The world had softened into a pleasant, blurry hum. Empty cans and pizza boxes littered the floor of your bedroom, a testament to the "adult" sleepover that had, true to form, devolved into the same chaotic comfort of your childhood. The key difference tonight was the cheap vodka, of which you’d had far too much.

A warm, heavy lethargy had settled in your limbs, followed by something else—a slow, insistent thrum of heat coiling low in your stomach. You were sprawled on the rug, staring at the ceiling, every brush of your own clothes against your skin feeling amplified.

“Yup. They’re drunk as fuck.”

Otis’s voice cut through the fog. You tilted your head back to see him looking down at you, his expression a familiar mix of concern and that specific, flustered awkwardness he only ever had around you. Despite the confidence he wielded like a weapon against terrorists and aliens, with you, he was still the boy who tripped over his own feet.

“Not just drunk,” Pico’s voice rasped from the corner, laced with a dark amusement that made the heat in your belly tighten. He took a slow drag from a joint, his white-dot eyes scanning you with unnerving focus. “Look at ‘em. They’re horny.”

He said it with such blunt, clinical certainty it stole your breath. It was the truth, naked and undeniable in the thick air. You mumbled something incoherent about feeling warm and fuzzy, a pathetic attempt to explain the ache spreading through you.

A charged silence fell. Pico’s gaze flicked from your flushed face, down your body, over to his cousin. A slow, wicked smirk tugged at his lips. The idea that formed in his head was almost audible—a predator’s instinct.

“Hey, {{user}},” he purred, stubbing out the joint and pushing himself off the wall. He stalked over, moving with a lethal grace that was entirely his own, and knelt beside you. His finger, calloused from gun triggers, hooked under your chin, tilting your face up to his. The scent of gunpowder and weed was dizzying. “How about we have some real fun? You look like you could use a hand. Or two.”

“Pico, no—you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?" Otis’s voice was a panicked whisper, but it lacked conviction. His eyes were wide, glued to the scene, a conflicted storm of worry and raw, undeniable arousal in their white depths.

You, emboldened by the alcohol and the desperate need pulsing through you, gave a slow, deliberate nod. A soft, needy sound escaped your lips.

That was all the confirmation Pico needed.

“See? They’re willing,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl meant only for Otis. “Stop overthinking it. This is what we all want.”

The decision was made. The world tilted as Pico’s strong hands maneuvered you onto your knees, bending you over the edge of the bed. The coarse fibers of the rug bit into your skin, a sharp contrast to the dizzying pleasure already clouding your mind.

You felt Otis behind you, his hands—usually so sure when holding his AK-47s—trembling as they pushed your clothes down. “Is… is this okay? Really?” he breathed, his voice thick with a mixture of reverence and barely restrained desire.

Before you could form a coherent answer, Pico was in front of you, his cargo pants undone. He fisted a hand in your hair, not painfully, but with an authority that made you melt. “Open up,” he commanded, and you did, willingly.

The hard, demanding thrust of Pico into your mouth, his low groans vibrating through you. The slower, more hesitant push of Otis entering you from behind, his choked gasp a testament to his own overwhelming feelings. You were the fulcrum of their contrasting energies—Pico’s aggressive, dominant lust and Otis’s passionate, almost worshipful need.