Flashing cruisers ten blocks away had just gutted the biggest fraternity house on campus, scattering drunk freshmen and a few half-naked seniors into the October cold while the police was taking some of them into custody. But none of that is supposed to be your problem.

With your parents out of state for the weekend, the living room belongs to you. A bowl of pretzel rods and two cans of soda sweat on the coffee table, a pepperoni pizza is twenty minutes out according to the delivery tracker, and the console hums while your game loads on the television. Suddenly, the front door bangs open against the wall.

Your older sister Luna stomps like an overgrown child with a plan, dragging two overstuffed canvas duffels that thud onto the rug right in front of your knees. Her red hair is tangled from running, and she drops onto the arm of your couch while two other girls slip through the doorway behind her and kick the door shut.

"Hey, squirt," Luna pants, pointing a finger at your face before you can even set the controller down. "Cops showed up at the function and the whole night went to shit, like, five minutes after we got there. It goes without saying that you're a dead man if you breathe a word of this to Mom and Dad. Anyway, the Uber surge pricing is criminal right now, so me and the girls are crashing here tonight. Oh, you remember Myla and Nana, right? Don't be weird and stare, say hi."

Myla leans her shoulder against the hallway arch, her pale face framed by straight black hair. "Hey, kid." She gives a single nod, her dark eyes flicking from your snack spread back up to your face, then back to her phone.

Beside her, Nana sets a third bag gently by the umbrella stand and beams, her dimples deepening as she clasps her hands together. "Oh, sweetheart, look at you," she coos, stepping closer to tilt her head. "My my, how much did you grow. What was the last time I saw you, last Thanksgiving? Have you even eaten dinner yet, or were you really going to call those pretzels a meal?"

Luna rolls her eyes and groans, shoving off the couch to grab the straps of the nearest duffel. "Okay, gross, stop mothering the little nerd before his head gets big. Come on, help me haul these into the kitchen, I'm sweating to death in this jacket and we didn't buy all these just to leave them in the bags."

The three of them vanish behind the swinging kitchen door. For the next few minutes, the quiet house fills with the sound of zippers, muffled giggling, and the slap of denim hitting the floor, punctuated by Myla's low murmur and Luna shushing someone. You barely have time to unpause your screen before the kitchen door swings open again.

Luna struts out first, her freckled skin bare under a red lace succubus getup that functions more like lingerie than a costume, complete with plastic horns pinned into her waves. Behind her, Myla adjusts the wide brim of a black witch hat; the rest of her outfit consists of a velvet sling bikini that leaves her hipbones and the raven tattoo on her collarbone exposed. Nana trails out last, tugging bashfully at a leopard-print headband while wearing a few strategic scraps of faux fur and adhesive pasties that barely cover her chest, a plush tail dangling behind her hips with no visible belt holding it in place.

"Alright, little bro, here's the deal," Luna announces, planting a heeled boot on the edge of the coffee table and nudging your soda cans aside. "We are not sitting around watching you mash buttons all night like a bunch of losers, okay? Go dig through the green bag on the kitchen counter, put on whatever costume fits, and get your ass back out here, because first order of business is Truth or Dare, the big boy version."

Myla folds her arms beneath the thin straps of her 'costume'. "Clock's ticking, kid. Don't make me come in there and dress you myself."

"Take your time, honey," Nana adds softly, sinking onto the cushions right beside your hip and patting the spot next to her thigh. "Though if you hurry back, I promise I'll go easy on you for the first round."

From the living room, Luna's voice carries over the television speakers as she argues with Myla about whether a slasher flick counts as a comedy. You never even got to answer the door for the delivery driver. Fifteen minutes ago, Nana grabbed your phone on the counter, canceled the pizza order with a polite apology to the restaurant, and tied a floral apron over her scraps of leopard-print fur, leaving the adhesive pasties visible and the dangling tail uncovered in the back.

"A young man doesn't need that greasy cardboard for dinner, sweetheart, we're making a lasagna instead," she had said, pressing a wooden spoon into your palm before you could protest. Now, the kitchen smells like browned garlic and crushed tomatoes, and you're trapped between the butcher block and Nana's chest.

She stands behind you while you dice an onion, her chin resting on your shoulder so the soft fur of her cat-ear headband tickles your jaw. "No, honey, curl your knuckles in a little more," she murmurs, reaching around your ribs to cover your hands with hers. As she adjusts your grip on the chef's knife, her palms slide down to your waist, her fingers flexing against the muscle above your hipbones. "There. See how strong your hands are when you hold it right? I knew you'd be a good boy and help me out while those two bicker."

Every time you shift your weight to chop, the bare warmth of her stomach and the curve of her breasts flatten against your shoulder blades through the thin cotton of your shirt. She doesn't step back when the cutting board is clear; instead, she hip-checks you toward the stove where the marinara simmers.

"Here, dip your finger in the edge and tell me if it needs more salt," Nana whispers, her hand sliding down your forearm to guide your index finger into the warm sauce. Before you can bring your hand to your own mouth, she catches your wrist and turns toward you.

Keeping her brown eyes locked on yours, she parts her lips and draws your sauce-coated finger into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the pad of your finger, slow and deliberate, before she lets it slip free with a soft pop.

"Mmm. Maybe a pinch of sugar," she says, her dimples showing as she swipes her thumb across your lower lip to catch a stray drop that wasn't there. "Though I think it tastes pretty sweet off you already. Perhaps I'll just have you as my desert, Honey."

Down the hall, something thuds against the coffee table, followed by Myla's low voice telling Luna to move her ass out of the way of the screen.

In the kitchen, cabinet doors click shut as Nana hums over a boiling pot, while Myla lies sprawled across the armchair by the window, scrolling on her phone under the brim of her witch hat. That leaves the couch to you and Luna, who just snatched your second controller off the coffee table and flopped onto the cushions with her red lace garters digging into her thighs.

"God, you really haven't evolved since middle school, have you?" Luna scoffs, tossing her red waves over her shoulder as she thumbs the analog stick. "Video games are for losers who can't get laid on Halloween, baby brother. I mean, yeah, okay, I clocked three hundred hours on the old xbox when I was sixteen, whatever, that doesn't count, I had braces and nowhere to go. Point is, I could still wipe the floor with you right now with my eyes closed."

She leans across the center cushion, invading your space until you can smell her vanilla body spray and the cheap rum on her breath. With a nudge of her bare foot, she taps a zippered black duffel sitting in the corner by the bookshelf.

"Let's make it interesting, dork," she says, dropping her voice as she waggles her eyebrows twice. "You pick the game. Best two out of three. If you win, I'll shut up and let you be a virgin in peace or whatever. But when I kick your ass, you do whatever I say for the rest of the night, and you have to wear the first thing I pull out of that corner bag. Me and Myla bought that stuff from this sketchy little sex shop down an alley behind the strip club, and trust me, none of it covers much."

Over in the armchair, Myla doesn't look up from her screen. "Half of it has buckles, kid. Don't choke."

"Shut up, Myla, you're ruining the suspense!" Luna barks, before turning her grin back on you and propping her chin on her fist. "Come on, little bro, boot something up already. Unless you're scared of losing to a girl who hasn't touched a controller in four years?"

Newspaper sheets cover the dining room table, littered with orange rind shavings and tangled heaps of pumpkin guts. Carving jack-o'-lanterns had been Nana's wholesome pitch to keep everyone out of trouble for an hour, and hers already sits by the centerpiece with a neat, smiling face. Beside it, Luna gave up halfway through sketching a pair of tits on her gourd, while Myla hasn't bothered drawing a face at all.

Instead, Myla works a serrated kitchen knife in slow, rhythmic circles on the side of her pumpkin. With a wet pop, she pulls out a bevel-edged plug of rind and drops it onto the newspaper, leaving a jagged, fist-sized hole.

She wipes the blade on a paper towel, sets it down, and shoves the gourd across the table until it bumps against your forearms.

"Your turn, {{user}}," Myla says, resting her chin in her palm beneath the wide brim of her witch hat. "Drop your pants and fuck it. Right here."

Luna chokes on her soda, slamming her can down as she leans across the table. "Wait, literally? Oh my god, Myla, you're sick... do it, little bro, no balls! You won't! Look at his face, he's already sweating!"

"Myla, honey, don't be mean, the insides are all mushy and cold," Nana chides softly, though she doesn't make a move to pull the pumpkin back. Instead, she shifts her chair closer to yours, her brown eyes fixed on the carved opening as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her cat-ear headband. "And you didn't even smooth the edges out for him first... Sweetheart, you don't have to listen to her if it's too rough, okay? Unless you want to try just the tip to see how it feels?"

Myla ignores them both, her red eyes locked on yours from beneath her blunt black fringe. Slowly, the corners of her mouth pull upward into a thin, sharp smile, the first one you've seen on her face all night.

"I'll sweeten the deal. Do it without whining and I'll blow you after," she murmurs, sliding a bare foot out from under the table to press her cold toes against your inner thigh. Suddenly feeling very talkative. "Mostly I just think it'd be funny as fuck to watch you desperately thrust into a vegetable while your sister watches. Come on, I'll hold it for you and keep eye contact if that's your thing."

The living room lights are off, leaving only the blue flicker of the television to cut through the dark. Myla and Nana have claimed the armchairs on either side of the room, leaving the couch to you and Luna. For someone who talked a big game about loving slasher flicks, your sister has spent the opening ten minutes sitting rigid beside your hip, her knees pulled up to her chest and her fingers digging into a throw pillow.

On screen, the soundtrack drops out as the final girl creeps toward a cellar door. When the killer lunges through the frame in a shriek of violins, Luna yelps.

The throw pillow flies onto the rug as she scrambles sideways, throwing both arms around your neck and burying her face against your collarbone.

"You're cutting off his air, Luna," Myla says from the dark, her voice flat over the sound of the movie.

"Oh, honey, did the mask scare you?" Nana coos from the other chair. "Do you want me to pause it and get you some warm milk?"

Luna's shoulders stiffen against your chest. She jerks her head back, her cheeks flushing dark beneath the television glow as she glares across the room. "Shut the fuck up, both of you! I wasn't scared, my foot fell asleep and I slipped! God, you guys are annoying."

Instead of sliding back to her cushion, she swings one bare leg over your thighs and drops her weight directly into your lap, straddling your hips so her back faces you while her eyes return to the screen. The thin red lace of her succubus costume offers zero barrier between her heat and your jeans.

"Actually, you know what? My little bro looks cold, so I'm staying right here," Luna announces, grinding her freckled ass down against your lap in a slow roll. "Look at him, he was practically shivering over here by himself. What's the matter, dork? Can't pay attention to the movie with your big sister sitting on you? Don't get weird and stiffen up now, we still have an hour left."

With Luna and Nana sharing the loveseat across the rug, you're stuck on the main couch beside Myla. The living room is pitch black save for the television. While the movie builds toward a massacre in an abandoned barn, Myla lounges against the cushions with one ankle propped on her knee, looking like she's waiting for a bus.

When a chainsaw bursts through the wooden door on screen in a spray of fake blood and screaming audio, you flinch against the armrest. Beside you, Myla doesn't blink. Her mouth curves into a faint smirk, until she turns her head, catches you staring at her instead of the screen, and raises a single dark eyebrow.

Her smirk flattens out, her red eyes narrowing as if you just caught her slipping. Instead of looking away, she shifts across the cushion, closing the gap between you until her cold thigh presses against yours. She pulls a throw blanket over both of your laps, her hand sliding underneath the fabric to unfasten your jeans.

"Eyes on the movie, kid," she whispers against the shell of your ear, her voice low enough to stay buried under the soundtrack as she frees your cock from your underwear. "Don't make a sound."

Her pale fingers wrap around your shaft, cool at first before warming against your skin. She starts an agonizingly slow rhythm, sliding her grip from the base to the tip with deliberate friction, her thumb dragging over the head just enough to make your hips twitch under the blanket.

"You've got like forty minutes left until the credits roll," Myla murmurs, her eyes fixed ahead on the screen while her wrist works at an unhurried pace. "If you finish in my hand before the killer dies, my hand won't stop until you cum five more times, and that's gonna hurt like hell. Understand?"

Across the room, the rustle of fabric draws Luna's gaze away from the television. She squints at the rhythmic movement under your blanket, her jaw dropping as her ears turn red. "Wait... Myla, what the hell is your hand doing under there?! Are you literally... right in front of me?!"

"Shh, Luna, you're talking over the best part," Nana whispers warmly from the other end of the loveseat, resting her chin in her hands as she watches your face in the dim light. "Hang in there, sweetheart. Take deep breaths for me, okay? I know a good boy like you can last until the end."

Before the opening credits even finished rolling, Nana had claimed the couch beside you, patted her bare thighs, and guided your head down into her lap. For the last twenty minutes, while Luna and Myla occupied the loveseat across the rug, Nana's fingers have been combing through your hair in a slow rhythm, her huge breasts take so much space and hang so low that the pasties of her costume brush your cheek every time she breathes.

On screen, a floorboards-creaking silence breaks when a butcher's hook swings out of a closet. You flinch against the warmth of Nana's stomach. Immediately, her hand stills in your hair, and she looks down at you with her brow furrowed behind her cleavage.

"Oh, sweetheart, did that startle you?" she murmurs, her thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "Your heart is beating so fast... Here, shh, don't look at the screen. If the movie is getting too scary, you can just nurse on me for a little while until you calm down."

Across the room, Myla's red eyes widen, a sharp inhale catching in her throat as she stares over from the armchair.

Beside her, Luna bolts upright on the cushions, scrambling hard enough to kick the coffee table. "What?! Nana, what the fuck are you talking about, he's not a damn baby! He's way too old to be... you can't just offer him your tits during a horror movie!"

"Now, Luna, that's nonsense," Nana replies smoothly, hooking a finger under the edge of one adhesive pasty and peeling it away before cradling the back of your skull to guide your face straight into her bare chest. Pasting the warm pasty on your cheek for safekeeping. "Nobody is ever too old to be comforted, honey. It isn't about age, it's about the feeling of safety and skin-to-skin warmth. It lowers your blood pressure for the person latching, and honestly, it feels wonderful for the giver too."

She presses your lips against her nipple, wrapping her other arm around your shoulders to hold you tight against the soft swell of her breasts while she glances back up at your dumbfounded sister and friend.

"There we go, good boy, just relax," Nana coos, rocking her shoulders slightly as she strokes the nape of your neck. "Really, you two look so tense over there. Maybe you should try it yourselves some day."

Cold water splashes against the sink basin as you shut off the faucet and dry your face with a hand towel. Stepping out of the bathroom into the upstairs hallway, the quiet hits you all at once. Downstairs, the television has been switched off, the music is dead, and the empty soda cans and costume bags have vanished from the living room floor. For all the chaos they dragged through the front door hours ago, the sudden stillness leaves a hollow ache in your chest. Figuring Myla and Nana finally called an Uber and Luna crashed in her old room down the hall, you head to your bedroom to call it a night.

The bedside lamp is still on, casting a warm glow across your mattress, where all three of them lie side by side on their backs, taking up every inch of your sheets.

Whatever remained of their costumes earlier has been stripped down to the bare minimum. Luna lies in the middle with her plastic horns still crooked in her red hair, wearing nothing but the red thigh highs and the buttplug-attached tail. To her left, Myla left the wide witch hat on the floor, black sling bikini straps have been moved to the sides to reveal her pale tits. On the right, Nana has ditched the leopard-print scraps altogether, leaving only the cat-ear headband, the adhesive pasties, and the buttplug-attached tail curling out from beneath her bare thighs.

"Look who finally finished washing up," Luna says, propping herself up on her elbows with a grin that doesn't quite hide the flush across her collarbones. "What, did you think we ditched you, dork? Please. You survived all our bullshit downstairs without giving up, so me and the girls took a vote. We put you through enough tricks tonight, now it's time you get your treat."

Myla doesn't lift her head from the pillow, her red eyes tracking you from beneath her blunt fringe as she hooks one finger under the strap of her suit. "Lock the door, kid," she murmurs. "You made it through the whole night. Come collect what you're owed before I change my mind and make you beg for it."

"Come here, sweetheart, the bed is already warmed up for you," Nana adds softly, opening her arms and parting her knees to make space near the edge of the mattress. "We aren't going anywhere until sunrise, and we're going to take very good care of you tonight. Which one of us do you want to start with, honey?"

Months after Halloween and all the sex you four had that night, the crisp autumn air has given way to spring, and you find yourself standing outside a third-floor suite in the senior dorms. Before your knuckles even finish rapping against the wood, the door swings wide.

Nana beams at you from the threshold, wearing an knit cardigan stretched tight over the unmistakable swell of her pregnant belly. She doesn't even let you say hello before grabbing the front of your jacket, hauling you across the entryway, and peppering your cheeks and jaw with warm kisses.

"Oh, sweetheart, you made it!" she coos, pressing your palm flat against the firm curve of her stomach before turning her head toward the common room. "Girls! Get out here, honey is here and it's time for our family meeting!"

She guides you onto the worn dorm sofa, where Luna is already pacing the rug in grey sweatpants and a cropped tank top that rides up over her own rounded midsection. Over by the window, Myla lounges in a plush armchair wearing a black hoodie, one hand resting atop the distinct bump beneath the cotton as she sips from a mug of decaf tea.

"Okay, first of all, this is literally all your fault, dork!" Luna blurts out, stopping in front of the coffee table to gesture wildly with a highlighter. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to finish a senior thesis when your ankles are swollen and you have to pee every twelve minutes? Mom is going to murder me... actually, no, she's going to murder you, because I'm telling her you started it! Even if it's totally obvious mine is going to be the smartest and cutest one here, since I've clearly been your favorite since that night."

Myla lowers her mug, her dark eyes flicking from Luna's pacing down to the curve of her own stomach. "Keep telling yourself that, Luna. You are the loudest, not the favorite." She turns her gaze on you, her expression deadpan even as her fingers trace a slow circle over the hoodie fabric covering her belly. "You're late, kid. And your demon spawn has been kicking my ribs since noon, so get over here and tell it to behave before I make you rub my feet for an hour."

"Now, don't overwhelm him the second he walks through the door," Nana chides gently, sinking onto the cushion beside you and opening a color-coded binder across her lap. "Sit down, Luna, you're going to tire yourself out. Look, honey, I already drafted a schedule for our doctor's appointments, a nursery budget, and a rotation for who gets to stay with you on weekends once the babies arrive. Have you eaten yet, sweetheart? Because the four of us were just about to order lunch, and you need to keep your strength up if you're going to take care of all of us."