Don’t Shower Yet (Patreon)

The gym didn’t just smell like sweat. It had settled into the place so thoroughly that it felt less like a scent and more like part of the architecture, as permanent as the walls, as unavoidable as the mirrors. It lived in the rubber mats, soaked deep into their porous black texture like something that had long ago given up pretending it would ever wash out completely. It lingered in the grooves of barbells where hands had gripped, slipped, chalked, and gripped again. It clung to the vinyl bench padding, especially along the seams where the material had cracked just slightly from years of strain, where bodies had pressed down hard enough to leave warmth, oil, and memory behind.

Even the air itself felt used.

It was warm and dense and endlessly recycled, pushed around by ceiling fans and an overworked AC system that sounded like it was trying its best and failing with quiet dignity. The vents exhaled a weak coolness that never quite won. It just moved the smell around. Spread it evenly. Made sure everyone got an equal share.

There were better smelling gyms, but they usually were made for Instagram models who took pictures on the equipment that looked good and didn’t necessarily function well.

Jafar added to the cocktail of smells quite generously.

He stood over a bench, broad chest rising and falling in slow, heavy pulls, his arms still trembling faintly from the last set. The barbell sat in its cradle with a low metallic hum, vibrating almost imperceptibly from the weight he’d racked a little harder than he meant to.

Not dropped—he never dropped, but definitely not returned with tenderness, either.

‘Clank.’

The sound rang out sharp, then got swallowed by the rest of the gym’s ongoing chorus: plates clicking together, treadmills whirring, sneakers squeaking, somebody grunting like he was trying to shove the planet an inch to the left.

“…Okay,” Jafar muttered, planting both hands on his hips. “That’s enough. That’s definitely enough.”

His body agreed.

The fatigue had moved past the bright, immediate burn and settled into something deeper. His shoulders felt full and weighted, his upper back taut and warm beneath his shirt. His chest rose a little slower than before. His arms had that distant, humming buzz to them, like the muscles were still remembering the strain and replaying it quietly to themselves.

Sweat had worked its way through his fur in uneven territories. Thicker along the line of his spine. Darker beneath his arms. Spread across his chest and sides in irregular patches that shifted subtly with every breath. The stripes along his torso deepened where the damp clung, making the contrast more graphic, like someone had gone over him with a darker brush.

His shirt didn’t cling everywhere. Just in enough places to be annoying. Just enough to remind him of itself every time he shifted his weight or lifted an arm. It touched him in the wrong way now, sticking briefly and peeling away again as his body heat fought with the room.

A bead of sweat gathered at the edge of his jaw. Hung there, caught the fluorescent light for one tiny second, then dropped.

‘Pwt.’

Another followed, slower this time, tracing a line down the side of his neck before disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

And another.

‘Pwt. Pwt.’

“Cool,” he said flatly, staring at nothing in particular. “Love that.”

The gym kept moving around him.

Near the squat racks, a massive bull in a sleeveless hoodie was adding yet another plate to the bar with the careful solemnity of a high priest preparing a sacrifice. The steel dipped slightly under the new weight, as if reconsidering its purpose in life. He stepped back, looked at the loaded bar from three different angles, then rolled his neck once with the theatrical gravitas of a man about to challenge God.

Two treadmills over, a pair of gazelles jogged side by side in perfect, annoying symmetry, talking loudly enough that the whole cardio section had been drafted into their personal drama. The topic, as far as Jafar could tell, was someone named Trent, who had apparently committed some social crime so severe it required repeated analysis, increasingly animated hand gestures, and the phrase “No, because that’s literally insane” at least four times. Jafar couldn’t tell if the two of them were siblings, dating, or some unholy combination of both.

A hyena near the cable machines barked out a laugh at something on his phone, abrupt and sharp enough to make a nearby rabbit physically jump.

Then—

THUD!

A dumbbell hit the floor.

Again.

From the front desk came the tired voice of someone who had already lived this exact moment too many times that week. “Hey—hey, control your reps!”

The protest had no force behind it. It drifted across the gym, landed nowhere, and died.

No one listened. No one ever did.

Jafar reached for his towel. Paused and looked at it.

It was damp. Not freshly damp, either. It had crossed the line from useful to not sometime in the last half hour. The kind of damp that didn’t solve problems so much as relocate them. Move them from one patch of fur to another with all the authority of a failed political regime.

“…Great.”

He still used it anyway.

He dragged it across the back of his neck first, then over one shoulder and across the other, pressing a little harder than necessary, as though brute force might convince the fabric to become absorbent again out of fear. It helped, technically. The way putting a bucket under a leak technically helped.

“Fantastic,” he muttered.

As he stepped away from the bench, his reflection caught in the long mirror lining the wall.

He stopped, turned slightly, and looked.

He leaned one way, then the other, inspecting himself with focus.

His shirt was dark at the chest and down the spine. Not soaked through. Not too indecent. Just visibly post-workout. His fur along the edges of his face looked slightly mussed, the short hair near his temples darker with sweat. He looked flushed, worked over, alive in that particular way exertion made bodies look alive.

Behind him, a wolf crossed the aisle with his shirt slung over one shoulder, fur matted to his torso so thoroughly he looked like he’d either had the workout of his life or barely escaped a flood. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror.

Jafar quickly looked away and glanced up at the clock on the wall.

Then blinked.

Then leaned forward slightly, like changing the angle might somehow change the numbers.

It did not.

“…Shit.”

He reached for his water bottle, twisted the cap off, and took a long pull. The water was lukewarm now, but it still felt good going down.

“…I need a shower,” he said out loud after a half-refreshed sigh.

No one responded.

Which, honestly, was probably for the best.

---

It felt good to be outside.

The gym doors sighed shut behind him, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The air out here was cooler—not cold, not even really cool, it was about 25 degrees, but much less committed to being humid than the inside had been. Enough to wake up every patch of damp fur on him. Enough to slide under his shirt, brush over his chest and down his back. It felt kind of refreshing.

His shirt clung in patches that had begun to dry around the edges but not in the middle, which somehow felt worse. One side of his back felt cooler than the other. The fabric at his chest stuck, loosened, then stuck again when he moved.

Jafar tugged the shirt away from himself once.

Then again.

“…Okay, yeah. No. Straight home,” he decided. “Shower. Cold. Long. Then I can meet up with Ace. I’ll be a little late, he won’t mind.”

The parking lot stretched out ahead, sun-warmed asphalt radiating heat in soft, wavering breaths. Cars sat in rows, quietly ticking as they cooled. Somewhere nearby, music leaked out of an open window—bass-heavy, synthetic, some EDM track already halfway through the drop. A shopping cart rattled faintly in the distance as somebody abandoned it with the casual confidence of a person certain the universe would put it back.

His bike waited for him.

Familiar. Reliable. Beautiful in the uncomplicated way machines sometimes were.

A Yamaha YZF-R1, dark blue and sleek and exactly where he’d left it, the late day light sliding over its bodywork in long clean lines. The sight of it eased something in him immediately.

There you are, he thought.

He walked toward it, keys already in hand, already halfway mentally home.

Helmet.

Engine.

Gone.

Peace.

“Jeff.”

He stopped so abruptly he almost laughed.

Instead, he closed his eyes. Took one breath.

“…Of course,” he said quietly.

He turned and Acino was there.

Leaning against his purple Lotus Elise like the car had been manufactured specifically to accessorize him. Arms crossed. One ankle hooked over the other. Entirely too composed. Entirely too dry. The late sun caught against the curve of the car and the gold in Acino’s fur in a way that felt less natural.

Jafar squinted. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you say you were going to go home and shower first.”

Jafar froze.

“…I did not—”

“You did.”

“I absolutely did not—”

“You did,” Acino said, straight-faced. “And then you made that face.”

“That is not what I look like.”

“That is exactly what you look like.”

Jafar dragged a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“…That’s debatable.”

“Debate it on your own time.” Acino uncrossed his arms and gave Jafar a once-over. “You look like you wrestled a sauna.”

“I worked out.”

“Hard, apparently.”

Jafar stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you here? You said we would meet later.”

“Came to get you.”

“For what?”

Acino pushed off the car. “I want you to meet someone.”

Jafar blinked. “…Right now?”

“Yeah.”

The zebra gestured broadly to himself, as if the state of him should be self-evident from orbit. “I am like this.”

Acino looked him over.

“…Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“I mean it.”

Acino shrugged. “Relax.”

“I was going to go home. Shower. Change. Rejoin society.”

“Society will survive.”

Jafar stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “…Who is it?”

“Friend.”

“Name.”

“Alex.”

Jafar nodded once. “Cool. Guy?”

Acino didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, Cool.”

Jafar stared long enough that Acino’s mouth started to pull at one corner.

“…You’re doing something.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are smiling like you are.”

Acino’s grin widened just slightly. Not enough to be blatant. More than enough to be suspicious.

“Get in the car, Jeff.”

Jafar did the worst possible thing then, which was sniff—quick and subtle and doomed from the outset—

and immediately regretted it.

“…Ace.”

“What.”

“I smell.”

Acino sighed through his nose. “Yeah.”

Jafar blinked. “Yeah?? That is not reassuring.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Jafar looked at his bike.

Then at the car.

Then at Acino.

The bike promised dignity. The car promised nonsense.

“…If this is weird, I’m leaving.”

“Define weird.”

“I don’t know yet,” Jafar said, “but I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Cool. Get in.”

Jafar just stood there another second, staring at him. Then he muttered, “…I hate that you’re my best friend.”

He got in anyway.

---

The drive gave Jafar time to try and dry his sweat off and mask it with the smell of whatever air freshener Acino had in his car. Lemongrass. Great, best-case scenario he’d come out of the car smelling like mosquito repellent.

At first, it was just traffic: slow, stupid, and in no hurry to improve. Brake lights blinked in long red chains ahead of them. A bus hissed to a stop at the curb, knelt dramatically, then sighed back upright. A delivery van cut across two lanes with suicidal confidence. Somewhere in the next block over, a horn leaned on itself with the prolonged despair of someone whose personality had collapsed entirely into road rage.

Jafar shifted in his seat.

They crawled through the city block by block, storefronts sliding past in fragments: a laundromat with three machines spinning in the window, a noodle place with a flickering sign, a florist packing up buckets of drooping stems on the sidewalk. An old dog in a little visor slept in the passenger seat of a parked hatchback like a retiree on spiritual leave.

Acino reached over and cracked the window.

Cooler air rushed in at once.

It hit Jafar across the throat and collarbone, slipped under his shirt, moved through the damp at his back, under his arms, along his chest.

For one glorious second, it felt incredible.

Then—

“…Oh, come on,” Jafar muttered.

“What.”

“You’re letting all the AC out!”

“It’s fresh air.”

“Yeah, hot, polluted fresh air.” Acino laughed.

A motorbike shot past them in the opposite lane, a dark blur and a flash of sound, gone almost before it registered.

The zebra watched it go with longing so pure it bordered on spiritual.

“…I should’ve taken mine.”

“You would’ve turned around halfway.”

“I would not.”

“You absolutely would.”

Jafar frowned. “Shut up.”

Traffic loosened bit by bit. The city started giving itself back to space. Buildings dropped lower, then farther apart. The sidewalks widened. The roads smoothed. Trees began appearing in longer rows, their shadows striping the windshield in shifting bands of light and dark.

Jafar rested an elbow near the window and stared out.

“…What’s Alex like,” he asked after a while, trying and failing to sound casual.

Acino kept his eyes on the road. “Fun.”

“Not helpful.”

“Smart.”

“Still not helpful.”

“Relaxed.”

Jafar narrowed his eyes. “…That feels like a setup.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re setting me up.”

“I’m introducing you to a friend.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

They passed a roadside stand with coolers full of drinks and cut fruit packed in ice. A fox in mirrored sunglasses fanned himself with a paper menu. A couple sat on the curb nearby sharing fries from a paper tray, knees touching, saying nothing.

The further they got from the city, the more the world slowed down around them.

---

They turned onto a quieter road. The city didn’t disappear all at once; it slowly loosened its grip. The pavement narrowed slightly. The noise fell away in layers. The houses here sat farther apart, with small gardens and low fences and flowering hedges trying their best in the warm season.

Then the cherry blossoms began to appear.

At first just one or two trees, soft pink against the green. Then more. Then entire stretches of road where the branches leaned toward each other overhead as if conspiring, their blooms turning the light gentle and rosy in places. Petals had scattered across the edges of the road and the grass beyond it, lying in pale drifts like something fragile had been taken apart by hand and left where it fell.

Jafar looked up through the windshield.

“…Okay,” he admitted quietly. “This is nice.”

“I know.”

He sat with that for a second, watching another flurry of petals skid across the pavement in the wake of a passing car.

Then, because he was committed to his own suffering: “…I still smell.”

Acino didn’t even glance at him. “You’re being dramatic. Alex won’t mind.”

The road curved gently. The shadows changed. Somewhere ahead, through a break in the trees, he caught a glimpse of open green and pale drifting blossoms moving in the late light.

His stomach tightened. Not because of anything concrete. But instinct. The closer they got, the more the whole afternoon began arranging itself into something with intention. The gym. The ambush in the parking lot. The suspiciously unhelpful answers. This road. These trees.

Jafar looked over at Acino. “You planned this.”

Acino’s mouth twitched. “I drove here, yes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No idea.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I am.” Acino chuckled as he turned into the quite parking lot of a place appropriately named Sakura Park.

---

The park felt like a different world. It was way too quiet. So quiet that you could hear the wind whirling and winding through the grass and trees at what felt like an uncomfortable volume.

The moment they got out of the car, Acino took in a deep breath through his nose and let out a satisfied sigh. The air smelled faintly sweet—blossoms, grass, bark warmed by the late sun. Not perfume-sweet. Clean in a way that made Jafar immediately and painfully aware of how not clean he currently was. He continued to grumble to himself about how he needed a shower.

Pink petals drifted lazily through the air. Some caught in the grass. Some landed on the path and trembled in the breeze. The whole place seemed to move more slowly than the city had, as if even time had decided to sit down for a while. They walked along the path, gravel crunching softly underfoot. Somewhere in the distance, people laughed near a pond. A cyclist passed and then was gone. Somewhere else, a dog barked once, joyfully, with no context whatsoever.

The branches overhead shifted.

Acino slowed slightly.

Then nodded ahead.

“There.”

Jafar looked.

At first, he only really saw shapes.

A picnic blanket spread beneath one of the cherry trees. Food laid out in careful little arrangements. Drinks. A bag tucked near one edge. Napkins held down under a container. The sort of deliberate setup that suggested somebody had arrived early and actually thought this through.

And—

Her.

She looked up.

Smiled and waved.

Jafar slowed before stopping in his tracks completely.

“…Wait.”

Acino kept walking.

“Wait,” Jafar said again, this time reaching out and catching his arm. “Ace.”

“What.”

Jafar pointed with the smallest possible gesture, as though maybe the situation would become less real if he didn’t commit fully to it. “That’s—”

“Yeah.”

“That’s—”

“Alex.”

Jafar stared.

Actually stared.

Then looked at Acino.

Then back at her.

Then at Acino again.

“…You said Alex.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t say—”

“I didn’t say what.”

Jafar lowered his voice. “She.”

Acino tilted his head with unbearable calm. “I didn’t say he either.”

Jafar broke internally, in several soft important places.

“…If I knew she was—” He dragged a hand down his face. “I would’ve showered!”

“You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

“You’re overthinking it.” Acino clapped a hand onto his shoulder, firm and grounding and entirely too amused.

“You’re good. Trust me.”

Jafar looked again.

She waved again. Still smiling.

She was pretty.

No. Worse.

She was really pretty.

Pretty in a way that didn’t hit all at once but kept arriving in details. In posture. In expression. In the easy way she occupied the blanket like she belonged in the exact center of the afternoon. Pretty in the soft late light under the blossoms, with food beside her and petals in the grass and a smile that wasn’t forced or coy or trying too hard to be charming.

Just there.

Just easy.

Jafar swallowed.

“…She’s really pretty.”

“Yeah,” Acino said, utterly useless.

“…I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He nudged Jafar forward.

“C’mon.”

Jafar stepped.

Not ready.

Not even close.

And walked into it anyway.

The cheetah stepped onto the grass first, like the ground had been waiting specifically for him. The zebra followed half a beat later, with all the confidence of a man walking voluntarily toward his own humiliation.

Up close, the picnic set up looked very cute and tidy.

The blanket was cream with a faded red border, spread flat beneath the cherry blossom tree with the kind of care that suggested somebody had actually taken a minute to smooth it out instead of just tossing it down and hoping for the best. A small insulated bag sat near one corner, half unzipped. Beside it were a couple of bottled drinks, their sides pearled with condensation, a clear container of sliced fruit, two paper-wrapped sandwiches, and a bag of chips folded neatly under itself so it wouldn’t go stale. A packet of napkins had been weighted down with a plastic fork. Someone had thought about the breeze. Someone had thought about the order of things.

Someone, Jafar was forced to assume, was Alex.

She looked even prettier up close. That was his first coherent thought.

His second was that Acino was absolutely going to pay for this.

Alex shifted slightly where she sat, one hand braced on the blanket beside her, the other resting loosely over her knee. The late afternoon light moved through the blossoms above her in soft, shifting patches, brushing gold over one side of her face and leaving the other in petal-shadow. Her hair was brown—properly chocolate, richer up close than it had looked from the path, with warm undertones where the sun caught it. A few loose strands stirred against her cheek in the breeze. One pale pink petal had landed near the crown and stayed there for reasons known only to fate and bad timing.

Her top was simple, a red turtleneck sweater, fitted without trying too hard about it, and soft-looking in that dangerous way simple clothes sometimes were—where they only looked effortless because the person wearing them made them look that way. Her shorts were casual too. It all looked easy. Natural. Like she had just arrived in exactly the right version of herself for a spring afternoon under cherry blossoms.

And there he was.

Warm. Damp. Carrying the gym on him like a personal curse.

Alex looked from Acino to Jafar, and her smile deepened—not wider, exactly, just warmer, as though something about the pairing made immediate sense to her.

“Hi,” she said. Her voice was light and cheerful, easy in the air between them. It had the kind of natural warmth that made the single syllable land like a hand offered palm-up.

Jafar, who had been fully prepared to say something normal and usable, opened his mouth and produced:

“…Hi.”

Not terrible.

“Alex,” Acino said, with breezy confidence, “this is Jafar.”

Then, turning slightly, he added, “Jeff, this is Alex.”

Jafar felt his soul leave his body at the nickname.

Of course, Acino would use it now. Of course, he would pick this exact moment to sound like they were thirteen and meeting somebody’s cousin at a barbecue.

Alex, thankfully, did not laugh.

If anything, her expression softened with what looked suspiciously like fondness.

“Jafar,” she said, and the way she said it made his actual name sound suddenly much better than it had a second ago. “Nice to meet you.” She shifted forward just slightly, enough to make the introduction feel active instead of passive, and offered him her hand.

There were perhaps four thousand things Jafar became aware of in that exact moment.

The first was that his own hand was probably warm.

The second was that it might also be slightly sweaty still, from the gym.

The third was that if he wiped it on his shorts first, that would be obvious.

The fourth was that not taking her hand at all would be rude.

So, he took it.

Her grip was light, but not flimsy—present, certain. Her palm was cool from the drinks or the shade or both. Just enough to make the heat in his own skin feel louder by contrast.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said, which came out miraculously steady.

A victory. A small one, but he would take it.

Her hand slipped free after only a moment, and somehow that brief contact left him feeling more aware of his body than before. Her scent reached him a second later—not perfume. Something softer. Clean skin, a faint trace of fruit from the picnic, maybe citrus from a drink or lotion, and something warm underneath that belonged to her specifically and made his brain, already compromised, quietly fold in half.

Acino, the bastard, looked delighted. “See?” he said lightly. “Nobody died.”

Jafar shot him a look sharp enough to shave with.

“Still early.” Jafar rolled his eyes

Alex laughed. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It just came easy, quick and low and genuinely amused, and hearing it loosened something in the moment. Not enough to save the zebra entirely, but enough to keep him from feeling like he was about to dissolve where he stood.

“I’m sorry,” the tigress said, though she didn’t look particularly sorry. “Did he not tell you we were meeting?”

Jafar looked at her, then immediately at Acino.

“He did. He just… Made it sound like you were a guy.”

Acino put a hand to his chest. “I did not.”

“You told me I was meeting ‘Alex.’”

“Her name is Alex.”

“You let me assume.”

“I let you experience mystery.”

“That is the most annoying way you could possibly phrase that.”

Alex covered a smile with the back of her fingers, eyes bright. “Okay, did you want me to be a guy, or?”

Acino tilted his head with mock offense. “No, no, no, he’s just a bit shy around girls.”

“I am NOT! You brought me here directly from the gym,” Jafar said. “You didn’t let me shower!”

Alex’s brows lifted, and there it was again—that little flicker of humor, gentler this time, cushioned by something like reassurance.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “you don’t smell bad.”

Jafar stared at her.

That got another laugh out of her.

Acino grinned openly now, enjoying himself in the full, shameless way only a best friend could.

“See?” he said. “You’re fine.”

Then, because honesty and panic often arrived as roommates, he said, “That’s kind, but I can even smell myself.”

Alex shifted again, this time patting an open spot on the blanket. “Do you two want to sit down?”

Acino dropped onto the blanket with no hesitation whatsoever, folding himself down near the food like he had every right in the world to be there.

Jafar was forced to follow or look even stranger than he already felt.

So, he did, carefully.

The grass beneath the blanket had been flattened by the fabric but still had enough spring to shift under his weight as he sat. He tried, in one motion, to lower himself, arrange his legs, and not look like he was overthinking it.

He probably failed.

Alex, to her credit, gave no sign of noticing. Or perhaps worse, she noticed and was kind enough not to show it.

From here, the details of the picnic sharpened further. The fruit container held strawberries and green grapes and orange slices. One of the paper-wrapped sandwiches had a little grease-dark patch in the corner. The bottled drinks were some kind of sparkling lemonade. A faint chill came off the insulated bag when the breeze shifted it open an inch. Alex even brought cutlery and napkins, which placed this gathering immediately above half the social events Jafar had attended in the last year.

“This is really nice,” he said before he could stop himself.

Alex looked down at the blanket, then back up at him. “Thanks. I got here early and had too much time.”

The blossoms stirred overhead. A few petals came loose and spun down through the air, one landing near the edge of the blanket, another catching briefly against Acino’s shoulder before slipping into his lap. The light had shifted warmer now, more amber than white, and the whole park seemed to be settling into that softer hour where everything looked a little more painted than real.

Jafar found his breathing evening out enough that the panic had lost its grip and become something more survivable. He was still warm. Still conscious of the faint stick of his shirt at the spine. Still acutely aware that he had, in fact, arrived here sweaty.

But he was no longer standing in the blast radius of surprise.

Now he was just sitting under a cherry blossom tree with Acino and a very pretty woman named Alex who had kind eyes and an easy laugh and a picnic that looked like one from a magazine spread.

Alex reached for the fruit container and popped the lid open with a soft little snap. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” she said, glancing first at Acino and then at Jafar, “so I went with things that felt hard to ruin. Sandwiches, fruit, chips, drinks. Very advanced menu design.”

“Strong work,” Acino said. “No notes.”

Jafar nodded. “Honestly, if there are napkins and edible food, you’re already outperforming most people.”

Alex angled him a quick look, amused. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been to barbecues with worse food,” he said gravely.

Acino unscrewed his drink and leaned back on one hand, content to watch things unfold now that he’d dropped them both into the same orbit. Jafar made a mental note to kill him later, but with mild affection.

Alex tucked one leg in a little closer and looked at Jafar again, not in that first curious way from before, but more directly now. Taking him in without making it feel clinical.

“So,” she said, “how bad was the workout?”

Jafar let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Bad enough that I was planning to go straight home and stand under cold water for an hour, at least.”

Alex smiled. “That bad?”

“That bad.”

“He was trying to sneak away from me in the parking lot,” Acino added.

Alex laughed into her hand, shoulders lifting just slightly with it, and Jafar felt himself smile.

The tigress looked between them, smiling in that quiet, entertained way people do when they watch people argue from the sidelines.

“You are exactly how he described,” she said.

Jafar blinked. “He described me?”

Acino took a long, innocent sip of lemonade.

Alex’s smile deepened just enough to be dangerous. “A little.”

Jafar narrowed his eyes at Acino. “How much is ‘a little.’”

Acino lowered the bottle. “The normal amount.”

“That phrase means nothing.”

Alex spared him by opening the fruit container wider and offering it toward him. “Want a grape?”

The normalcy of the gesture threw him for half a second.

Then he nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He reached in, careful not to brush her fingers if he could help it, and took one.

Cold.

Sweet.

Ridiculously good, actually.

He chewed, swallowed, and let out a relaxed sigh.

The more comfortable he got, the more clearly Alex came into focus—not just as the beautiful surprise Acino had ambushed him with, but as a person. Quick. Warm. Funny in a way that didn’t crowd the room. Easy to answer. Easy to look at, which was unfortunate because it made him want to keep doing it.

Her face was expressive without being too over-the-top theatrical. Her smile moved differently depending on what caused it—one shape for politeness, another for genuine amusement, another smaller one that seemed to arrive when she noticed something quietly pleasing. Her eyes held attention in a way that made you feel seen rather than pinned.

And every time the breeze shifted, it brought him another faint trace of her scent under the fruit and the blossoms and the sun-warmed blanket.

This, Jafar thought, chewing the last of the grape with great seriousness, was getting significantly more complicated than he’d budgeted for.

Acino, sensing weakness in the atmosphere like a shark in open water, leaned back and said, “So, Jeff here was convinced he needed a full emergency decontamination before meeting you.”

Jafar closed his eyes. “I’m going to put you in a lake.”

Alex’s mouth curved. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he failed the decontamination. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet Victorian widow Jafar.”

Jafar opened his eyes and looked at her, he laughed—a little helplessly, but genuinely.

And just like that, the afternoon opened another inch wider around them.

---

The conversation had been going for a while now.

How long exactly, Jafar couldn’t have said. Long enough that the initial panic had fully dissolved. The sandwiches had been eaten. The fruit container had been passed around more than he could count. The chips bag had been opened, attacked, and folded shut again. The drinks were half gone.

The afternoon had mellowed. The light through the blossoms had gone amber at the edges, warmer and more golden, the kind of light that softened the look of the world. A few petals had gathered in the crease of the blanket at Jafar’s knee. He hadn’t bothered to brush them off.

Alex was mid-sentence about something—a story involving a gallery opening, a misidentified artist, and a very consequential glass of red wine—and she was telling it well, with exactly enough dramatization and exactly enough self-awareness about the dramatization to make it land cleanly. Acino was laughing. Jafar was laughing.

It felt easy.

Jafar was in the middle of a thought when Alex shifted, and the movement brought her shoulder briefly close to his—and his brain, which had been doing so well, quietly lost its footing.

He glanced at her.

She glanced back.

Not long. Just a half-second of eye contact before they both looked elsewhere.

Acino, who missed nothing, said nothing.

Alex reached forward to close the fruit container. Her fingers brushed the lid. Then she set it aside, leaned back on both palms, tilted her face up toward the canopy of blossoms, and exhaled.

“It’s really beautiful here,” she said.

“Yeah,” Jafar said.

He was not looking at the trees.

Acino, cross-legged and entirely too comfortable, watched the two of them with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose plan was proceeding exactly on schedule. He reached for a grape in the container with the calm of someone who had all the time in the world.

What happened next happened the way inevitable things do: not all at once, but in small increments. In the way the distance between them narrowed. In the way Alex’s hand found the blanket between them and stayed there. In the way Jafar’s fingers, when they reached toward hers, weren’t hesitant—just slow. Checking.

She let them.

Acino didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The park was quiet around them, the late afternoon emptying out, the few other visitors having drifted away toward the parking lot or the far path along the pond. The cherry trees held the space. Petals still fell in slow, aimless spirals, catching the amber light on their way down, pale and translucent as paper.

Alex looked at Acino once—a look Jafar didn’t entirely decode but that Acino clearly did, because he nodded once, fractionally, like something had been confirmed.

She looked back at Jafar. “You should know,” she said, her voice lower now, something softer in it, “that this was the plan.”

Jafar blinked. “A plan for what?”

Her mouth curved. “Oh, you know...”

He looked at Acino.

Acino spread his hands as if to say ‘what can I tell you.’

“You’re both—” Jafar started.

“Ahead of you, yeah,” Acino said, and grinned.

The cheetah moved to his feet, quiet and unhurried, and took a brief walk toward the tree line as though he’d spotted something interesting in the middle distance. Giving them a moment. Creating space without naming it.

Alex tilted her head.

And Jafar leaned in.

The first kiss was soft. An opening statement. Her mouth was warm, and she kissed him back with the same unhurried quality, like she’d had time to think about it and had decided yes and was in no particular rush about that yes now that it had arrived.

She tasted faintly of sparkling lemonade.

She smelled like herself, and like the afternoon, and underneath both of those things she smelled like something warm and animal and specifically hers that made him very glad he hadn’t gone home and stood under cold water and missed this.

When they broke apart, she looked at him without any performance in it. Just looked.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back.

Behind them, Acino, who had turned back around at some point, watched with his arms folded and the expression of a man experiencing deep personal satisfaction.

“Okay,” he said, “my turn.”

Alex laughed. Jafar stared.

“Your—”

“Turn,” Acino said, dropping back onto the blanket beside her, easy as falling, and Alex turned into him with the familiarity of someone who’d done this before and was glad to do it again. Acino kissed her differently than Jafar had—less careful, more settled into it, one hand at the side of her jaw like he was holding something he knew the weight of.

Jafar sat very still.

Watching.

Not uncomfortable. Not unwelcome. Something warmer than both.

When Acino pulled back, he looked at Jafar over Alex’s shoulder with the single most insufferable expression Jafar had ever seen in his life.

“Still hate me?” he asked.

“…No,” Jafar admitted.

Alex turned and kissed Jafar again, this time longer, her hand finding his collar, and he stopped having opinions about Acino entirely.

---

The light had gone properly golden now, the park hushed in that particular way parks got when they became private by accident. The nearest path was still and distant. The blossoms stirred overhead.

Alex pulled back and looked at both of them. Her cheeks were flushed warm beneath her orange fur, the blush showing through in the way it did on cats—heat rising to the surface, visible at her ears and the inner corners of her eyes. A petal had caught in her dark hair and neither of them pointed it out.

She said, very simply: “I want to.”

The statement needed no further elaboration.

Acino was already watching her with the steady, unhurried attention he gave things he wanted. Jafar was watching her too, the quiet warmth he’d been managing all afternoon having finally outgrown management.

“Here?” Jafar asked, because he was Jafar and apparently his brain insisted on logistics even now.

Alex looked around once—at the trees, at the distance between them and the path, at the thick blossoming branches above—and smiled.

“The park’s half empty,” she said. “And the trees are generous.”

Acino tilted his head. “She’s right.”

“That is not the reassurance you think it is,” Jafar said.

But he didn’t move to leave.

Alex reached for the hem of her shorts.

And that was, more or less, the end of that discussion.

---

She stood to push them down and Acino rose with her. His hands found the waistband of her underwear from the front. Pink cotton, the color of the petals around them, the fabric warm from her fur.

Acino drew them down slowly, his retracted claws skimming lightly down the outside of her thighs. When the fabric peeled away from her core, it clung briefly—damp, and then released with a soft, obscene ‘schlk’ of wet cotton separating from wet fur.

Both of the boys looked.

Her mound was thick with brown pubes, dense at the center and curling outward in loose, unruly strands. The coarse hair ran all the way down, full and unmanicured, matted faintly with heat and arousal at the inner edges. Between her folds, the dark pink of her was already wet and prominent, glistening softly in the late sun, a thin thread of her arousal connecting her lips and breaking as Acino drew the underwear fully down.

Jafar was still sitting.

He was going to stay sitting until someone told him otherwise, he had decided.

Alex looked down at him with something amused and warm and impatient in her expression. She reached for him—one hand to his collar, a loose grip but a clear one, and he came to his feet.

“Your turn,” she said.

Her hands moved to his waistband with focus, worked it open, pushed the fabric down—and paused.

Not startled, exactly. But present with the discovery in a way that was its own kind of compliment.

The zebra’s sheath lay against his lower abdomen—broad-based, thick, dark against the white belly-fur, the outer edge bleeding into the white in a pretty gradient. It was already warm, already flushed, the thick beginning of his cock just visible at the opening. The musk hit her a beat after the visual: heavy, animal, deep. The gym sweat he’d been carrying all afternoon now concentrated, intensified, and rich.

Alex ran two fingers slowly along the sheath. Then traced those very same fingers down to his heavy, leathery, and black orbs that sat right beneath the sheath.

Jafar stood very, very still.

The tigress looked up at him from below with dark, intent eyes. “I like you,” she said, which was not what she’d said before and meant something more specific.

“…Good to know,” Jafar said, which came out steadier than he felt.

Beside her, Acino had shed his shirt without fanfare, his lean spotted chest bare in the warm light. He undid his own pants, pulled his boxers down just enough for his cock to flop out freely and join the party.

He was still flaccid, his cock dangled from a neat thatch of light citrus cheetah fur—distinctly flesh colored, long, and uncut. The foreskin gathered loosely at the tip in a soft hood that was already beginning to draw back as he filled out. The skin of him was darker at the base where the fur thickened, flushed warm and pink at the tip. He was not enormous. He was very specifically proportioned, and he stood there with the easy, unshowy confidence of someone who was comfortable in their body.

Alex looked at him. Then at Jafar, whose sheath was now beginning to show the dark, swelling tip of something considerably more substantial pressing outward.

Then she looked between them both with an expression that settled the matter entirely.

“Come here,” she said. To both of them.

---

The three-way kiss started with her and Jafar, then opened itself to Acino—a slow, warm rotation that was less about symmetry and more about want; whoever was closest, whoever moved first. Alex’s hands stayed in motion the whole time, moving from Jafar’s jaw to Acino’s collar to the back of Jafar’s neck and back again, keeping both of them present and located, an anchor in three directions at once.

She tasted like lemonade and fruit and herself, and when the angle shifted and Jafar found himself kissing Acino instead—neither of them having made a decision about it, it just happened in the natural logic of three mouths sharing a warm small space—neither of them pulled back.

Acino kissed like he did everything: settled and direct, no hesitation. Jafar kissed back.

Alex let them.

She stepped back and looked at the two of them—at the sight of them kissing right in front of her, unhurried and unselfconscious—and felt something warm and specific move through her chest. Then her eyes dropped lower, and the warm feeling became something considerably less sentimental.

Both of them were right there.

She knelt down and reached out with both hands.

Acino first.

She already knew him, already had a relationship with him, but she took her time anyway—wrapping her fingers loosely around the base of his shaft and just holding it, feeling it pulse faintly against her palm, taking stock. He was fully hard now, the foreskin drawn most of the way back by his arousal, the hood of it gathered in a soft, fleshy ring just behind the head—bunched and loose and slick on the inner surface with the thin natural smegma that collected there, warm and faintly sharp-smelling, the smell of skin that had been covered all day. The head itself was exposed and flushed, a deep rose-pink at the tip, the slit beading with a clear slow welling of pre-cum that ran down and caught in the gathered foreskin, pooling in the soft fold of it.

She ran her thumb along the underside and the foreskin shifted with it, sliding over the head in a loose, wet motion, and Acino’s breath caught above her by one small increment.

She brought her nose to the head and sniffed.

Sharp and salt and warm—the pre-cum and the skin of him. She pressed further down the shaft, nose dragging along the underside, and the smell deepened as she went: warmer, muskier, the smell of a cock that had been hard and wanting for a while now, that had been contained in clothing all afternoon and was only now in the open air.

At the base the fur began—a thick, dense thatch of blonde pubic hair, slightly darker at the roots and coarser than the rest of his body fur, growing in slightly wavy curls that spread from the base of his shaft across his lower belly. The smell here was something else entirely. Contained warmth, the specific funk that lived in fur—not unclean, just deeply, emphatically present. Musk and sweat.

She pressed her nose into it.

‘Shf.’

His balls hung below—full and heavy, drawn up slightly with arousal, the skin of them wrinkly and covered in the same spotted fur as the rest of his body, although much finer on the surface of the sac itself, thicker where the fur of his inner thighs met the base of him. She cupped them with her free hand, gently, feeling the weight, and pressed her nose to the fur at the top of the sac where it met the base of his shaft and inhaled.

‘Snnnf. Snnf.’

Warmer here. Closer. The musk was thicker in the soft crease between his balls and his thigh—concentrated by the heat and the day—and she pressed into it and huffed slowly, pulling it deep into her sinuses.

Loose curls of his pubic fur caught on her lips. She didn’t pull away.

“Mm,” she said, against his skin.

She turned her head.

Jafar’s cock was to her left—enormous and dark and leaking, a thick ropy thread of pre-cum swinging in a slow pendulum from the tip. She moved toward it and got both hands around the sheath, which required both hands, the girth of him filling her grip and then exceeding it.

The sheath sagged a little from its weight and thickness, the outer surface covered in leathery flesh, thicker than the skin under his striped zebra fur elsewhere. The base of the sheath was wide where it met his belly, narrowing to the thick ring of foreskin-adjacent tissue where the cock emerged. It was something of a different order entirely from Acino’s.

And the smell.

It hit her before her nose made contact, a warm advancing front of it—equine musk and concentrated sweat and something deeper underneath, something that lived in the sheath itself, the specific biological warmth of a horse’s body at full arousal. The gym had left its mark: salt and exertion baked into the fur, the sweat of a heavy workout that had dried and then been refreshed by the warmth of the afternoon, layered and dense and complex in a way that bypassed conscious evaluation entirely and landed somewhere more instinctive.

She pressed her nose to the side of the sheath.

Oh.

The leathery looking skin was surprisingly soft and warm—and the smell that lived in it was extraordinary. She pressed in until the flesh was against her nostrils, against her lips, and breathed in with her whole chest.

‘Snnnnnnnnnnff.’

Her eyes closed.

The sheath was warm against her face. She could feel the pulse of blood in it against her cheek. She pressed her nose along the base of it, from the junction with his belly down to where the flat tip emerged, dragging her pink and twitchy nose through every little square inch. The smell changed as she went—drier and saltier at the top, warmer and more animal at the base, richest right at the tight fold where the sheath folded into flaccid hiding cock. She pressed her nose into that crease specifically and inhaled.

‘SNNNNNNNNNFFFFF…’

“Nnnngghh…”

Her hand on Acino’s cock had gripped without her noticing.

She pressed her nose into the zebra’s sheath, shamelessly. She pushed further in until her nose was completely buried in that warm and wet opening.

She huffed.

‘Hff.’

She made short but frequent huffs—exhaling warm breath into his sheath and then drawing it back in, the heat bouncing back off his skin and carrying everything with it. The smell on the return was thicker, warmer, more intense for having been breathed on first.

‘Hhhhhfffffff… Snnnnnffff…’

She did it again.

And again.

Her eyes were still closed. Her expression had the absorbed, private quality of someone doing something they had been wanting to do for a while and were not going to stop doing before they were ready to stop.

She pulled her muzzle out from his sheath and pressed her open lips to his hanging balls and breathed through her nose, slow and continuous, the short fur against her mouth, the smell of him completely filling her head—equine and salt and musk and sweat and the deep animal warmth of his sheath, all of it together, all of it him.

She made a sound against his skin that was not language.

“Mmrrnnnfrrrf…”

Above her, Jafar was still kissing Acino.

The sound Alex made beside them was low and deeply, personally satisfied.

A thread of shared saliva broke between Jafar and Acino when they finally separated. Jafar stared at Acino for a fraction of a second. Acino raised one eyebrow, unbothered.

“Don’t make it weird,” he said.

“I’m not making it weird.”

“You’re making a face.”

“That’s just my face.”

Below them, Alex pressed her nose back into the base of Jafar’s sheath and inhaled one more time—long, slow, thorough—as though she hadn’t heard a word of it.

She had.

She simply had her priorities in order.

She pulled back eventually. Not because she wanted to, but because she was a person with a plan and the plan had further items on it.

Her lips were wet. Several dark yellow curls of Acino’s pubic fur were stuck to her muzzle—one across the bridge of her nose, two caught in the fur at the corner of her mouth, another threading across her lower lip. She didn’t wipe them away. She looked up at both of them from below with dark, steady, thoroughly intent eyes.

Jafar looked down at her.

She looked back.

A single loose curl of Acino’s pubic fur rose and fell against her upper lip with her breathing.

He was going to need a moment. He did not have a moment.

Alex put a hand on each of their chests and pulled them gently back toward her.

The kiss dissolved and reformed and dissolved again. Petals caught in her hair. One landed on Acino’s shoulder. One drifted across the bridge of Jafar’s nose and he went briefly cross-eyed, which broke the mood for approximately four seconds of genuine laughter before it reformed into something warmer and less structured.

Acino dipped his head to her chest and peeled her red sweater from her like it was a pesky wrapper to the tastiest candy bar in the world.

The tigress had a beautiful chest—full and soft, the white belly-fur thick and warm at the sternum, her nipples pink and already stiff from being exposed to the cool air. Acino kissed one slowly, took his time about it, and then drew it between his lips with wet suction.

“Hnn—” Alex moaned, and her spine straightened.

He worked at her with his lips and tongue—slow pulls, the flat of his tongue dragging across the peak, his mouth warm and thorough and in absolutely no hurry. Alex’s hand found the back of his head and her claws pressed lightly into his scalp.

Jafar kissed her jaw. Her neck. The space below her ear.

Fully hard now, both of them.

Acino had gone from mostly there to entirely so—his foreskin, ever so resilient, still hugged around his bulbous tip. It took Alex’s hand peeling it back to get it to reveal the head. The head, now exposed, flushed a deep warm pink, a thin bead of pre-cum sat at the slit. Below the shaft, his balls sat heavy in their fur, dark and drawn up slightly with heat.

Jafar’s cock had emerged from the sheath in full. The sheath itself was tight and flushed now, and the cock that had come out of it was—considerable, was the polite word, though polite words felt inadequate in the circumstances. Long and very thick, the shaft black softening to a maroon after the medial ring all the way to the broad dramatically flared head, the full underside carrying a thick raised vein that ran from base to tip and pulsed visibly. Pre-cum ran from the slit in a near-continuous thread, dripping from the tip in slow heavy drops, and the smell that came off him was the same smell Alex had just spent considerable time with her nose buried in—equine musk and salt-sweat and the deep animal warmth of the sheath—now amplified by full arousal into something that was genuinely difficult to be near without reacting to.

Alex, who was near, was reacting to it.

She pressed her thighs together.

The fur of her pubic mound was visible between her legs now, thick and full and already matted at the center, a thin slick thread of her arousal catching the amber light. She was thoroughly, visibly done waiting.

She reached up and got a hand in each of their fur and pulled.

“Both of you,” she said. “Right now.”

Neither of them argued.

---

She got onto the blanket on all fours, her tiger’s tail lifting and curling to one side. The cherry tree spread above her. Petals drifted down in slow, continuous release—catching in her hair, landing on the striped curve of her back, gathering in the crease of her bent knees.

Acino came around behind her.

He took a moment—both hands spreading over her hips, thumbs pressing into the base of her tail—and looked at what was in front of him. The dense, chocolate fur of her bush was visible between her thighs from behind, thick and curling and matted at the center with the evidence of how long she’d been waiting. Her folds were swollen and dark and wet, a thin gloss of arousal running down the inside of her inner thigh and disappearing into her fur.

He ran his thumb through the bushy pubes covering her mound first. Just once. Feeling the texture of it—the coarse, dense curls of her pubes, the way they caught and dragged against the pad of his thumb, the fur matted and damp at the roots where her heat had gathered all afternoon. He pressed his palm flat against the mound for a moment, just feeling the warmth that radiated out of her, and then slid his hand downward.

The fur thinned and parted as he moved lower, growing finer at the edges of her folds, and the slick heat he found there was immediate and abundant—her lips full and swollen and already spread slightly, the inner fur dark and matted with arousal, the smell of her rising up warm and sharp and sweet-musky in the cool afternoon air.

He pressed two fingers between her folds.

“Hff—” Alex huffed, forehead dipping.

She was extraordinarily wet. His fingers met no resistance—just the wet, gripping warmth of her, her inner walls closing around his fingers the moment they pressed inside, fluttering and clenching, a fresh rush of slick coating him to the palm and running in a warm thread down his wrist. He pressed deeper, feeling the shape of her—the soft give of her inner walls, the way they gripped and released in small involuntary pulses around him—and curled his fingers slightly upward.

“—ah—” she gasped, and her arms nearly buckled.

He worked his fingers slowly. In and back, not rushed, feeling every detail. The wet sound of it was quiet and continuous.

‘Slk. Slk.’

Her inner walls clenched around him on each outward pull, as though reluctant to release, and on each inward stroke another rush of slick met his knuckles, warm and abundant.

He withdrew his fingers, wet to the knuckle and beyond—clear pussy juice running down to his palm in a thin translucent thread that broke as he pulled free.

‘Slp.’

He looked at his hand for a moment. Then he brought his fingers to his nose.

‘Schnnnf.’

Her smell was thick and warm and sharp—the deep specific musk of an aroused tiger, animal and sweet and absolutely unambiguous about what it wanted. He exhaled slowly.

“There we go,” he said, quiet and certain.

He wiped his hand on the blanket, got both thumbs into the thick bush of her pubic fur to part it, and lined himself up.

His tip pressed to her entrance, the foreskin gathered in that soft loose ring—and he felt the specific moment her body registered the contact: the small helpless forward tilt of her hips, the fresh pulse of her natural lube against the tip of him, the way she opened fractionally as though her body had already decided before she had.

He pushed in.

The foreskin bunched at her entrance first—catching, compressing, and then her body took it, drew it inward, the gathered hood sliding back and folding against the shaft as he pressed through. The head seated itself inside her with a full, filling push that pressed her walls outward and drew a sound out of her that was only partly voluntary.

‘Smmlch.’

“Nnnhgh!”

He held there for a breath. Just a breath. Feeling the grip of her around the head, the flutter of her inner walls accommodating him, the wet heat pressing in from every direction around the shaft. Her pubic fur was pressed flat against his, the coarse curls of her mound tangled faintly with the fur at his base, her cunt juice already running down to coat the root of him.

Then he pushed deeper.

The full length of him pressed forward in one slow, continuous stroke until his hips met the full cushion of her rear and the spotted fur at his base was flush against the thick dark bush of her mound, the coarse hair of them pressing together, her wetness soaking into his fur.

She was absolutely full.

“Oh god.” she said, to the blanket.

He drew back.

The outward pull was its own sensation—the loose foreskin dragging forward as he withdrew, the head catching slightly at her inner walls on the way back, the wet grip of her following him. Loose strands of her pubic fur had caught in the bunching foreskin on the instroke and pulled free as he withdrew, clinging briefly to the gathered hood before releasing.

‘Slk.’

He pushed back in.

‘Fwp.’

“—hh—”

And again.

‘Slk. Fwp. Slk. Fwp.’

He found his rhythm immediately—steady, driving strokes that pressed all the way in and drew most of the way back out, each one complete. The wet sound of it built between them with each push, rising and continuous. ‘Slk. Slk. Slk.’

The coarse fur at his base dragged through the thick curls of her mound on every full stroke, the wiry hair catching and releasing, catching and releasing—a friction that was its own specific layered sensation entirely separate from and additional to everything else. Her juices ran down the shaft and gathered in the spotted fur of his balls, darkening them, soaking into them, dripping in a slow thread from his balls to the blanket below.

‘Drp. Drp.’

His hands gripped her hips, claws just barely out, the tips of them pressing ten small points of pressure into the striped fur of her hips. His breathing stayed controlled, his focus entirely and completely on the wet heat of her around him, on the sounds she made, on the way her inner walls gripped and clenched around the head of his cock on every outward pull as though trying to hold him there.

The sounds she made under him were soft at first.

Then not soft at all.

“Hhnnaaahhhhhhnnnggg!”

Jafar was kneeling in front of her.

The zebra was enormous and hard and leaking, a thin rope of pre-cum swinging from the tip of him as he settled into position. Alex looked up at him from below, with half-lidded eyes and reached for him with both hands.

Her grip wrapped around the shaft—both hands, the girth of him requiring both, her fingers not quite meeting on the far side. She squeezed once, testing the heat and weight of him, and felt the shudder that traveled through him in response. She stroked slowly from base to head, and a thick bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and ran over her fingers, warm and slick, and she made a low, approving sound.

Then she pressed her face in.

Not to take him in her mouth yet, but to be close to him. Her nose pressed to the leather skin folds at the base of his sheath, right where the musk was heaviest. She breathed in.

Oh.

The smell hit the back of her throat like a physical thing—deep, slightly sour and salt-warm, the post-workout sweat of a large body layered over a natural equine musk that she felt in her chest and her stomach and the base of her spine simultaneously. It was obscene. It was extraordinary. Her eyes stayed closed and she pressed closer, nose dragging through the coarse wiry fur, breathing in and in and in.

“God,” she said, muffled, the word losing its shape against his skin. “You smell—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. The way she inhaled it again said everything.

‘SNnNNNFFFFFF.’

“Nnngh…”

Jafar’s hands hovered as he considered putting them on her head. He backed out at the last second and kept his hands behind him as he knelt in front of her.

“Ah—Alex—” he said, not quite her name, not quite a word.

She opened her mouth and licked him. Base to tip. One long, slow stroke of her tongue along the full underside of his shaft, pressing the flat of it hard against the raised vein, dragging through the pre-cum beading at the tip. She pulled back, and a thick string of saliva and pre-cum connected her lower lip to his large tip for a long second before breaking.

‘Slp.’

She did it again.

And again.

‘Slp. Slp.’

Then she drew the broad flared head into her mouth, the sheer width of him requiring her jaw to work at it—and sucked. Her cheeks hollowed. Her tongue pressed hard against the underside of the head, circling, dragging. Her hands worked the shaft with a slow twisting stroke, one after the other, milking pre-cum from him in a steady trickle that ran over her fingers and down onto the picnic blanket.

‘Slrp.’

“Hhh…” Jafar moaned. No words. Several sounds though.

Behind her, Acino drove forward harder, and the sound she made was split between the two things at once—a deep, resonant moan against the head of Jafar’s cock, the vibration of it traveling up through him like an exposed live wire. Her eyes watered faintly from the stretch of her jaw. Drool and pre-cum ran down her chin in thin ropy strings, dripping below her.

‘Scchhlllrppp. Plop!’

She pulled back to breathe, gasping once, and immediately buried her face back against his balls—rubbing her nose and cheek into them, breathing him in with the desperate absorption of someone who had found something they needed and wasn’t prepared to stop having it.

The zebra’s balls sweat smeared into her muzzle and nose, darkening the fur there. But she didn’t pull away. She pressed closer.

“You okay?” Jafar managed, looking down at her.

She pulled back enough to look up at him. Her mouth was wet. A fine dark strand of his fur was stuck at the corner of her lip. Her eyes were bright and thoroughly certain.

“Very,” she cooed.

She went back down.

‘Slrk. Slrk. Slrk.’

Acino’s rhythm had built from steady to purposeful to something harder and more continuous, his hips meeting her rear with a low, soft smack on each stroke, the wet pull and push of him audible now beneath the sound of the blossoms and the breeze.

‘Plap. Fwp. Slap.’

His thighs were pressed against the backs of hers. The coarse fur at the base of his cock dragged against her with each full stroke, catching in the thick curls of her bush and pressing through them, wiry hair against wiry hair, a friction that was its own specific sensation entirely. On the outstroke, loose strands of her pubic fur caught briefly on the bunching foreskin of his cock, clinging for a moment before releasing.

He looked down and watched it happen and his jaw tightened.

His thumb moved to her hip and dug in.

Alex made a sound around Jafar’s cock that was not remotely composed.

“Mnnhph!”

Jafar’s hips had begun to rock forward fractionally. Small, involuntary pulses into the wet heat of her mouth, his fingers curling into his palms behind his back, his breathing coming in ragged uneven pulls. The skin of his sheath folds at the base of his zebra cock was damp now with her saliva and his own pre-cum.

A stream of thick pre-cum ran from the tip of his cock to the back of her throat in a slow continuous trickle.

‘Drp. Drp.’

He was going to lose his mind. He just knew it.

That’s when Acino slowed.

Not because he wanted to—his jaw was tight and his breathing had finally started to show the effort he’d been containing, but because he had a plan.

He drew back in one long, slow pull, the wet grip of her pussy following him all the way to the tip, her inner walls clinging to the crown of his dick on the way out.

‘Shlck.’

He pulled free.

‘Fwlp.’

A thick thread of her now slightly foamy cunt juice connected the tip of his cock to her entrance for a long second before it broke and ran down onto the picnic blanket.

‘Drp.’

She made a sound at the loss of him—not words, just a low, involuntary complaint from somewhere in her chest.

“Mmmmnnnrrggh…”

His hand found her shoulder. Then her hair. He gathered it in one fist, not rough but entirely certain, and pulled her gently back from Jafar’s cock.

She came away reluctantly. A thick rope of saliva and pre-cum stretched from her lower lip to the flared head of the zebra’s cock, breaking as the distance grew, catching on her chin, on the fur of her chest. Her muzzle was glossy with it. Her eyes, when she looked up, were hazy, slightly dazed, and not remotely unhappy about any of this.

“Up,” Acino said.

She went up.

He guided her to her feet with both hands, turned her and pressed both hands on her shoulders, bending her forward toward him. She went with it, her hands finding his thighs as she bent, her face level now with the creamy length of him.

The cheetah stepped back, his dick brushed against the tigress’s cheek, smearing her own pussy juice into her face. His dick twitched and throbbed repeatedly.

She turned her face into it.

Couldn’t help it. The smell hit her first—warm and sharp and musky, the specific funk of a cock that had been buried inside her. Her own smell baked into the spotted fur at his base, the gathered foreskin dripping with the combined evidence of everything. She pressed her nose to the side of the shaft and breathed in with her whole chest.

‘Schnnnf.’

Her own smell coming back to her off him, mixed with the salt-warm musk of him underneath. Extraordinary. She pressed closer, nose dragging through the matted fur at his base, the coarse wiry curls damp and reeking wonderfully, and huffed a slow breath right into the root of him.

‘Hff. Hff.’

“Alex,” Acino moaned, from above, breathy.

“Mm,” she replied, not moving.

“You can do that later.”

She pulled back. Looked up at him. A loose strand of his pubic fur was stuck across the bridge of her muzzle. Her pupils were very large.

“Promise?” she asked.

“Promise,” he replied with a nod. “Open up.”

She opened up.

He pressed the head of his cock to her lips and she took him in—the familiar blunt shape of him, the foreskin soft and salt-coated against her tongue, the taste of her own pussy thick on the shaft as he pressed forward. She sealed her lips around him and sucked and tasted herself on him in full, and the sound she made was deeply satisfied.

‘Slrk. Slrk.’

Her hands found the backs of his thighs.

Behind her, Jafar hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to.

He’d been on his knees since Alex was sucking him off—and what was in front of him, at face level, was the broad striped rear of Alex, her tail lifted to one side, the thick dark bush of her mound visible between her thighs from this angle, the fur there matted and gleaming and absolutely soaked.

Her entrance was swollen and still dripping freely—a thin thread of her cream and the remnants of Acino tracing a slow line down the inside of her thigh, disappearing into the fur of her leg.

He looked at it for a moment.

Then he pressed forward.

His nose went to the crease where her inner thigh met the dense bush of her mound first—because the smell there stopped him and required acknowledgment. Warm and sharp and overwhelmingly female, the full thick musk of her arousal concentrated in the damp fur, the specific animal scent of a tigress thoroughly worked up over a long afternoon.

‘Schnnf.’

He exhaled slowly.

“Hhnnnhhhfffuckkk…”

Then his tongue found her.

He licked in one broad upward stroke first; the flat of his tongue pressing through her folds from bottom to top, gathering everything, tasting the full composite of her and Acino and the afternoon in one go. She was extraordinarily wet. The taste was salt and musk and the specific sharp sweetness of her arousal and something underneath that was purely, specifically her. A hint of tangerine.

‘Slk.’

He did it again.

‘Schlrp.’

Alex made a sound around Acino’s cock that rose in pitch considerably.

“Mnnhph—!”

Jafar pressed his face in deeper. His nose pressed into the thick fur of her pussy, the coarse wiry curls of her pubic hair catching against his muzzle, threading across his nostrils. Her cunt cream ran into his fur, darkening it, warm and abundant. He worked his tongue between her folds with growing focus—pressing into her entrance, circling, finding the swollen nub of her clit and sealing his lips around it.

‘Slk. Slk. Slk.’

Her hips rolled backward against his face.

He got both hands on the backs of her thighs and held her steady and kept going.

The rough hair of her pubes was pressed flat against the bridge of his muzzle. Loose dark curls caught on his lips, on his nose, and on his chin. Her arousal ran down his chin in a warm continuous gloss. He was making sounds—wet and continuous and entirely without self-consciousness—the sounds of someone doing something they were going to continue doing until told otherwise.

‘Slk. Shlrrrp. Slk.’

In front of her, Acino’s hands were in her hair. He wasn’t thrusting—just holding, letting her work, watching her face with dark patient eyes. She was working him thoroughly, her tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft, her lips dragging back over the exposed head, her hands wrapped around the base and twisting slowly. The taste of herself on him was continuous and specific and she chased it—pressing her nose into the matted fur at his base between strokes, breathing in the combined smell of him and her, huffing it in short deliberate pulls.

‘Hff. Hff. Slrk. Slrk.’

His pre-cum ran thick over her tongue. She swallowed without interrupting her rhythm.

‘Slk. Slrp.’

Behind her, Jafar had found his rhythm. His tongue worked in focused patterns; broad strokes giving way to concentrated attention at her clit, then pressing into her entrance, then back. Her juice was running freely enough now that it was soaking into the fur of his muzzle and his chin in earnest, the smell of her filling his sinuses completely. Several loose wiry curls of her pubic fur were stuck to the fur around his mouth. More caught between his teeth like snapped dental floss. But he didn’t stop.

Her thighs had started to shake.

“Hh—hh—hh,” she moaned around Acino’s cock.

“Mnnph. Mnnph. Mnnph!”

The tigress pulled back.

From Acino first—letting him slide free with a thick wet pop, a rope of saliva connecting her lip to the head of him before it broke. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, the white fur of her midsection flushed pink beneath.

‘Plop!’

“Hhhhaaaahhhh… Haahhhhh…”

Then she straightened—reaching back and finding Jafar’s muzzle with one hand, pressing briefly as though to say ‘wait,’ and he went still against her, his face soaked with her, his breathing warm and damp against the fur of her inner thigh.

She turned.

Not all the way around, just enough to look over her shoulder at both of them. Jafar’s muzzle was dark with her wetness, the fur of his chin matted and gleaming. Several of her pubic hairs were stuck to the fur around his mouth and he hadn’t noticed and she found this extraordinary.

She looked at Acino.

He looked back.

She turned the rest of the way around and lowered herself back onto the blanket on her hands and knees, facing Jafar now—his enormous cock hanging heavy and leaking directly in front of her face, the smell of him hitting her like a wall.

Then she reached back with both hands and spread herself open.

Tail high. Matter-of-fact. Presenting the full picture to the boys: the thick soaked bush of her mound from behind, her entrance dripping and clenching faintly, and above it the tighter entrance, winking.

Acino looked at what she’d offered him.

His jaw moved once.

Jafar made a decision.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it happened—or rather he knew exactly how it happened, which was that he had been kneeling here for an extended period eating out Alex as she worshipped Acino’s cock, and something in him had quietly passed a threshold and was done waiting.

His hands slid from her thighs and wrapped around her waist nice and snug.

Then he lifted.

She came off the blanket entirely, her hands scrambling for a moment as he turned her around to face him. Once she was facing him, her hands landed on his shoulders, her legs swung forward and found his hips the way they knew how to, her ankles crossed at the small of his back.

The full length of his cock pressed against her belly and smeared a thick trail of pre-cum through the white fur of her midsection.

He looked at her.

She looked back at him with bright eyes and fur that was matted and damp and a mouth still wet from cock. She then reached down between them. Found his dick (as if it were difficult) and pressed it to her entrance herself.

“Now,” she ordered with a nod.

He pushed in.

The first inch was the negotiation—the wide flare of the head pressing against her entrance, her body working to accommodate the sheer width of him, her breath coming in short sharp pulls. Her claws found his shoulders.

“Oh god…”

He stopped.

“Don’t,” she said immediately.

He pushed deeper.

The stretch of him drew a continuous sound out of her that had no words in it. She dropped her forehead to his chest, nose pressing into the black-and-white fur of his sternum, his sweat and musk filling her with each inhale. Her hands gripped two fistfuls of his chest fur.

He pressed forward until there was nowhere left to go. He bottomed out in her, before he was even able to push his medial ring in.

The flared head locked behind the ring of her inner walls. She could feel his heartbeat through the shaft. She could feel the pulse of the vein on his underside. She could feel the specific enormous weight of him in a way that was simply unlike anything that had come before it. She was stretched, so wide, that she felt like she was about to be split in half, in a good way.

“Hhhhaaahhh,” she moaned, into his chest fur. Just that.

Acino was behind her.

He pressed himself to her second entrance—already soft and worked open from his attentions—and pushed in with a long, controlled stroke, the foreskin gathering briefly at the rim before pressing through.

‘Fwpp.’

“—AH—”

Full. Completely, impossibly full. Both of them inside her, separated only by the thin wall between, and through it she could feel them against each other, Acino’s cock pressing against the underside of Jafar’s, and the pressure was extraordinary.

“Breathe,” Acino whispered into her ear.

She breathed.

“Good girl.” He purred.

She clenched around both of them.

They both made sounds.

“Nngggh…”

“Hhnng.”

Then they moved.

Jafar first—with deep, slow upward surges, the full length and weight of him driving and withdrawing, the flared head dragging against her inner walls on every pull with a thick, soaking resistance.

‘Shhlk. Shhlk.’

Her slick ran down his shaft in continuous rivulets, soaking the dense fur at his base, running over his balls, dripping to the ground below.

‘Drp. Drp. Drp.’

Acino matched him—but since he wasn’t equine-ly gifted, he did shorter strokes, quicker, his spotted hips meeting the striped fur of her rear with a rhythmic soft impact that built in pace.

‘Plap. Plap. Plap.’

The sounds she made were continuous and entirely formless, just the raw ongoing fact of being completely, thoroughly overwhelmed.

“Ah!”

“Hnnnn!”

“Please…”  and things that had never been words rising and falling with each combined thrust.

The zebra’s face was buried in the tigress’s hair. His arms were shaking. He smelled her on every inhale—her sweat, her arousal, the cherry blossoms and the warm amber afternoon—and it was too much and he did not want any of it to stop.

“Close… Already.” he said, without meaning to.

Alex clenched around him—a deliberate, rolling squeeze that gripped the full length of him from base to flared head in a slow, tight wave.

“Aaaah… I know, I can feel you,” she said.

Acino drove harder.

Despite Jafar announcing he was close, the orgasm arrived in Alex first.

It started deep—not at the surface, not where Jafar’s cock was dragging against her inner walls or where Acino’s was pressed flush against her from behind—but somewhere more interior than that, somewhere at the absolute core of her, a gathering tension that had been building since Acino first put his mouth on her and had been climbing steadily ever since. It arrived now as a slow, inevitable wave cresting.

Her inner walls fluttered first. A rapid, uncontrolled trembling that she couldn’t have stopped if she’d tried, the walls of her pussy quivering against the enormous stretch of Jafar’s cock, against the thick vein on his underside, against the flared ridge of the head that was pressed so deep she could feel it nudging against her cervix as it bottomed out and made her vision go briefly white at the edges.

Then the clenching went into overdrive.

The first contraction hit like a fist closing—a full, powerful, involuntary squeeze that gripped Jafar from base to head simultaneously, the walls of her compressing around the impossible girth of him in a single rolling wave. The sound she made was not a word. It was barely a sound. It was the sound of every muscle in her body contracting at once.

“HHNNNNNNH.”

‘Sqshhhhh.’

She squirted on the first pulse—a sudden, forceful rush of fluid that had no warning, hot and sticky, flooding down the length of Jafar’s shaft and soaking into the dense fur of his pubic thatch in an instant, running over his balls, dripping from them in a fast continuous stream. The fur of her inner thighs went dark with it. His thighs went dark with it.

‘Psssshhh!’

The second contraction arrived before the first had fully released, rolling in on top of it, longer, deeper, her walls clenching and releasing and clenching again around Jafar’s cock in rhythmic powerful pulses that she felt from her clit to her lower spine.

“AH!”

‘Sqshhhh. Psssshhh.’

Another rush of fluid, hotter this time, running freely.

The third. The fourth. Each one a separate, distinct, full-body event. Her tail lashed with every pulse, her claws left small crescent marks in the fur of Jafar’s shoulders, her thighs shook continuously around his hips. Her ass gripped Acino in rapid, fluttering squeezes each time she squirted her orgasm—a tight, rhythmic flutter that ran the full length of him in pulses, gripping and releasing and gripping again, the walls of her clenching so hard he could feel every ridge of her against the head of his cock.

“AH—AH—AH!”

The fifth pulse was the peak—the longest, the hardest, a clench so complete that her whole body arched backward against Acino’s chest and held there, rigid, every muscle locked, a huge gush of fluid coursing down Jafar’s shaft in a hot pulsing stream.

‘SQSHHHHHH!’

She made a sound on the fifth pulse that was not a word and not a moan and not a scream but some unholy combination of all three, muffled into Jafar’s neck fur, her teeth pressing into the skin beneath.

“HHhnngggnnhhhhhrrrggnnnnnn!”

The sixth pulse softer. The seventh softer still—a long, rolling, shuddering release, her inner walls still fluttering and clenching in aftershocks, gentler now, each one a small echo of the wave that had preceded it. Her cream ran continuously, copious and warm, soaking everything between them. Her bush, the thick leathery skin of Jafar’s balls, the blanket below—all of it.

“Ah—hhhhnng—hhhah.” Smaller now. One breath per aftershock. Her body wringing itself out like a well-used gym towel. But instead of sweat, it was pussy juice and squirt.

The seventh dissolved into a long, shaking exhale that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.

She went temporarily boneless.

Which was when the aggressive clenching from her cunt took Jafar with her.

His orgasm arrived like a hurricane to Louisiana; calm at first, as his big, hefty balls tucked upward, then came a flood that knocked out critical infrastructure. The first pulse hit like a structural failure. A full, deep, body-wide jolt starting at the root of his cock and releasing upward in a surge so complete it took his voice with it—a sound that started as a groan and became something more animal, pressed into her hair, into the top of her head.

“NNhh.”

The first rope of cum hit her inner walls with force. A surge so considerable she felt it as a distinct bloom of heat pressing against the deepest part of her, filling the space around the flared head.

‘Glrrrk...’

The second rope arrived three seconds later—longer than the first, if anything, a deeper throb, another thick spurt that flooded into her and ran backward. She felt it travel the length of his cock from base to tip, felt the pulse of it through the shaft against her inner walls. His cum ran back along the shaft, mixing with her juices, running down into his balls.

“Hhhhhh… Fuuuuuuuuckk…”

Third. Fourth. His hips drove upward involuntarily on each one in short, sharp thrusts that made his pendulous nuts swing back and forth as they emptied inside the tigress. His cock kicked inside her in hard rhythmic throbs. One. Two. Three. The cum ran freely now, the volume of him having exceeded what she could contain, running back out around the stretched lip-seal of her entrance and down his shaft and into his fur in warm rivulets.

‘Gllllrk… Splllrrrt… Slllppprt.’

‘Splt. Splurt. Splat.’

He was still shooting out a considerable volume of seed on the fifth. The sixth. Each rope slightly less than the one before, the tide pulling back, but each one still a complete, full upward tuck of his nuts—his spine curving, his arms tightening around her, the sound he made on every throb pressed into her fur.

”HHHHhh—Nnnghh…”

The seventh was a rolling shudder—longer and slower, the peak having passed, his cock still kicking in deep lazy throbs as his body finished the job it had started. The eighth barely more than a prolonged deep pulse, a throb that he held for a long, shaking moment, his jaw tight, his breathing ragged and continuous.

The ninth was the last. Slow. Almost gentle. The final turning of the tide. A lazy ooze of cum left his tip, like the final spurts of an empty ketchup bottle being squeezed tight.

He stayed buried to the hilt while it moved through him, shuddering once from the base of his spine to the tips of his ears.

Thirty seconds later, Acino.

He had lasted this long through an act of pure controlled will—through the fluttering grip of Alex’s orgasm around him, through the sound she’d made on the fifth pulse, through the feeling of Jafar’s cock pulsing against his own through the thin wall between them, each of the zebra’s orgasmic throbs transmitting directly through the membrane as a distinct vibration. He had held through all of it. He was a cheetah, but he broke away from the stereotype that “all cheetahs were fast.” At least here he did.

But there was a limit to how long he could hold out.

He found it now.

His orgasm didn’t announce itself the way Jafar’s had. One moment he was holding, the next he was gone. He drove forward hard and buried himself balls deep and held there, his spotted hips pressed flat against the heart-shaped fur of her ass, his chest against her back, and the first spurt hit.

It hit hard.

His cock kicked inside her, a single, forceful throb, the head pressing against the deepest part of her passage—and the first rope of cum released in a long, hot surge that he felt from the base of his spine to the back of his neck.

His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave impressions through the fur.

“Hhhhhfuuuuuucckk…” One sharp exhale. Controlled, because Acino was always controlled, even here.

The second surge of his orgasm was harder than the first—longer, his cock kicking again with a force that pressed him further into her. Another rope, thick and hot, flooded into her, and through the wall between them he was pressed so close to Jafar’s cock that he felt the heat of it against his own, felt the last of Jafar’s aftershocks transmitting through the membrane as faint echoing throbs.

“Nnnghhh—”

Third. The fattest one. The one that made his jaw clench entirely shut, his teeth pressing together so hard that he heard them creak, his exhale escaping in a slow controlled hiss through them. His cock pressed forward hard on this one—a single sustained drive, burying every inch of himself, the coarse fur at his base crushed flat against the fine fur of her cleft. He held there for a long moment as his balls tucked upward, then relaxed, then went up again, feeling his cum move through him from base to tip in a slow, thorough wave.

He held it.

Held it.

Released.

The fourth wave rolled through him softer, longer, a deep slow throb that he felt more than heard. His cock kicked once more inside her—gentler now, the tide going out—and he held himself pressed flat against her and let the wave complete itself, let the last of it move through him in a long, shuddering finish.

His cum ran freely now—his and Jafar’s combined—leaking back out from both her entrances in warm, slow rivulets that ran down her inner thighs and gathered in the soaked fur of her mound and dripped steadily to the blanket below.

‘Splt.’

The cheetah stayed where he was.

They all stayed where they were.

The park was very quiet.

Sakura petals fell. One drifted down and landed on the back of Alex’s hand. She watched it land and did not move.

Nobody spoke for a long moment. The amber light moved slowly through the branches above. The cherry trees were entirely, serenely unbothered.

Then, very quietly, into the stillness:

“Good picnic,” Acino said through a laugh.

Alex laughed, completely undone, the laugh of someone who had no defenses left and didn’t need them.

Jafar exhaled. Long. Slow.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Not bad.”

They separated gradually. Jafar lowered Alex to the blanket, one arm steadying her. Acino withdrew slowly.

‘Shlck. Fwp.’

Jafar followed—drawing back in a long slow pull, the flared head dragging free with a bit of resistance from the residual clenching Alex’s pussy did.

‘Shhlck.’

Alex made a small sound at the loss of both of them.

“Aaaah~.”

Then she looked at the two cocks in front of her face—both softening slightly, both absolutely glazed, the leathery folds at Jafar’s base were wet and shiny, Acino’s foreskin forward again over the head, the gathered hood glistening at the tip—and she leaned forward.

Acino first. She drew the foreskin gently back with her lips, her tongue pressing into the soft inner fold, cleaning the mix of wetness gathered there—warm and salt-sharp and tasting of her. She worked beneath the hood, thorough and unhurried, feeling him twitch against her lips.

‘Slk. Slk.’

Then Jafar.

She pressed her nose to the base of his sheath first. She had to. The smell of him now was the smell of both of them together—equine musk and salt and her own orgasm baked into him, and she needed a moment with it.

‘Schnnnf.’

She held her breath, let her scent receptors savor it, then exhaled slow.

‘Schnnnf.’

Then she licked him clean—base to head in long slow strokes, her tongue dragging over every ridge and bump from the natural shape of his equine cock, gathering everything. She took the head into her mouth and sucked gently, tongue pressing against the slit, coaxing the last of him out.

‘Slrrrrrrp.’

She sat back. Wiped her chin. Wrapped a hand around each of them and began to stroke.

Slow at first, but she gradually increased the pace. Both at once. Her thumb ran over Acino’s exposed head, the heel of her palm pressed along the underside of Jafar’s shaft. Both of them stiffened under her hands steadily and reliably and she watched their faces while she worked—every tightened jaw, every sharp inhale—with the same particular attention she’d brought to the afternoon’s conversation.

“Look at you two,” she murmured, pleased.

Acino came first this time—his cock kicking in her fist in three clean pulses, painting her chest in warm stripes.

‘Spllrt,’ One.

‘Hhnnng.’

‘Splllrt.’ Two.

‘Nnnngh.’

‘Spllart.’ Three.

Then Jafar—heavier, rolling, two thick pulses spurting in her grip, crossing her face and her chest, his shiny cock skin folding and dragging against her fingers as he pulsed through it.

She stayed where she was. Warm. Thoroughly marked. Petals falling around her, catching in her hair, landing on her shoulder, sticking to the cum on her like it was glue.

She ran her tongue across her lower lip and up the side of her muzzle.

Looked at Acino.

“Napkin, please.”

He produced one without a word.

Jafar looked at the ruined picnic. The overturned chips. The scattered napkins. The puddles of pussy juice and cum. The cherry petals covering all of it, pale and indifferent and entirely unbothered by the afternoon’s proceedings.

“So,” Acino said.

Jafar raised an eyebrow.

“Still think you should’ve gone home and showered first?”

Alex looked up with the napkin halfway to her face and laughed loud enough that a bird in the branches above got startled, fluttered a bit, and resettled.

Jafar grinned.

“I guess not,” he said.

Alex leaned against Jafar’s arm.

He let her.

She reached for the grapes and popped one into her mouth.

---

Three Weeks Later

The gym had a smell that Jafar had long since stopped noticing.

Iron and rubber and the accumulated exertion of however many bodies had been through here before his, baked into the foam of the floor mats and the padding of the benches and the grip tape on the bars. His own contribution to the atmosphere had, over the course of the last three hours, been considerable. His shirt was soaked through. The fur of his forearms was damp to the elbow. His mane, which he’d tied back before the first set, had mostly escaped whatever was holding it and was doing what it wanted.

He had hit everything. Legs, back, shoulders, the auxiliary arm work he usually skipped when he was tired. He had not been tired today. He had been, if anything, the opposite of tired—a restless, excessive energy that needed somewhere to go and had found the gym adequate for the purpose.

It was a Tuesday.

He’d been having a lot of Tuesdays like this lately.

He pulled his shirt off in the locker room doorway and dropped it over the bench without looking and ran a hand back through his mane and evaluated, objectively, how bad the situation was.

Bad. The situation was bad. In the specific, abundant way that three hours of serious lifting made bad, with the sweat having soaked through everything and dried and been replaced and dried again, the musk of him layered and concentrated and emphatically present in the enclosed air of the changing room.

He slipped out of his shorts. Dropped it on the bench with his shirt.

A shower. He was going to have one, this time, like a person.

He had three weeks ago failed to have one, due to circumstances. The circumstances had included a cheetah with a plan and a tigress in a red sweater and a cherry blossom park in full bloom and an afternoon that had subsequently required him to sit down, alone, and rethink several things he’d thought he’d understood about himself.

The locker room was empty. He turned the water on, waited for it to run warm, and stepped toward it.

‘Bzzz.’ His phone buzzed.

He glanced at it out of habit—it was on the bench, still in reach—and saw Acino’s name on the notification.

He picked it up.

There was no message. Just a photo.

He looked at it.

He looked at it for a few seconds longer.

The photo was from above—Acino’s perspective, clearly—looking down over the spotted planes of his own chest to where Alex lay below him on what Jafar recognized as Acino’s bed, the dark sheets visible at the edges. She was on her back, her striped legs spread, her brown hair fanned out underneath her. Her green eyes were open and looking directly up into the camera with an expression that Jafar had seen once before in a cherry park and had been thinking about several times a week ever since.

Acino’s cock lay across her pussy—not inside her, just resting there, heavy against the thick fur of her bush, the foreskin still covering the tip, a thin bead of pre-cum threading down into her fur.

Jafar stared at the photo.

His body, which had been entirely focused on the prospect of hot water and horizontal surfaces, quietly changed its priorities.

He became aware, with some specificity, that he was standing in the empty changing room naked, still carrying the full musk of serious lifting, and that he was now thoroughly, emphatically hard in a way that the shorts were not designed to conceal.

He looked at the shower.

He looked at the photo.

He looked at the shower again.

He sat down on the bench.

He was not proud of what he did next, in the strictly moral sense. In the practical sense he was operating under significant provocation and the changing room was empty and the photo was still on his screen and Acino had sent it without comment, which meant Acino had sent it specifically for this purpose, which meant this was allowed, probably.

He put his hand on his sheath.

Alex’s eyes. The spread of her fur. Acino’s cock resting over her mound like a statement of intent.

He zoomed in.

The photo filled his screen—the thick dark bush of the tigress’s pubic fur parted slightly by his best friend’s cock, and the wet pink of her visible at the center.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

His hand pressed flat against the sheath—feeling the warmth of it, the thick base of it already began to swell under his palm. He could feel his own pulse there. Slow and heavy, the blood beginning to move with purpose. He pressed his thumb along the length of the sheath and felt the cock inside shift, beginning to push forward against the confinement of the skin.

He squeezed gently.

The tip appeared first—just the pink beginning of the flared head pressing through the opening of the sheath, gooey and slimy and already beading with a thin welling of pre-cum at the slit. He pressed his thumb against the underside of the sheath and stroked upward and felt the cock push forward another inch, the head emerging fully now. The skin of the sheath was tight around the shaft behind it as it grew more and more out of its shell.

He kept his eyes on the photo.

He stroked along the sheath again, thumb running from base to tip—and another inch of shaft pushed through, dark and thick, the vein along the underside beginning to show, standing out in relief against the skin. A thick bead of pre-cum ran from the slit down over the head and onto his fingers, and the smell of it hit him immediately—salt and musk and the deep animal heat of a zebra at full arousal, rising in the warm enclosed air of the locker room.

He was not fully out yet.

He squeezed the base of the sheath between his thumb and forefinger and pressed forward, a slow coaxing pressure, and felt the shaft slide through his grip as another two inches pushed free, the full dark length of him continuing to emerge, heavy and purposeful, the sheath skin peeling back as the cock pushed through it. The girth of him filled his fist and exceeded it. The musk intensified with each inch—the smell of the sheath itself, warm and enclosed, releasing into the air as the shaft pushed free of it.

‘Schlk.’

He pressed his palm flat against the remaining sheath, feeling the last of the warmth there, and squeezed once more.

The rest of him pushed free in one slow, continuous emergence—the full dark length of the shaft sliding out and standing forward under its own weight, enormous and flushed and gleaming at the tip, the sheath now tight around the thick base. Pre-cum ran freely from the slit in a slow thread, hanging and dripping, catching the light.

He looked at what was in his hand.

Then he looked at the photo.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft—one hand, and felt his own pulse beat against his palms, heavy and continuous and entirely unambiguous about what it wanted.

‘Fap. Fap.’

He exhaled slowly.

His eyes were locked on the photo.

And he kept going.

He was so focused on the photo and the sensation that he did not hear the locker room door gently creak open.

But he heard the sound that came immediately after it.

“The signs say no jerking off in the locker room.”

He looked up.

Alex was standing in the doorway.

She was wearing the red sweater—the same one, or one identical to it—and her skirt, and her boots. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders. One hand rested on the door frame. The other was held loosely at her side, and from it, hanging from one finger by a small loop of waistband, were a pair of underwear. Pink cotton. She’d clearly removed them at some point between the entrance to the gym and this doorway.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

He looked at the underwear.

She ran her tongue slowly over her upper lip and big fangs.

Jafar had not moved. His hand was still on his cock. His phone was still face-up on the bench with Acino’s photo on the screen.

He felt it would be dishonest to pretend any of this was not happening.

“Hi,” he said with a gulp that was so loud. His Adam’s Apple moved so clearly as he swallowed.

“Hi,” she said, stepping inside and letting the door close behind her.

Her eyes moved from his face to his cock to the phone on the bench. She looked at the photo on the screen and something warm and knowing moved across her expression.

“Acino sent that to me too,” she said.

“…Did he?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” She tilted her head. “Along with the text ‘Just sent this to Jafar, he’s at the gym, catch him before he showers, eh?’”

“I came from across town.”

Jafar looked at her. At the underwear still hanging from her finger, swinging gently. At her eyes, which had the big-pupil focus that he recognized.

“You took your—”

“In the car,” she said. “Yes.”

A beat.

“That’s,” Jafar couldn’t quite think of what to say, but his dick throbbed so hard he felt his head go light.

“Mm,” she agreed.

She crossed the room toward him. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could feel the warmth off her, and looked down at him—at the full dark length of his cock, already fully emerged from the sheath now, the shaft glistening with his own pre-cum.

She breathed in through her nose, slowly, with great pleasure in it and zero apology.

Her eyes closed for exactly two seconds.

Then she looked down at him.

“You stink,” she said, quiet and certain.

He looked up at her. “Oh, sorry... I was about to shower.”

The underwear dropped from her finger to the floor.

“Don’t.” she said.

Art by AcinotheCheetah

Acino and Jafar by AcinotheCheetah

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