and humid, and she inhaled deep through her nose—slow, indulgent.
‘Snnnnnf!’
“God,” she whispered. “You smell nice.”
He swallowed.
“I—uh—yeah—I like being clean.”
She cut him off with an even bigger sniff before she laid down, stretching her legs out as she lowered her head to be square in his lap. Then, she dragged her tongue lazily across the fabric of his boxers.
Right over the swollen, drooling tip.
He bucked.
His hips shot upward with a grunt, the muscles in his stomach tightening like a fist. Her tongue pressed into the soaked cotton, feeling the outline of his head—round, flushed, foreskin drawn tight over it and soaked inside with hours of trapped pre. The taste bled through the fabric. Musky. Bitter. Salty. Just the way she liked it.
She licked him again.
Then again.
Dragging her tongue slowly from the base of the shaft, where the fabric was still mostly dry, up to the head where the damp cotton squished softly under her pressure.
Her nose wrinkled slightly.
“You leaked all this just from fingering me?” she murmured.
He nodded, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with ragged breath.
“I couldn’t help it—you’re fun to finger.”
She didn’t reply.
Just hooked the waistband of his boxers with one of her large fangs and tugged.
Her fingers joined in, curling into the damp elastic and pulling downward slowly. The fabric was stubborn at first—sticky where pre had soaked through, caught in the folds of his foreskin. She tugged gently, and when it finally peeled away from the head, it came free with a soft, wet pop, strings of precum clinging between the cloth and his skin.
‘Pop!’
His cock sprang out.
Heavy. Shiny. Pink.
The foreskin was still mostly forward, soft at the tip, but soaked through—glossy with all that trapped pre. His shaft was flushed, thick with blood, the veins bulging high and twitching along the length.
And the smell.
Fuck.
It hit her.
Thick and immediate—male musk, fermented slightly from being trapped under sweat and cotton. Not clean or perfumed, but not dirty, either. Just raw, uncut dick smell. Skin and salt and the dense, sticky scent of a cock that had been stewing in pre. Her scent was still on him, too—she smelled it now, a sharp, sour-sweet note clinging to the base of his cock where her pussy juice had leaked onto him earlier.
She didn’t flinch.
She breathed it in.
Her nose pressed along the underside, from the base to the tip, inhaling deep enough to make her nostrils flare. Her pupils dilated.
‘Snfffff. Snffffff. Snffffffff.’
Then—she licked.
One slow, firm stroke of the tongue from the base of his shaft, along the underside, following the thick vein that pulsed there like a guide.
Lobu choked on his breath.
“Alex—holy—fuck—”
She didn’t say a word.
Her hand curled around the base of his shaft, keeping his twitching under control. Her grip was snug, perfect, the tips of her claws barely dimpling the skin as she squeezed just hard enough to make him squirm.
The foreskin still covered the tip—barely. Looser now. She dragged it back, slow and steady, peeling it down just enough for what she had planned next. As more of his cock head appeared, glistening wet, a thick glob of pre rolled from the slit, threatening to jump.
She watched it.
Then flicked her tongue across the tip, collecting the suicidal bead with a skillful curl.
He moaned—loud. Gut-deep. His hands clenched the sheets until they creaked.
“Hhnnnyyyaaaahhhggyuh.”
She licked again. A soft stroke, savoring the salt. Then again, slower, letting her tongue drag across the slit, coaxing it to leak more.
Then she angled lower and slid her tongue beneath the foreskin.
The hood peeled back against her pressure, and she slipped inside, tongue curling downward around the hot crown trapped beneath. Salty pre and a faint, meatier musk clung there, smeared against her tastebuds. She swirled in wet circles, tongue lapping around the ridge, the tip of it dipping into the humid pocket of heat.
Lobu jolted like he’d been zapped. His hips twitched before he forced himself still, chest heaving, eyes wide.
“Ohhh—Jesus—Alex—”
She smirked without lifting her gaze, tongue painting the hidden rim, teasing every nerve until another bead welled and smeared across her lips. She tugged the foreskin back with a quick pull of her thumb, licked the bare head raw, then popped it forward again to lap it through the skin. Every roll made him shiver.
She licked once more.
Then took him into her mouth.
All at once.
No preamble. No warning.
Her black lips stretched wide around the swollen crown. She sank down in one greedy pull. Her tongue pressed hard under him, stroking the bulging vein; her cheeks hollowed with suction.
Lobu moaned.
“Hhhhooohhhhfuck…”
His hips jerked, desperate to thrust, but she pressed her palm flat to his stomach—pinning him down. Her eyes met his, narrow, sharp, daring him to try. Don’t. You. Dare.
He didn’t. He was nothing if not patient.
Her lips kissed the base. Her nose pressed into his pubic tuft, inhaling musk from the damp bush. Her throat clenched twice around him, gagging softly before swallowing him deeper. His foreskin rolled taut at her lips, then slid forward when she pulled back, gliding with each slurp.
‘Slllllllrp… Sllllllrp…’
He shuddered.
“Jesus—Alex—fuck—”
She pulled back slowly.
Her tongue dragged along the underside of his shaft, licking every ridge until only the tip remained in her mouth. Then she sucked—hard—like she wanted to draw the next drop of pre out with suction alone.
And it worked.
A fat bead welled up. It stood no chance.
Then she went back down.
Her lips sealed even tighter around him, thick, gooey saliva streaking as her cheeks hollowed. Her throat opened as she sank, gagging softly as he slid deeper, spit pooling at the corners of her lips.
And she began to work him.
Slow bobs of her head.
The wet ‘gluck-gluck-glck’ sounds filled the room, sloppy and constant. Her hand pumped the root, squeezing tight, her thumb tugging the foreskin up and down in rhythm with her mouth.
‘Glck, gluck, glkk.’
She let him twitch. Let him gasp. Let him babble nonsense with every drop of slick she coaxed.
And she never broke eye contact.
Alex didn’t speed up. She didn’t need to.
She had Lobu trembling beneath her, chest heaving, cock pulsing against her tongue with every drag of her throat.
She had rhythm now.
The tigress’s hand stroked the base—tight, glossy with spit and pre. Her mouth sealed the head, sucking with force. Her tongue rolled in wet waves around the crown, slipping under the foreskin, swirling in circles like she was trying to polish him clean from the inside out.
Lobu started to get loud, he didn’t mean to.
Grunts. Moans. Hitches in his breath that cracked into full-body tremors.
“Haaaaaaaah.. Aaaaaah! Hoooohhfuck…”
His thighs jerked. His tail slapped the mattress, every impact louder than the next.
‘Thwp! Thwp! Thwp!’
And she loved it.
Loved the way he fought not to thrust.
Loved the taste—salty pre, bitter musk, the ghost of her own pussy still smeared faintly on his shaft. His foreskin had trapped it all, and now she was dragging it out of him, one filthy suck at a time.
She pulled back with a soft pop.
‘Plop!’
His cock twitched in the air, foreskin half-forward, tip shiny. A line of pre drooled down the underside.
“Fuck,” Lobu panted, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. “Alex—I’m close—don’t stop—please don’t—”
She didn’t say a word.
Just spit.
Just on his dick.
‘Pw-to.’
A thick strand dribbled from her lips to his crown. It slid down his shaft, mixing with pre, coating him in shine. She caught the mess in her palm, smeared it to the base, tugging the foreskin back and forth in long, wet strokes.
Then she opened her mouth again.
Took him back in.
All the way.
His head dropped back against the pillow with a helpless cry. His hands twisted the sheets until the threads strained. His cock slid into her throat, slick and swollen, foreskin bunched at the ridge, leaving a faint outline of its shape in her throat.
‘Gllrrkk. Guhhhkkk.’
Her throat rippled tight around him, dragging against the head.
She sucked.
Harder.
Not faster—but committed. The kind of suction that milked him mercilessly. She pulled up until only the head filled her lips, then shoved back down, her tongue curling beneath, pumping spit into every seam.
‘Glk. Sllllp. Glk. Schlllp.’
Her hand squeezed the root, syncing with the motion, twisting slightly to work the foreskin in rhythm with her throat.
Lobu was trembling.
“I—Alex—I’m gonna—I can’t—”
She pulled back just far enough to look up at him.
Her eyes glowed under the mess of her hair, lips thin, spit glossy on her chin. A bead of drool slid from her lip to his balls. She didn’t wipe it.
She just held his gaze.
Nodded.
Then took him down again.
No fear. No hesitation. Just a sealing descent, lips sliding to the base, throat opening to swallow the whole length of wusky dick.
His cock throbbed.
Once.
Twice.
Then he jerked, hips twitching despite his efforts not to thrust.
And he came.
“Hhhhggh—ALEX—!”
His whole body locked.
‘Splurt.’
The first rope hit the back of her throat like a bullet. Hot. Bitter. She swallowed it down, throat squeezing around him.
‘Splort.’
The second spurt splashed across her tongue, thicker, creamier. She savored it like wine before gulping it.
‘Glkkk.’
Then a third—sloppier, hotter. She sealed her lips, sucked directly from the slit, throat working like a pump.
‘Spllluuurt.’
And still—he kept cumming.
‘Splurt, splort, splat.’
Pulse after pulse. Thick ropes that flooded her mouth, coating her tongue, dribbling down her lips. She swallowed greedily, gulp after gulp, each one more audible than the last.
‘Glkkk. Glkkk.’
His balls pulsed tight against her chin, throbbing with each release. Cum gushed through his cock in wave after wave, slimy and pungent, laced with his musk. She swallowed until her belly felt heavy with it, until her throat felt sticky from gulping him down.
But she didn’t stop.
She sucked through the aftershocks, coaxing the dribbles, tongue working under his foreskin to scoop the last streaks, lips sealing to pull weak spurts straight from the slit.
He whined. Pleaded under his breath. His fingers brushed her hair like he didn’t know whether to beg or push.
“Hhhhhaaaah. Alex… Please.”
She ignored it.
She milked him until the last dribble oozed down her tongue. Only then did she slow, sucking him soft, licking the shaft clean, kissing his balls wet one more time.
At last she pulled off.
His cock slipped free with a wet pop, twitching weakly, foreskin rolling forward to cover the swollen head, drooling down the tip.
The tigress took in a deep breath and let out a happy sigh. Spit dripping from her chin. Strands of cum glistened across her lips.
Then she tilted her head back, throat flexing visibly as she swallowed again.
‘Glk.’
Lobu groaned helplessly.
“Goddamn,” he whispered. “You swallowed everything.”
Alex smirked, licking her lips with a slow flick of her tongue.
For a moment, there was no sound.
No breath.
No thought.
Just the heavy breathing of a wusky ruined under the mouth of a tigress who knew exactly what she was doing.
The sheets beneath them were rumpled, damp with sweat and sex, the faint rhythm of the train’s motion the only thing keeping time.
Lobu collapsed against the pillow, chest still rising in short, uneven heaves. His cock twitched once against his thigh, limp now, but flushed and wet from use—her spit still glistening down the shaft in lazy trails, one final bead of cum dripping from the tip and catching in the fur of his balls.
He looked like he’d just run a marathon in the rain; fur spiky with sweat and cum, his chest rising and falling with his heavy breathing.
And Alex?
She still looked pretty with spit and cum dripping off her chin.
She dipped her head back down.
Let her tongue slide out one last time—slow, curling—and dragged it across her lower lip, collecting the cum that had begun to dry. She licked the corners of her mouth, slow and thorough, tasting the last traces of him. It was a little more bitter now—cooled, thick on her tongue with the taste of his skin and salt.
She swallowed again. Not because she needed to.
Just because she wanted him to see it.
‘Glk.’
Lobu groaned. Eyes half-lidded, expression stunned.
She crawled up his body with slow, feline grace. Her thighs spread across his hips, her chest lowering to his. Her fur brushed his, damp against damp, their sweat mixing in the shallow dips of their bodies.
He shivered beneath her.
She didn’t say anything when she reached his face.
Just leaned in.
Pressed her lips to his.
‘Smch.’
Lobu flinched a little—like he hadn’t expected it. But his hands came up, instinctively, resting on her waist as she kissed him. Her black lips were still smudged with the mess of him, but soft now, tender. The kiss was slow—no tongue, no pressure—just mouth to mouth.
And he tasted himself on her.
He didn’t pull away.
He let her give it to him.
Her breath was warm through her nose, brushing against his cheek. Her fingers slid through the fur at the side of his face, smoothing it back, holding him steady like he might float away if she let go.
When she finally pulled back, she rested her forehead against his.
Both of them panting. Still trembling.
“I like kissing you after,” she whispered.
Lobu blinked up at her.
“You—you taste like me.”
A slow smile crept across her mouth.
“I know.”
She kissed his cheek. Then the corner of his jaw. Then his collarbone, right where his sweat had started to cool and salt.
She curled against him, chest to chest now, one leg thrown lazily over his thigh. Her cunt pressed against his hipbone, still warm, still wet, her panties damp and sticking to her. His arms wrapped around her slowly, pulling her close, his nose burying into the fur at the side of her neck.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Just sweat, breath, fur, and the rhythm of the train beneath them, chugging along.
Alex sighed softly, her breath brushing over his shoulder, and she curled tighter into him.
Lobu kissed the crown of her head, between her false-eye ears.
Eventually, he broke the silence. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re incredible.”
Alex gave a little hum, nuzzling into his chest like a satisfied cat.
“Obviously.”
And they stayed there.
Sticky. Warm. Loved.
Wrapped in the smell of sweat, sex, and still, stale coffee, somehow.
Lobu didn’t mind sleeping on soiled sheets that night, he was a neat freak, but he made exceptions here and there.
---
Day Three. Morning. Breakfast.
Rural Illinois, USA.
The morning came soft and golden.
The kind of light that made the world feel clean again—even if the sheets still smelled like sin. Alex stretched beside Lobu with a low, lazy growl, her limbs unfurling like silk ribbons across the mattress. The black tank top clung to her damp fur in all the wrong places, and her panties were still twisted from the night before, but she didn’t move to fix them.
Lobu blinked up at her, ears tilted forward, tail flicking once beneath the sheet. He looked adorable with bed head—fur rumpled, eyes heavy, lips still a little swollen from kissing her for what felt like hours.
“You good?” she asked, voice rough with sleep but warm.
He smiled. “Yes, I am fine, thank you.”
She laughed—raspy and sore-throat, kissed his cheek, then rolled out of bed with a feline stretch that made her spine pop like bubble wrap.
“Come on,” she said, snagging her hoodie from the floor and tugging it over her head. “Let’s get breakfast, I’m hungry.”
---
The dining car was quieter today.
Still bustling, but gentler. The early crowd had filtered in—older couples, bleary-eyed solo travelers, the occasional tech bro in an ironic Patagonia vest talking too loudly about Bitcoin.
Alex and Lobu took a booth by the window. The table was polished but chipped in the corner, and the overhead light flickered every few seconds. Sunlight poured through the glass, stretching stripes across the white tablecloth like the light was trying to imitate her.
She wore the same black hoodie from the night before, oversized and pulled low over her thighs. No makeup. Just post-sex glow and a ponytail that was so messy that her hairdresser friend Charlie would crash out just seeing it. Lobu was in a white T-shirt, hastily thrown on, and the kind of dazed, quiet posture that came from getting completely drained and still not believing his luck.
The waiter took their order—two coffees, strong, both for Alex, with some kind of herbed potato rosti that the waiter sold as some sort of Swiss delicacy. Toast, eggs, bacon, and an herbal tea for Lobu.
They didn’t talk much at first. Just sipped. Shared smiles. Her paw rested on his thigh under the table, lazy and casual, like it belonged there. His tail flicked against her hip, and when she looked at him, he leaned in without a word and kissed the corner of her mouth.
That was when they came in.
Two girls.
Teenage. Maybe nineteen. One fox, rust-red and bouncing with nervous energy, the other a tall giraffe with stylishly lopsided glasses and another one of her tour hoodies, this time more recent, her 2024 tour—the tour where she’d opened with “Blood on White Satin.”
Alex clocked them the moment they hesitated by the entrance. The giraffe spotted her first. Froze. Grabbed her friend’s sleeve like she was seeing a ghost. Their voices were hushed, frantic.
Lobu followed her eyes and smiled faintly.
“Don’t look now,” Alex murmured, “but I think you’ve got competition.”
He chuckled, glancing down at the table. “They’re here for you.”
“Mm. Yeah. But I brought you.”
Sure enough, they approached—timidly. Eyes wide. The fox held her phone like it might detonate. The giraffe had already pulled a sharpie out of nowhere like she was born with it in her hand.
“Um—hi—sorry to interrupt,” the giraffe stammered. “We just—we weren’t expecting to see you here.”
Lies, all of it. Alex’s previous story that she shared with fans in the dining car had started a Reddit thread where people discussed where they could hop on to catch Alex while she was still on the train. The tigress had a bunch of unread messages from Logan about it. “Something something stalkers are gonna find you.” in passive aggressive tone with perfectly punctuated and grammatically correct text. She didn’t want to read her texts now, she was willing to go through the whole stalker lecture later once she was back in LA.
With the obvious fib being obvious, Alex smiled at the two girls, and playfully called them out on it.
“Then you clearly haven’t read the Reddit,” she teased, flicking her ears toward the window. “They’ve been tracking this route since Denver.”
Both girls laughed, giddy and embarrassed. They definitely had just boarded on the last stop; they definitely have read the Reddit.
The fox held out her phone. “Can we—maybe—get a photo?”
Alex nodded. “Of course.”
She stood, slipped out of the booth with effortlessly, then paused.
Turned slightly.
Placed her paw on Lobu’s shoulder.
“This is my boyfriend, by the way,” she said, voice casual—but pointed. Like she’d been meaning to say it. “Lobu. He’s sweet. He doesn’t bite. He is French though.”
Lobu blinked. Then smiled—bashful. “Hello.”
The girls both squeaked.
The fox gasped, mouthing “boyfriend??” behind her phone like the concept of a popstar having a boyfriend was foreign to her.
The giraffe looked like she might die.
“Wait—the Lobu?” she asked breathlessly. “From the lyrics?? Is this—you—‘chest like a church pew, lips like French wine?’ That one?! He’s real?”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “That’s him, “He’s very real,” Alex said, smirking. “And extremely French about things.” she admitted. “Though he claims my lyrics are inaccurate. He’s says I have never seen a church pew.”
Lobu flushed hard, ears flattening with a laugh. The girls screamed (quietly, politely), and the fox’s hand was shaking so badly that the picture came out blurry the first time.
Alex took the phone gently, handed it to Lobu.
“Here,” she said, settling herself beside the girls. “Take one for us, Bubu.”
The wusky held the phone up and clicked the shot, framing them in front of the wide dining car window. The fans beamed. Alex tilted her head, tongue between her teeth, paw resting lightly on the fox’s shoulder.
Afterward, Alex handed them stickers, the girls thanked them too many times, whispered something about attending her next tour, before jumping away never to be seen again.
Lobu handed her coffees to her as she slid into the booth.
“You didn’t introduce me last time,” he said quietly.
Alex shrugged. “I know, and it was rude. I want people to know I have a handsome red-headed French boyfriend. Sue me.”
She sipped.
And under the table, her paw found his thigh again.
She leaned in.
Kissed him.
“Happy Anniversary,” she whispered.
---
Guest Starring Lobu by LobuHerevard
Art by SMU
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