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It's only Gay if you Kiss….

Mark yanked at his shorts for the fifth time in as many minutes. Useless. The waistband, supposedly "hyper-stretch athletic" according to the tag he'd ripped off in a fit of optimism, had given up any pretense of staying where shorts were supposed to stay. It hung low on his hips, dipping into a V at the front that left his shaft basically on display, technically covered, sure, in the same way a napkin technically covers a table. The fabric stretched so thin it might as well have been painted on. Anyone with functional eyes and a passing interest would get the full inventory.

The back was somehow worse. The material had vacuum-sealed itself to his ass, riding up into every curve and crevice like it was conducting a geological survey. Between that and the front, he looked gayer than a three-dollar bill on Fleet Week.

Walking was an exercise in risk management. Every step shifted the fabric, dragged it in new directions, and tightened it across places that did not need additional attention. He could feel that front V inching lower with each stride, threatening to cross the line from "obscene" to "arrestable." One wrong move and he'd be full mast in public. Hell, one wrong thought and he'd be full mast in public.

"Too tight," he muttered, hitching the waistband up and watching it immediately slide back down like it had places to be. "How the hell is this a medium?"

Oli didn't even look at him. The otter was busy adjusting their matching shoes, which had arrived in a vacuum-sealed bag and still smelled faintly of formaldehyde and possibly war crimes. Their shirts, identical white-and-pink sleeveless numbers with "FRESH MEAT" splayed across the chest in huge block print, completed the look of two idiots who'd lost the same bet. And the shorts. God, the shorts.

Oli, of course, didn't seem to mind at all. His fit like they were tailored. Mark's fit like a cry for help.

"You said medium," Oli said, voice flat. "We're both wearing medium."

“We’re different species.” Mark tugged at the leg holes, which barely circled his thighs. The inseam felt three molecules thick. “Did you put me in an otter medium?”

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a bastard and this is definitely rigged."

Oli snorted. He dropped into a crouch, fingers working at his shoelaces, and that should have been the end of it, the end of Mark’s accusation, the end of Mark’s composure, if he’d ever had any to begin with.

But with Oli bent forward like that, his tail up and his ass out, those shorts looked like they were seconds from catastrophic failure. They clung to every curve, stretched so thin across both cheeks Mark half-expected to hear stitches surrendering in real time. His gaze snagged, utterly helpless, drawn to the rise and swell, the way Oli’s ass didn’t just fill those shorts but threatened to burst out of them, each movement making the shape more pronounced. Heat snapped through him. The front of his own shorts grew unbearable, tugging tight; if fabric could threaten revenge, his was plotting it.

He had to wrench his eyes away. It took force, the kind you used to pry open a stubborn jar. His jaw locked. He breathed slow through his nose, like that would cool the rush boiling under his skin.

Oli stood up, tail flicking, shorts settling back over his hips as if nothing had happened and Mark hadn’t just lost a year off his life. “What were you saying?” Oli asked, all nonchalance.

Mark tried to recover. His mouth opened, but there was nothing ready for the air.

“About it being rigged?” Oli pressed.

“I…” His voice wobbled and died. He had to swallow, start over, but when he tried again it came out more strangled than before. “I…”

“Because it sounds like someone who already expects to lose,” Oli said, eyes dancing. “That it?”

“Fuck you.”

Oli’s grin crept across his muzzle, sly and slow, like he’d been waiting for that. “Sure,” he said. “If you win.”

Oli started up the walk without waiting or slowing, forcing Mark to scuttle after him as fast as his legs would allow, doing his level best to keep his thighs from chafing and the shorts from splitting up the back like a party trick. Oli moved with that signature swagger, all rolling hips and swinging tail, like every sidewalk was a catwalk and he was being paid by the sway. Mark’s gaze drifted there on instinct, caught on the motion for half a second too long, then snapped back up with a silent curse. No. Absolutely not. He was not going there. He was not gay. Tonight was supposed to prove it.

He fixed his eyes on the party building as they approached. Light bled from the windows in deep, saturated color: fuchsia, then icy blue, then a flash of orange so intense it painted the sidewalk. Bass thudded in the air, rattling Mark’s ribs with every step. Somewhere above, a balcony was festooned with twinkle lights and the shapes of bodies pressed together, laughing, pawing, drinking, moving in a way that was technically vertical but really wanted to be horizontal.

He felt his asshole clench in raw terror. Also, the shorts pinched there, so. Double whammy.

They breezed past the line, a shockingly long queue, mostly guys, mostly anthros, a few skinny humans in mesh tanks who glanced at Mark and Oli with lazy interest. At first Mark thought they’d be stopped at the door, but the bouncer, a bored-looking wolf with forearms like thighs of beef, just gave Oli a quick once-over and nodded. Not a word. Apparently, matching shorts and a tail that could knock over a table were valid credentials here.

Inside, the world changed.

It was a party, technically, but "party" did not do justice to the full-frontal assault of color, bodies, and noise. The music was club-thick, every beat a physical thing pressing into skin and bone. The floor throbbed with the echo. Lighting came from everywhere, vertical columns of neon, loops of LED tape that blinked and pulsed with the rhythm. The air smelled like sweat, fur, cheap fruit punch, and something sweet and faintly chemical that Mark couldn't place.

Oli stopped just inside, sizing up the crowd. “Stay here,” he said, turning to Mark with a flash of teeth that was pure mischief. “I’ll be right back. Got to find the Full Patch who reserved us a booth. Should take five. Try not to get fucked by anyone.”

He was gone before Mark could ask, "what's a Full Patch," or "why do we need a booth," or "please don't leave me alone dressed like this," or anything, really. The otter vanished into the crowd in three sleek strides and a flick of tail, immediately absorbed into the field of bodies.

Mark stood, frozen, and gripped the hem of his shorts so hard he nearly ripped the seam. He was supposed to stand here. Nope, not awkward at all. Not like he was a single square of pallid human flesh marooned in a sea of muscle, fur, flexible tails, and beautifully unselfconscious guys who wore mesh, nothing, or shorts more audacious than his own. Some of them were just painted. Actually painted. Mark clocked a fox at the entry to the dance floor who’d gone full Jackson Pollock in body paint and nothing else.

“Not gay,” Mark reminded himself. Out loud. It got lost in the music.

He forced himself to look casual. One hand migrated to the waistband, tugging it down, which bought him about half a millimeter of relief. He tried to lean against the wall, which, because symmetry is dead, was textured cinderblock. The sharp edges grated against his lower back, but at least he wasn’t in the direct beam of a strobe light.

He shifted his hips, fighting the urge to pick his shorts out of his ass. He could feel eyes on him, but every time he looked up, he caught a glance for a second before the other guy looked away. Apparently, even here, Mark was socially repellent in a way that felt almost measurable. Or maybe he was projecting insecurity so hard it had become a visible aura.

He shut his eyes for a second, letting the music roll over him. That helped. A little. The rhythm was primal, almost hypnotic. He could feel it in his chest, in his knees, in his tailbone, or where he wished he had a tailbone; a tail would at least give him something to do with his hands.

A cluster of dancers drifted past. Well, "dancers" was a generous term. It was less dancing and more an orgy of friction. The guys in front were both tigers, shirtless, muscled, their stripes glimmering under the LED glow. They pressed together chest-to-chest, mouths open as they moved, hands everywhere, like they’d forgotten how to dance and just remembered how to fuck. Behind them, a wolf and an otter, not his otter, though for a split second Mark’s panic spiked that maybe it was, but it wasn’t. This otter had a bright green stripe dyed into his fur and also a cock ring on, visible through the mesh shorts.

Mark realized his foot was tapping.

He was moving with the beat, not much, but enough to catch himself doing it and then immediately get self-conscious about it. He stopped. The music kept going.

Five minutes. Oli had said five minutes.

Mark made it four minutes and seventeen seconds.

At 4:16, he was still standing by the wall, shifting awkwardly, hyper-aware of the way the shorts carved his crotch into a pair of writhing parentheses, and trying not to focus on the fact that literally everyone here seemed to be born for this. The easy laughter, the casual grind and press of bodies, the way the tigers on the dance floor alternated between pawing each other’s pecs and making out so hard it looked like a biology demonstration for “mouths.” Nobody even noticed him, except maybe to glance at the shorts and briefly move on. He could have been a plant. A helpful piece of furniture in the least helpful color scheme. All he had to do was not make a scene and wait for Oli to drag him to the next phase of the experiment.

4:17, a cheetah in a mesh vest and tight pink jockstrap approached, walking sideways in that way only cheetahs and extreme extroverts could manage. For a second Mark thought he was about to get hit with a drink order, but instead the cheetah just flashed him a canines-and-whiskers smile and offered up a little tray.

On it: candies. Bright, glossy, party-colored, sort of like jellybeans except matte and suspiciously sticky looking. Bold, confidence-wrecker move: the cheetah didn’t say a word, just sort of jiggled the tray expectantly, then winked. Which... was not an answer, but clearly an offer. Mark forced a smile, because standing here awkwardly was already his evening’s brand, and picked a blue one.

It tasted like berry and something else. Maybe cotton candy, maybe “oh god what is this.” The cheetah smiled wider, showing a gold tooth in the back, but didn’t explain. Instead, he drifted away, leaving Mark alone with his party snack and a sugar high that was almost immediate. The candy fizzed on his tongue, tingling the inside of his cheeks.

Impulse control, or just boredom, had him reaching back for two more before the weird aftertaste even faded. Green one: lime and something effervescent. Then a purple, oddly spicy, like cinnamon with a sugar syrup undertone. Each new flavor seemed to light a tiny fire down his throat and in the pit of his stomach, sparking off in a slow burn that left his skin buzzing and teeth tingling.

He barely noticed the next minute slip by. The music was getting to him. Not just the music, though; the crowd, the lights, the way the air itself felt kind of electric, skin-prickling in a way it absolutely should not have. Mark fidgeted, and realized his cock was already kind of hard, really hard, maybe bordering on intrusive against the shorts. That was not good. Or, that should not have been good.

He pressed his thighs together and...

Whoa.

The sensation was so acute, so immediate, he almost registered it as pain before his brain sorted out the difference. Not pain. Just... sensitive. The shorts were tight enough to cut circulation, but now they felt like they were caressing him with every micro-movement. Lining up flush with his outline. A gentle squeeze and persistent throb that sent every stray thought flying like a deck of cards in a hurricane.

His balls ached. His dick throbbed like it was its own heart, desperate and urgent. He swallowed, and realized his mouth was dry, his chest pounding with an energy that felt different from adrenaline, sharper and rawer. For some reason his skin was on fire. Itching to move. To feel fur, heat, motion, friction.

He took a step away from the wall, just one, and a pulse went through him so strong he shuddered. His cock pressed bold against the shorts, a visible, hungry ridge that didn’t care about social context or shame. He tried to listen for that little voice in his head, the one that usually started with “this is so gay,” but it was getting drowned out. Still there, maybe, somewhere under the bass and the heat and the avalanche of sensation, but losing badly. Want. Desire, maybe, but that was a word Mark still wasn’t ready to use, so he clung to “curiosity.”

Curiosity was safe, right?

A group of guys drifted past, one of them a pair of nearly-identical ferret twins in luminous matching shorts. Their attention snagged on Mark, and before he knew what was happening, one of the ferrets winked, hooked a black-tipped finger through his waistband, and tugged him toward the open floor as if they’d known him for years. The twins looked him up and down with the easy, predatory confidence of seasoned partiers, not even bothering to introduce themselves before sandwiching him between their slim, energetic bodies.

He didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really. The moment he hit the dance floor, the music changed. Or he changed. Mark’s hips started moving on their own, chasing the rhythm. The shorts rode up higher, raking his inner thighs with every bounce, and the sensation was too good, too sharp, to ignore. The ferrets pressed close, their bodies hot and firm, all soft fur and muscle flexing against his skin.

The first one, a little taller, with a white stripe down his nose and silver hoops in both ears, grabbed Mark’s hands and put them on his own hips, grinding back into him with a wicked little smile. The second pressed in from behind, his chest to Mark’s back, tail winding sensually around Mark’s leg before teasing his knee. They moved in a way that turned Mark’s brain to jelly, letting him mirror their motions. He leaned into it, mesmerized by the way movement amplified every pulse of pleasure through his body.

He could feel the outline of his cock, hard and proud, pressed between his belly and the taller ferret’s backside. They didn’t flinch, just ground back into him shamelessly. The bass rattled every bone in his body, but desire did the rest. It only took a few seconds for Mark to realize he was humping, actually humping, in time with the beat. The friction was mind-blowing; the difference between this and everything else before was the difference between caffeine and mainlining an espresso shot directly to his spine.

The first time the ferret reached back and groped his ass, Mark gasped. A full, unguarded gasp, because the sensation was so raw it nearly buckled his knees. The second grabbed his waist, pulled him in tighter, and Mark’s body just... responded. He arched his back, lifted his chin, and let out a low moan that he hoped was drowned out by the music.

The world narrowed to heat, motion, the relentless pressure of his own cock fighting the shorts, desperate to be touched. He wanted the touch. He wanted to see what else they’d do. The idea of gay or straight or “not my thing” vanished entirely. All that mattered was the next sensation, the next jolt of pleasure.

Someone had their hands up his shirt. Fingers splayed across his chest, nails raking lightly over his nipples. Mark felt his whole body tremble. The sensory input was just so much. He had never felt anything like this, not even close. Every inch of his skin tingled, desperate to be touched, used, claimed.

The shorter ferret, who had been quiet up until now, slipped a hand down the front of Mark’s shorts. Not inside, not yet, just stroking the outline, the pad of his palm pressing right against the head of Mark’s cock through the taut fabric. Mark buckled forward, hips jerking, and the two ferrets giggled in his ears, synchronizing their bodies to his every reaction.

“This is... fuck, this is...” he tried to say, but the words didn’t come out. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was moving, grinding, the desperate push and pull as he tried to rut like it was the only thing in the world.

The taller ferret's hands shifted from Mark's waist to his hips, grip firm, and suddenly they were moving. Not dancing anymore, walking. Steering. Mark stumbled forward, sandwiched between the two of them, the shorter one backing up in front of him with that same sharp grin, fingers hooked through Mark's waistband like a leash.

"Wait," Mark managed, the word coming out thick and stupid. "I should... Oli's coming back, I need to..."

The thought dissolved the moment the shorter ferret pressed closer, chest to chest, and rolled his hips. Mark's brain whited out for a full second. When it came back online, they'd moved ten feet deeper into the crowd.

The edge of the dance floor was almost normal. Almost. Guys grinding, sure, but clothed, vertical, the kind of thing you'd see at any club if you squinted. Mark's cock throbbed against the fabric of his shorts, and he tried to focus on that, on the discomfort, on anything that wasn't the heat radiating off the ferret in front of him.

The taller one leaned in, muzzle brushing Mark's ear. "Klaus." The name came out low, accented, more breath than sound. German, maybe. Definitely not asking permission.

Before Mark could respond, the shorter one was there, pressing up on his toes, lips grazing Mark's other ear. "Dieter." Same accent. Same confidence. His paw slid up Mark's chest, thumb catching his nipple through the thin shirt, and Mark's hips jerked forward involuntarily.

They kept moving.

Deeper now. The crowd thickened. Mark's eyes caught flashes, a wolf with his tongue down a fox's throat, hands buried in each other's shorts. Two otters, not Oli, definitely not Oli, pressed against a pillar, one of them with his paw shoved down the front of the other's mesh briefs, working him with zero subtlety. A rabbit on his knees in front of a bear, and Mark's brain tried to process that, tried to file it under "things happening nearby that don't involve me," but Dieter grabbed his chin and turned his head back.

"Eyes here," Dieter said, grinning. His other hand was already at Mark's waistband, fingers toying with the elastic like it was a suggestion rather than a boundary.

Behind him, Klaus's grip tightened on his hips. Thumbs dug into the hollows above Mark's ass, pulling him back, and Mark felt the unmistakable press of the ferret's erection against his backside. Hard. Obvious. Not hiding it.

Mark's cock surged against the thin front of his shorts, forcing higher against the sagging V until the head was nearly free, trapped against his stomach. He could feel the wet spot forming where precum soaked through. His skin was on fire. Every brush of fur, every accidental graze of a stranger's arm, sent sparks shooting through his nervous system.

He tried to remember why he was here. Oli. Proving something. Being straight.

The words felt like they belonged to someone else.

A cheetah drifted past, the same one from earlier, tray in hand. Mark watched him offer candies to a pair of coyotes. They each took one. One. The taller coyote actually broke his in half before popping it in his mouth.

Mark had eaten three.

Oh fuck.

Mark's thoughts scattered as Dieter pressed their foreheads together, noses almost touching. The ferret's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his breath was warm and sweet.

"You're thinking too much," Dieter said. His fingers slipped under Mark's waistband. Just the tips. Just enough to make Mark's abs clench.

Klaus pulled him back another step. Then another. They were in the thick of it now.

Mark's brain registered the scene in fragments: a tiger bent over a couch arm, another tiger behind him, both of them groaning. A pile of bodies on a low platform, limbs tangled, someone's tail wrapped around someone else's thigh. A human, an actual human, pale and skinny like Mark, on his knees between two wolves, head bobbing back and forth like he was trying to set a record.

No one was pretending anymore. This wasn't dancing. This wasn't flirting. This was fucking, or about to be, and Mark was being pulled straight into the middle of it.

Dieter's fingers went deeper. His whole hand now, palm flat against Mark's lower belly, fingertips brushing the base of his cock. Mark heard himself make a sound, something between a gasp and a moan, and his hips bucked into the touch without his permission.

"There you go," Klaus murmured behind him. His hands slid down from Mark's hips to his ass, cupping, squeezing, spreading him slightly through the shorts. "Just let it happen."

Mark's own hands moved. He didn't decide to do it. His body just acted, reaching back, finding Klaus's waistband, shoving inside. His fingers met fur, then heat, then the thick, slick length of the ferret's cock. It was wet at the tip, pulsing, and Mark wrapped his hand around it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Klaus groaned against his neck. His hips thrust forward, fucking into Mark's grip.

Dieter laughed, low and delighted. "Oh, you're fun." His fingers hooked into the waistband of Mark's shorts and tugged. The fabric peeled down in a tight, stubborn drag, clinging to his hips and thighs before finally snapping free and dropping to the floor.

Mark stood in the center of the orgy, naked from the waist down, his cock jutting out hard and desperate and leaking. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sex. Bodies pressed close on every side. Someone's tail brushed his thigh. Someone's moan vibrated through the crowd.

He should have felt exposed. Vulnerable. Terrified.

Instead, he felt hungry.

Klaus moved first.

His hands clamped onto Mark's hips from behind, fingers digging into the grooves above his pelvis, and spun him ninety degrees so he faced the back wall. Mark stumbled, bare feet on the sticky floor, cock bobbing stupidly in front of him. Before he could catch his balance, Dieter was already there, sliding into position directly ahead of him, back turned, tail hiked up over one shoulder like a scarf. The ferret dropped to a half-crouch, braced his paws on his own knees, and pushed his ass back until it pressed flush against Mark's hips.

Klaus kicked Mark's ankles apart with one foot. "Wider."

Mark widened. His thighs shook.

Dieter reached back between his own legs, found Mark's cock with unerring accuracy, and guided it in. The tip caught, pressed, and then Dieter rolled his hips back and Mark sank into tight, slick heat that made his vision swim. His mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

"Oh," Dieter said, casual as a weather report. "That's big." He wiggled, adjusting, his tail curling against Mark's stomach. "That's really big. Were you hiding this the whole time?"

Mark couldn't answer because Klaus was already pushing in behind him.

The pressure came slow and steady and absolutely relentless. Klaus's cock was slick, the ferret must have lubed up at some point Mark hadn't noticed, and it pressed against him, found the angle, and slid in with a long, controlled thrust that punched the air out of Mark's lungs. His hands flew forward and grabbed Dieter's hips just to stay upright.

Full. He was full. He was full and buried and sandwiched and his brain was doing that thing again, the blue-screen thing, the fatal error thing, except this time there was no reboot. Just sensation. Front and back. Giving and receiving. Connected at both ends like the middle link of a chain someone had welded shut.

Klaus bottomed out and held there, hips flush against Mark's ass. His breath was hot against the back of Mark's neck.

"Tight," Klaus said. Not a compliment. An observation. Clinical, almost. His thumbs pressed circles into the hollows of Mark's hips. "Very tight. You've never had anything back here, have you?"

Mark’s face burned. His whole body burned. “I’m not...” was all he managed before Klaus pulled back an inch and pushed forward again, and the words fell apart in his mouth.

“Sure,” Klaus said, his voice low and amused, dripping with the satisfaction of someone who’d found exactly what he was looking for. “Untouched. Nobody’s been here before me.” His grip tightened, possessive. “Good.”

Dieter clenched around Mark's cock and laughed. "He's twitching inside me. Like, a lot. Are you okay back there? Because from this end it feels like you're about to pop."

Mark was not okay. Mark was the opposite of okay. He was impaled from behind and buried to the hilt in front and every nerve in his body was screaming at a frequency that dogs could probably hear. His fingers dug into Dieter's hips hard enough to dent the fur.

Then Klaus set the rhythm.

It started slow. Klaus pulled Mark's hips backward, dragging him off Dieter by a few inches, and Mark felt the ferret's cock slide deeper inside him as he was drawn back. The stretch was enormous, alien, his body clenching and fighting and then giving way all at once in a rush that made his knees buckle.

Then Klaus drove forward.

His hips snapped, hands shoving Mark's pelvis ahead like a piston, and Mark slammed into Dieter. The ferret in front took the impact with a practiced arch of his spine, dropping his hips just enough to swallow Mark's full length in one smooth motion. Dieter let out a theatrical gasp, claws scratching at his own knees, tail lashing against Mark's ribs.

Pull back. Klaus filled him deeper. Push forward. Mark filled Dieter deeper.

"There it is," Klaus murmured. He set the tempo, slow and grinding, each backward pull deliberate, each forward shove controlled. Mark's body was just the thing between them, the conduit, the transmission. He didn't set the pace. He didn't choose the angle. Klaus chose. Klaus decided when Mark got fucked and when Mark did the fucking, and the two events were the same motion, the same beat, inseparable.

Dieter stayed locked in front. Every time Mark was driven forward, Dieter pushed back to meet him, keeping the connection tight, no gap, no slack. Every time Klaus pulled Mark back, Dieter followed, stepping his feet back an inch, rolling his hips to maintain the seal. The chain never broke. There was no moment of separation, no reset, just constant, unbroken contact from Klaus's hips to Mark's ass to Mark's cock to Dieter's body.

The counter-motion was devastating.

When Klaus thrust in, Mark's body clenched around him involuntarily, and the clench sent a shockwave forward that made his cock jerk inside Dieter. When Dieter squeezed in response, the sensation rippled back through Mark's shaft, up his spine, and tightened him around Klaus again. A feedback loop. A circuit. Every pulse amplified by the next.

Klaus picked up speed.

The pulls got sharper. Mark felt himself yanked back onto Klaus’s cock hard enough to make him gasp, his body opening wider, taking more, and then shoved forward again before he could even process the fullness. His hips slapped against Dieter’s ass with a wet crack that cut through the music. Dieter moaned, loud and shameless, and braced harder.

“He’s leaking everywhere,” Dieter announced to no one in particular, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. His eyes were bright, pupils blown wide. “Like, dripping. I can feel it running down my... oh, do that again.”

Mark hadn’t done anything. Klaus had angled the next thrust differently, tilting Mark’s pelvis down, and the new trajectory hit something inside him that turned his vision into television static. His whole body seized. A strangled noise ripped out of his throat.

“Found it,” Klaus said, smug as a cat with a canary.

He hit the same spot on the next thrust. And the next. Each time, Mark’s body jackknifed forward, driving into Dieter with force he couldn’t control, and each time Dieter absorbed the impact with a delighted yelp and a roll of his hips that kept the chain taut.

Mark’s hands trembled against Dieter’s fur, his grip slipping with sweat. His legs were on fire, muscles screaming from the strain of staying upright. Sweat trickled down his spine and collected where Klaus pressed against him, the wet fur sticking to his skin. The club music had faded into background noise, drowned out by his own pulse and the raw, rhythmic slap of skin and fur.

Just as he gave himself over to the overwhelming sensation, something tapped his shoulder. He twisted his neck, still impaled from both ends.

“Having fun?”

Oli stood there with his arms crossed, tail swishing with undisguised amusement. Same ridiculous “FRESH MEAT” shirt; same stupid shorts. The only difference was that his were not around his ankles. He looked Mark up and down like he had caught him stealing cookies instead of winding up bookended between two horny ferrets.

Mark tried to speak. His brain cycled through excuses. I was drugged. This isn’t me. I tripped and fell on this dick. None of them made it to his mouth. All that came out was a pathetic whimper, followed immediately by an involuntary moan when Klaus shifted behind him.

Oli laughed.

Not a mean laugh; not even a surprised one. It was that same low, easy laugh he used when Mark walked into doorframes, or when Mark’s textbook was upside down, or when Mark tried to claim that Gay Tuesday was a thing. The laugh said he had already known exactly how this was going to go, probably before Mark had even agreed to come tonight.

“Five minutes,” Oli said, shaking his head. His tail swayed behind him, slow and amused. “I said I’d be right back. You lasted five minutes, Mark.”

Klaus, still buried inside him, shifted his weight. Mark felt the movement everywhere. His hole clenched involuntarily, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.

“Now what do we have here?” That was Dieter, circling around to get a better look at the new arrival. His gaze raked down Oli’s body, from the matching shirt to the matching shorts to the matching shoes, and his face split into a grin wide enough to show his back teeth. He looked at Mark, then back at Oli, then at Klaus over Mark’s shoulder.

“Klaus,” Dieter said, his accent thickening with glee. “Look. He’s wearing the same thing.”

“Oh,” Klaus said. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

The ferrets looked at each other. Something passed between them; some kind of silent, instantaneous communication that only siblings, or people who regularly tag-teamed strangers at parties, could manage. Twin telepathy, maybe. Or just the shared recognition of opportunity.

“Twins,” Klaus said, and the word dripped off his tongue like honey.

“Twins,” Dieter confirmed. He was already moving.

What happened next was fast; efficient. The kind of choreography that suggested the ferrets had done this before, or at least something close enough that the playbook transferred. Klaus pulled out of Mark, and the sudden emptiness made him gasp, his body clenching around nothing, immediately and achingly bereft. Before he could even process the loss, Klaus’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him, repositioning him so he was on all fours.

Dieter had Oli. The otter barely had time to get the word “hey” out before Dieter’s paws were at his waistband, yanking the matching shorts down to his ankles with the practiced ease of someone unwrapping a gift he had been promised. The bright “FRESH MEAT” shirt stayed on, rumpled high enough to expose the sleek line of his stomach, while the rest of him was stripped into humiliating symmetry with Mark: same shirt, same shorts puddled at the ankles, same hard cock jutting forward, same kneeling posture that made them look less like two separate people and more like a matched set arranged for display.

“On your knees,” Dieter said to Oli, his tone cheerful and completely non-negotiable. “Face your twin.”

Oli glanced at Mark. His expression was still amused, still that easy, unflappable confidence Mark had spent two days both envying and wanting to destroy. But something flickered underneath as Dieter guided him down, positioning him on his knees directly in front of Mark. Close; inches apart.

Oli’s eyes met his, dark and glinting, the usual amusement gone glassy and molten in the light. It was impossible to ignore how close they were, both on their knees, hard cocks jutting forward, everything exposed and on display. They even looked like twins from this angle; the same shirt rumpled around their chests, the same tightness in their posture, the same anticipation sharp in the lines of their bodies. Except Oli’s tail was flagged high now, deliberately cocked to one side, invitation and challenge at once, while his cock curved upward with a steady ooze of pre that glistened in the shifting party lights.

Then Dieter was there, sliding behind Oli, hands wrapping around the otter’s hips, claws dimpling the fur. From where Mark knelt, the angle should have hidden most of it, but one of the mirrored columns near the dance floor caught the scene perfectly and threw it back at him in flashes of neon and motion. In the reflection, Dieter’s cock was already lined up, tip slick and glistening, and he pressed in with a rolling thrust that made Oli’s whole body jerk. Oli’s mouth dropped open in a gasp, and the curve of his ass embraced the ferret’s length with obscene, perfect ease.

Mark watched, transfixed, as the ferret’s thick length parted the otter’s slick cheeks and disappeared inside him. He stared at the way Oli’s hole spread so easily around the girth, swallowing it with a raw, hungry flex. The motion forced Oli’s cock to bob and twitch, the first line of precum dropping from the tip and splashing onto floor between them.

“God,” Mark whispered, barely audible, but the word was out before he could stop it.

The sight of Oli getting fucked should not have done this to him, but it did. It burned through his rationalizations, scorched every defense to ash. He watched the ring of muscle strain and clench around the pounding cock, watched the way Dieter pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, greedy and eager; Mark felt himself leaking in sympathy, a drop of slick pre tracing down his own shaft.

Klaus had not let go. If anything, the ferret’s grip had gotten tighter, a thumb digging into the side of Mark’s hip, anchoring him hard enough to bruise. He felt the cock behind him, thick and already slick with pre, press to his entrance; Klaus did not rush, just rolled his hips in small, circling nudges, teasing the head inside in shallow, relentless pulses that never quite let him forget what was about to happen.

He was acutely aware of every detail; the heat, the sweat, the way his own cock ached for attention, twitching with every moan that spilled from Oli’s lips. The otter’s knuckles were white where he braced them against the floor, arms trembling from the effort of holding his body at just the angle that let Dieter drive in deepest. The motion made the muscles flex along his back, the stripe of wet fur bright under the neon columns, like a beacon drawing Mark’s attention down, down, to where the action really was.

Oli took it so well. That was the part that undid Mark completely; the way he rocked back into each thrust, the way his tail flicked with every impact, the way he was already leaking in fat, glossy beads before anyone had even touched him up front. Mark’s entire nervous system lit up with the knowledge that he had gotten to feel that, gotten to fuck that, and would probably do it again; the thought turned everything blurry and desperate, filled with a greedy, animal tension.

He felt Klaus shift behind him, the long cock lining up, finding the perfect angle. The pressure was more insistent this time, and with a single, practiced push, the ferret sank in all at once, forcing Mark to brace both palms on the floor to keep from tipping forward entirely. The sudden, intense stretch forced a yelp from his throat; undignified and helpless. Then the pleasure caught up. The pain melted into heat; heat gave way to pressure; pressure twisted into something so sharp it made his toes curl in the cheap party sneakers.

Klaus did not hesitate. The moment he was buried, he started to move; not the slow, cautious rhythm from before, but a brutal, piston-fast tempo that rocked Mark forward with every motion. Each thrust hit the same spot inside; the special one, the one Mark barely knew he had, let alone could crave this much. Every time Klaus rammed forward, Mark’s entire body tensed, and his cock spat a fresh bead of pre into the air. He was leaking in time with the rhythm, every pulse of sensation making his body betray him more and more.

He glanced up, dazed, and found Oli staring at him from less than a foot away. The otter’s jaw was slack, his tongue lolling slightly, thighs trembling as Dieter hammered him from behind. Mark could see the glisten of sweat in the fur along Oli’s chest, the flex of muscle as he fought to keep upright, and the way his cock swayed and dripped; not just a drop, but a long, silvery string hanging from the tip and pooling on the floor.

Every single thrust seemed to make both of them leak harder.

Dieter was ruthless. He had both paws planted high on Oli’s hips, claws digging in, using the leverage to slam forward again and again, hard enough that Mark could actually hear the wet noises; like slick hands clapping together. Each time Dieter bottomed out, Oli let out a strangled chirp, his ass flexing and milking the invading cock, and the whole display sent another shockwave straight through Mark’s core.

He was moaning, he realized; actually moaning in unison with the other three. Not words, just animal sounds, raw and unfiltered, loud enough that people nearby had started to glance over, a few even pausing to watch the “twins” getting used like a matched set. He should have been embarrassed, but all he could feel was that hot, pounding need, the driving throb of his own cock clamped in Klaus’s tight grip, and the way the ferret’s shaft pressed mercilessly against his prostate with every jackhammer motion.

Oli’s eyes fluttered open, then glazed. The next thrust from Dieter drove him forward, almost nose to nose with Mark. Between them, both their cocks hung low and full, swinging close to the floor with each jolt, slick and aching and far too heavy to lift. A stray drop traced down from Oli and painted a warm line across Mark’s skin.

There was a moment; a split second of clarity, right there, shared between them at the center of everything. Mark could not have said what passed between him and Oli, only that it felt important, grounding, and then it was gone, drowned out by the haze of pleasure and the frantic pace of the ferrets behind them.

It got faster; harder. Klaus abandoned all pretense of restraint. He slammed forward with a rhythm that sounded like a drum solo, each contact not just loud but deep, punishing, wrecking Mark’s ass in the best possible way.

He could not help himself. He squeezed his thighs together, trying to get some friction, and that motion was immediately rewarded by Klaus, who groaned and fucked him harder, the cock inside swelling, bulging, stretching him almost to the limit. The pressure built and built, and every time Mark thought he could not take any more, Klaus would adjust the angle, tilt him just so, and hit the magic spot again.

God, he was drooling. His cock had gone from hard to throbbing, now leaking constantly, ropes of clear slick running down over his balls and the edge of his thigh, marking him filthy and desperate. He could not remember ever feeling so full, so owned, and the knowledge that Oli was getting absolutely pounded right in front of him just made him clench tighter, leak harder, want more.

Dieter’s voice cut through, sharp and edged with a cruel kind of amusement. “Look at them,” he said, and Mark realized he was not just talking to Klaus, but to anyone within earshot. “Two perfect twins. Both in heat. Both leaking like they’re already about to cum. So easy.”

Oli’s composure was gone. Fully gone. His mouth hung open, his whiskers trembling, his cock hard and leaking between them. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. Mark’s brain supplied that word without permission and he did not even flinch, did not even try to correct it, because there was no correction left. The truth of it just sat in his chest like a stone.

“So,” Oli managed, his voice ragged, barely above a whisper. The ferrets were driving into both of them now in a steady, punishing rhythm that made the words come out broken. “Still... totally straight?”

Mark laughed. He could not help it. A real laugh, raw and breathless and stupid, because here he was, on his knees, getting fucked in the ass at a gay party while staring into the eyes of his male roommate, and the idea of “straight” was so far away it might as well have been on another planet; in another solar system; in a universe where Mark had not eaten three Cream Dreams and let twin ferrets use him like a party favor.

“It’s only gay if you kiss,” Mark said.

The words fell out of him like a reflex. Something he had read online once, probably on the same cursed corner of YouTube that had taught him about Gay Tuesday. A joke; a deflection; the last flimsy scrap of plausible deniability his brain could manufacture, offered up with the confidence of a man who had already lost the argument and knew it.

Oli stared at him.

Mark stared back.

The ferrets kept moving. The bass kept thumping. The room kept spinning. None of it mattered. The whole universe had contracted to the space between Mark’s mouth and Oli’s.

Oli’s eyes dropped to Mark’s lips.

Mark’s dropped to Oli’s.

One of them moved first. Mark would never be sure which one. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe the ferrets thrust at the exact same moment and the physics of it just slammed them together like colliding particles.

Their mouths met.

It was not gentle, but it was not careless either. It was hungry, breathless, and a little clumsy in the way real kisses sometimes are when both people want the same thing too badly to pretend otherwise. Their mouths found each other in a messy, searching rhythm; lips parting, tongues sliding, breath catching and mingling between them. Mark pressed forward into it like he was starving, and Oli met him with the same desperate need, chasing every fraction of contact they could steal. Whiskers brushed, teeth clicked once, then softened, and the kiss deepened into something hot and greedy and impossibly close, the kind that made the rest of the room fall away.

Mark tasted salt and sweat and something that was just Oli; that river-water musk he had been breathing in for weeks, and the taste of it went through him like an electric current. His mouth opened wider and Oli’s tongue pushed in, slick and hot and nothing like Tuesday, because Tuesday had been about bodies and friction and the blind mechanics of want. This was different. This was Oli’s breath in his lungs. Oli’s hands in his hair. Oli making a sound against his lips that was small and wrecked and real, the kind of sound you could not fake, and Mark swallowed it whole.

The ferrets did not stop. If anything, the kiss was a signal; a green light, a starting gun. Klaus’s thrusts turned savage behind him, each one a full-length withdrawal and a bone-jarring slam that drove Mark’s mouth harder against Oli’s. The rhythm lost its careful synchronization and became something rawer, something greedier. Klaus was fucking him like he was trying to break through to the other side, and every impact shoved Mark forward into the kiss; teeth clacking, noses mashing, neither of them pulling back.

Dieter matched the escalation. Mark could feel it through Oli’s body, the way the otter jolted forward with each thrust, the tremor running through his chest and into Mark’s palms where they pressed against his face. The wet, percussive slap of Dieter’s hips against Oli’s ass was louder now; faster; the kind of pace that said the finish line was in sight and nobody was pumping the brakes.

Mark broke the kiss just enough to breathe. A string of saliva connected their lips, glistening in the neon. Oli’s face was a wreck; fur matted with sweat, whiskers trembling, eyes barely focused. His mouth kept moving, forming half-words that never made it past his teeth.

Klaus drove in at a new angle, steeper and harder, and Mark felt his prostate light up like a circuit breaker getting slammed. His whole body clenched. His cock jerked between them, untouched, and a thick rope of pre splattered against Oli’s belly.

“Fuck,” Mark choked, but the word was cut short by the next thrust, and the next, Klaus hammering that spot with mechanical precision, each impact sending a bolt of white-hot sensation up through Mark’s spine and out through every extremity. His fingers went numb. His toes curled so hard in the cheap sneakers that his calves cramped. The pressure in his gut was catastrophic; a dam with cracks spreading faster than he could count.

He looked at Oli. Could not help it. The otter was shaking.

Not just trembling; shaking. Full-body, from the tip of his tail all the way up through his spine and into his shoulders and jaw. The vibration was visible, a fine, continuous tremor that turned Oli’s outline blurry under the strobing lights. His claws were gouging trenches into the floor . His back was arched so deep his belly nearly touched the floor. Dieter was pounding into him with both paws locked on his hips, the ferret’s face twisted in concentration, driving forward with short, vicious strokes that made Oli’s whole frame jolt with each one.

Mark watched Oli’s cock.

The long pink shaft was jerking on its own, flexing and twitching in violent little spasms, completely untouched, bobbing against the otter’s belly with each thrust. The tapered tip was swollen, flushed dark, leaking in a continuous stream that swung back and forth with the motion. Mark watched it flex; a hard, full-body clench that started in Oli’s abs and rolled down through his hips, and then it erupted.

The first shot was a rope, thick and white, that arced out and hit the floor a foot in front of Oli’s knees. The second followed before the first had even landed, a heavy line that splattered between them, close enough that Mark felt the warmth of it on his own thigh. Oli’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his whole body locking up, every muscle going taut at once, and then the third and fourth shots came in rapid succession, painting the floor in long, glossy streaks that caught the colored light and shimmered.

Oli’s cock kept going. It jerked and pulsed and spat, each contraction visible from root to tip, the otter’s hips bucking forward into nothing, chasing the release. His tail slammed against Dieter’s chest and went rigid. The sounds coming out of him were barely sounds at all; high, keening, shattered things that broke apart before they finished forming.

Mark watched all of it. Every detail. The way Oli’s hole clenched around Dieter’s cock with each pulse, the way his balls drew up tight, the way his fur rippled with the force of the contractions. He watched the cum pool on the floor between Oli’s knees, thick and white against the dark surface, and something about that, something about watching Oli come completely undone, wrecked and shaking and beautiful in the most profane way imaginable, reached into Mark’s chest and yanked.

His own orgasm hit like a detonation.

There was no buildup. No warning. No slow crest. One second he was watching Oli paint the floor, and the next his body was seizing, every muscle from his jaw to his ankles locking in a single, violent contraction. His cock jerked hard between his legs once, twice, and then he was cumming, thick ropes splattering the floor in front of his knees, mixing with Oli’s in a slick, spreading pool that neither of them could have separated if they had tried.

He could not control it. His hips bucked forward, then back, impaling himself deeper on Klaus’s cock, and the dual sensation, emptying and being filled, short-circuited something fundamental in his nervous system. His vision went white. His hands slapped the floor for balance and landed in the warm, wet mess beneath them, and he did not care, could not care, because his body was shaking now too, involuntary tremors that mirrored Oli’s with eerie precision. Twins. They looked like twins. They came like twins. The cum pooled and swirled beneath them, their loads blending together on the dance floor until there was no separating one from the other.

Everything slowed.

Not actually. The music was still pounding; the party was still raging. But in Mark’s head, time went thick and syrupy. He could feel each individual pulse of his orgasm like a separate event, each one drawing out longer than it should have, his cock twitching and spitting the last of it into the shared puddle beneath them. He could feel Klaus behind him, the ferret’s rhythm gone ragged and desperate, the cock inside him swelling, thickening, and then...

Heat. Deep, flooding heat, pulsing inside him in long, heavy surges. Klaus’s hips stuttered and locked, pressed flush against Mark’s ass, and the ferret’s grip on his hips turned crushing. Mark felt every throb, every jet, the warmth spreading through his insides in a way that was so intimate it almost hurt. Klaus was filling him. He could feel it; the volume, the pressure, the way his body clenched around the pulsing shaft and milked it deeper.

Mark’s gaze drifted up, slow and dazed, like turning his head through water.

Dieter was still behind Oli. The ferret’s face was locked in an expression Mark recognized from the inside out; jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed in a grimace that was indistinguishable from agony except for the way his mouth hung open at the corners, slack with pleasure. His hips were pressed tight against Oli’s ass, not thrusting anymore, just grinding in tiny, involuntary circles. His claws were sunk deep into the otter’s hip fur.

He was cumming. Right now. Filling Oli the same way Klaus was filling Mark.

The symmetry of it crashed through Mark’s already ruined brain like a wrecking ball. Both of them, on their knees, leaking and shaking and stuffed full, their cum cooling in a shared pool beneath them. Twins. The ferrets had gotten exactly what they wanted. A matched set, used and completed in perfect unison.

Mark’s arms gave out. He slumped forward, his forehead hitting the floor, and did not even flinch at the smell; sex and sweat and the sharp tang of cum hanging thick in the air around them. His cock gave one last, pathetic twitch against his thigh. Behind him, Klaus was still buried deep, still pulsing in diminishing waves, still holding Mark’s hips like he owned them.

Somewhere very far away, the bass dropped, and the crowd cheered for something that had nothing to do with the four of them.

They collapsed together. Breathing. Just breathing.

The ferrets said something. Mark did not hear it. Oli said something back. Mark did not hear that either. His face was buried in the fur between Oli’s shoulder blades, and the world was warm and dark and smelled like river water and sex, and his brain was running on the cognitive equivalent of a phone at 2% battery.

He did not notice the brown-furred wolf until a jacket landed across his back.

Mark flinched, rolling sideways, one arm still draped over Oli’s hip. He squinted up through the haze of exhaustion and post-orgasmic stupor. A large wolf stood over the four of them, brown fur neatly groomed, wearing an open jacket absolutely covered in patches. Full Patch. Had to be. His expression sat somewhere between professional and deeply entertained, like a teacher handing back graded tests to students who had not realized there was an exam.

“Congratulations,” the wolf said in a tone that suggested he had delivered this speech many times; to many piles of spent, confused people on many floors.

He set down four fresh party jackets. Four. Not two. Four. Each one already had a small starter cluster of tonight’s patches pinned to the breast, glinting under the shifting club lights.

Mark blinked at his jacket. Then at Oli’s. Then at the two Klaus and Dieter were staring at like someone had just dropped winning lottery tickets at their feet.

For once, the twins were not smooth about it.

Klaus grabbed his first, eyes wide. “No shit,” he breathed, turning it over in his hands like he expected it to vanish if he blinked. “Dieter. Dieter, look.”

Dieter snatched up his own jacket and let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Holy fuck. We actually got them.”

The swagger was still there, sort of, but it had cracked around the edges. Underneath it was something almost boyish. Relief. Excitement. The kind that came from wanting something for a long time and finally having it land in your hands.

Klaus was already tracing the patches with one claw. “In Sync,” he read, voice gone a little reverent. It depicted two interlocking figures, stylized and unmistakable.

“Obviously,” Dieter said, though his usual smugness had softened into something bright and breathless. He held up another patch, larger and flashier, with a spotlight design and the words “SHOWSTOPPER” embroidered in gold thread. “And this one. Klaus. We actually got Showstopper.”

“All four of you,” the wolf confirmed, arms crossed, tail wagging once in what might have been amusement. “You drew a crowd. Quite the performance.”

Klaus laughed, short and stunned. “We’ve been trying to earn jackets for months.”

“Six parties,” Dieter corrected automatically, still staring at his like he was afraid to set it down. “Six parties, and every time we got close, somebody else stole the floor.” He glanced at Mark and Oli, then grinned, all sharp teeth and delighted disbelief. “Guess we just needed better twins.”

Mark looked down at his own jacket, then over at Oli.

The otter had gone completely still.

His eyes were locked on the jacket at his feet, wide and shining, not smug now, not teasing, but openly starstruck. It was almost funny, seeing Oli, who acted like he was born understanding every room he walked into, looking like he had just been handed a backstage pass to heaven.

Mark nudged the jacket lightly with his toes. “You okay?”

Oli swallowed. “That’s a jacket.”

“Yes,” Mark said. “I did gather that.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Oli finally looked up at him, and the expression on his face was ridiculous in the best way, somewhere between awe and vindication. “That’s a Patch Party jacket.”

The wolf dropped a small velvet pouch next to the jackets. “Your stars are in there. Tallied and verified.” He paused, looking at the four of them with the weary fondness of a man who had truly seen everything. “Nice work, Fresh Meats.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving four jackets, a velvet pouch, and the lingering sense that Mark’s life had just been reorganized without his consent.

Dieter was already shrugging into his jacket, patches gleaming. Klaus helped him smooth the collar. They looked at each other with matching grins, bumped fists, and turned to Mark and Oli with the satisfied air of two people whose evening had gone exactly according to plan.

“Same time next week?” Klaus asked.

Mark did not answer. He was not listening.

He was looking at Oli.

The otter was lying on his side, jacket draped over one shoulder, patches catching the light. His fur was a disaster. His eyes were half-closed. His tail was doing that lazy, post-orgasmic twitch Mark had catalogued on Tuesday and filed under things I will think about at inappropriate times for the rest of my life. A satisfied smile curved his muzzle, soft and unguarded in a way Mark had never seen before. Not smug. Not teasing. Just... happy.

Mark’s hand was still on Oli’s hip. He had not moved it. Had not wanted to.

The patches did not matter. The jackets did not matter. The stars, the badges, the wolf, the ferrets, the entire elaborate architecture of Patch Party and its scoring system and themed nights and dragon-cock gongs. None of it.

What mattered was this: Oli’s fur under his palm. The warmth of the otter’s body curving back against his. The way Mark’s cock, even now, even spent and soft and thoroughly depleted, gave a feeble, optimistic twitch when Oli shifted his hips and that perfect, round, devastating ass pressed against Mark’s lap.

What mattered was that Mark was already thinking about next time. About getting Oli back to their room. About the top bunk that needed a new fitted sheet. About the way Oli’s breath would hitch when Mark grabbed his tail.

“Hey,” Oli murmured, not opening his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Still straight?”

Mark looked down at his hand on the otter’s hip. At the jacket with its cluster of patches earned at a gay orgy. At the cum drying on his thighs, some of it his, some of it not. At his own cock, resting contentedly against the curve of his roommate’s ass like it had finally found its purpose in life.

He thought about Descartes. I think, therefore I am.

Well. He thought Oli’s ass was incredible. Therefore...

“I might be a little gay,” Mark said.

Oli’s tail flicked against his stomach. “A little?”

Mark pulled him closer. Pressed his face into the fur between Oli’s shoulder blades, where it smelled like river water and musk and sex and something warm he still could not name, though he had stopped trying to.

“We’ll workshop the number later,” he said.

Oli laughed. That same low, easy laugh; the one that had started all of this.

Above them, the lights pulsed. The music thumped. Somewhere nearby, Klaus was bragging to a group of wide-eyed freshmen about the In Sync badge while Dieter demonstrated the qualifying positions with his hands. The party kept going, because parties always do, indifferent to the small, stupid, enormous thing that had just happened on its floor.

Mark closed his eyes. His arm tightened around Oli’s waist. His brain, for the first time in two days, was quiet.

Not empty. Not buffering. Just... settled.

He was still wearing the “FRESH MEAT” shirt. He had earned four patches at a party he had come to in order to prove he was straight. He was spooning his male roommate on the floor of a room that smelled like a locker room repurposed for things no locker room had ever been designed for. His Epistemology paper was still blank. His Philosophy textbook was still on the floor of their dorm, spine-up, page 47, unread.

And yeah. He was a little gay.

Maybe more than a little.

Definitely more than a little.

He’d deal with the rest of it tomorrow.