The scent of strawberry shampoo still hung thick in the air as James Roberts—The Fox—leaned against the bathroom counter, watching droplets of water slide down Lola Bunny’s tan fur. Her Picton Blue dress was crumpled on the tiles beside his green hoodie, gloves tossed lazily on top.

"You gonna stare all day, or are those hands gonna do something useful?" Lola smirked, wiggling her hips just enough to make the curve of her ass jiggle.

James swallowed hard. He’d been a fan of hers since *Space Jam*, but *this*? This was beyond fantasy.

The shower hissed behind them, steam curling around the carrot-patterned curtains. Lola bent over—slow, deliberate—to pick up the soap she’d "accidentally" dropped. The sight of her spread cheeks, the subtle twitch of her cotton tail...

James’ cock throbbed.

"Rules are rules," Lola purred, glancing back at him. "Vagina’s for Bugs. But *this*?" She slapped her own ass, the sound sharp against the tiles. "Free real estate."

He was on her before he could second-guess it—hands gripping her hips, his length pressing against her entrance. Lola let out a breathy laugh as he pushed in, her body arching. "Fuck, you’re *bigger* than he is—"

The first thrust knocked a moan out of her, and James buried his muzzle in the crook of her neck, teeth grazing fur. He was *not* lasting long. Not with her bucking back against him, not with the way her walls clenched around him like she was trying to milk him dry—

"*Cum in me,*" she demanded, and he did, with a groan that rattled his ribs.

By the time Bugs’ Prius pulled back into the driveway, the bathroom smelled like lavender air freshener and bubble bath bombs. Lola lounged in the tub, leg cast propped up, looking *far* too pleased with herself.

James adjusted his hoodie, sweat still cooling on his fur. *Six weeks of this?*

He grinned. Yeah. He could work with that.

---

**Six Weeks of Trouble - Chapter Two: Tina's Turn**

The basement was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of the home theater screen reflecting off Tina Russo’s feathers. The others had long since passed out—Porky snoring into a bowl of half-eaten popcorn, Petunia curled against Daffy’s side—but Tina? Tina was wide awake.

James felt her stare before he saw it. A slow, lazy drag of her dark-tipped gaze down his torso, lingering where his hoodie rode up.

"You’re trouble," she murmured, stirring her drink with one finger. "The way you handled Lola upstairs? *Damn.*"

James smirked. "Jealous?"

Tina’s laugh was low, throaty. She leaned in, the scent of whiskey and strawberries thick on her breath. "Maybe."

Her beak brushed his ear. "Daffy says you’re *generous*."

James’ pulse kicked.

Suddenly, Tina’s hand was sliding down his sweatpants, fingers wrapping around his cock with zero hesitation. "Wanna prove him right?"

He didn’t answer—just flipped her onto the massive six-person bed hard enough to make the frame creak. Tina’s denim skirt rode up, her thighs already spreading.

"No vag," she teased, flipping onto her stomach. "But *this*?" She arched her back, tail feathers lifting. "All yours, hotshot."

James growled, gripping her hips. Her ass was *perfect*—plush, round, the softest yellow against his darker fur. He rubbed his cock between her cheeks, savoring the way she shuddered.

Tina peeked over her shoulder, grinning. "Quit teasing, fox. *Fuck* m—"

The first thrust stole her words.

James set a brutal pace, hands digging into her waist as Tina’s moans pitched higher. She reached back, claws scrabbling at his thigh. "*Harder—*"

He obliged, slamming into her until her voice broke.

When he came, Tina collapsed forward, panting.

James rolled off, chuckling at her dazed expression. "*Now* who’s trouble?"

Tina dragged a pillow over her face, laughing into it.

Somewhere upstairs, Bugs groaned into his paws.

*Five more weeks to go.*

---

**Next Up:** Daffy’s parade float gets *very* private...

The Volkswagen pickup’s paper-mache facade wobbled violently as James shoved Daffy against the makeshift dashboard, the duck’s orange feet kicking at the dangling steering wheel.

"Y’know—*ah!*—they call this *The Daffy-mobile* for a *reason*—!" Daffy yelped, cut off when James bit down on the white feathers of his collar.

James grinned against his neck. "Yeah? You *parading* this ass around for fun, or you wanna put it to work?"

Daffy’s answering laugh was half-groan as James yanked his tail feathers up. The duck’s black plumage trembled—*nervous? Excited?*—before he shoved his hips back with a theatrical gasp. "Oh, what the *hell*! Ruin me, you—*fuck!*"

James didn’t need telling twice.

The float rocked dangerously on its suspension as he pounded into Daffy, the duck’s bill clacking against the windshield with every thrust. "*Holy—!* You’re—*hnng!*—gonna dent the—*ohgodohgod*—*art installation*—!"

"Shoulda thought of that," James growled, gripping Daffy’s waist so hard his gloves left indents in the feathers.

Daffy came with a squawk loud enough to wake the neighborhood, legs twitching like a flipped beetle. James followed soon after, painting the duck’s insides white as the float’s headlights flickered in protest.

Silence. Panting. Then—

"...We *gotta* do this in the *real* car next time," Daffy wheezed, sprawled over the gearshift.

James wiped his muzzle, grinning. "*Deal.*"

Somewhere in the house, Bugs facepalmed so hard it echoed.

*Four weeks left.*

---

**Later That Night:** Porky’s "private gym session" goes *very* off-plan...

The basement weight bench groaned under Porky’s bulk as James lifted him—*literally*—by the hips, the pig’s blue blazer discarded somewhere near the dumbbells.

"Y-you’re *stronger* than you l-look—!" Porky stuttered, legs clamping around James’ waist as the fox buried himself to the hilt.

James smirked. "And you’re *tighter*."

Porky’s squeal when James hit his prostate could’ve shattered glass.

Petunia, woken by the noise, merely rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.

*Three weeks to go.*

The guest basement bathroom smelled like Petunia’s lavender bath bombs and something muskier underneath—something James couldn’t place until the pink pig leaned against the sink, her yellow-green shirt riding up just enough to expose the soft curve of her belly.

"You *really* don’t take nights off, huh?" Petunia teased, twirling one of her black pigtails around a finger.

James grinned, toweling off his fur. "You volunteering?"

Petunia’s laugh was husky, deliberate. She reached behind her back, unhooking her bra with one hand. "Been watching you with the others. Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about."

The bra hit the floor.

James’ pulse spiked. Petunia wasn’t built like Lola or Tina—softer, fuller, her curves inviting in a way that made his mouth water.

She turned, bending over the counter, tail flicking up. "No vag," she murmured, glancing back. "But I *do* like it rough."

James didn’t need convincing.

He gripped her hips, lining up in one smooth motion before slamming home. Petunia gasped, claws scraping the porcelain as he set a punishing pace.

"*Fuck—!*" she choked out, voice cracking when James yanked her pigtails.

He leaned down, teeth grazing her ear. "Still just *fuss*?"

Petunia’s answering moan was muffled against the counter.

By the time he spilled into her, she was trembling, legs barely holding her up. James pulled out with a wet *pop*, watching her sag against the sink.

Petunia caught her breath, then smirked at him in the mirror. "*Definitely* not just fuss."

Somewhere upstairs, Bugs groaned into his pillow.

*Two weeks left.*

---

**The Final Week: Bugs’ Bedroom, 2 AM**

The frilly pink bloomers were *ridiculous*.

James bit back a laugh as Bugs adjusted the light blue bra, the rabbit’s ears twitching in embarrassment. "Y’know, this wasn’t *exactly* how I pictured my night goin’," Bugs muttered, tugging at the skirt hem.

James shrugged. "You set the rules. No vag. Didn’t say *you* couldn’t dress up."

Bugs’ glare lacked heat. "*Smartass.*"

Then he was on the bed, legs spreading, cotton tail lifting. "*Well?*"

James didn’t need telling twice.

Bugs was *tight*—tighter than the others, his body clenching around James like a vice. The rabbit’s breath hitched when James bottomed out, his gloves fisting the sheets.

"*Damn,*" Bugs hissed, ears flattening. "*Knew* you were trouble."

James grinned, thrusting deep. "And yet here you are."

Bugs’ laugh turned into a moan halfway through.

By dawn, the bloomers were torn, the bra somewhere on the floor, and Bugs was smoking a post-coital carrot like a cigarette.

James flopped beside him, exhausted. "*Six weeks*," he breathed.

Bugs exhaled smoke, smirking. "*Worth it.*"

Downstairs, Lola’s cast finally came off.

Somehow, no one had noticed the security cameras.