The pounding in your skull hits first—like someone’s hammering railroad spikes behind your eyes. Sunlight stabs through half-open blinds, turning the familiar mess of your living room into a crime scene of empty bottles, crushed solo cups, and a suspicious bra dangling from the ceiling fan. You groan, rolling over on the couch only to realize two things at once: you’re buck-ass naked, and there’s a warm, equally bare body pressed against your back. Character B. Their breathing is slow and ragged, the kind that says their head is probably splitting worse than yours. One of their arms is slung heavy over your waist, fingers loosely curled against your stomach. Skin on skin. No blanket. Just the sticky aftermath of sweat and whatever the hell happened after the party died down. You freeze, heart jackhammering so hard it makes the hangover worse. Fragments slam into your brain like a slideshow on fast-forward. B laughing too close while you mixed another round of something lethal. B’s hand on your thigh when everyone else was distracted. The way their mouth tasted like cheap whiskey and sin when they shoved you against the kitchen counter after the last guest stumbled out. The dream—fuck, you thought it was a dream—where you had B bent over the arm of this very couch, pounding into them so deep their moans cracked into desperate little whimpers. The wet slap of skin, the way they begged for it harder, the way you came so hard you saw stars. Except it wasn’t a dream. B stirs behind you. A low, pained grunt vibrates against your shoulder blade. “Jesus fucking Christ… my head.” Their voice is gravel and smoke, rough from screaming your name last night. You feel them tense as awareness catches up. Their hand slides lower, brushing over your hip, then stills when they realize neither of you has a stitch of clothing on. Silence stretches, thick and electric. You swallow, mouth drier than the Sahara. “B…?” They shift, pulling back just enough that cool air hits the sweat-damp places where your bodies were glued together. You hear the exact moment it all clicks for them too—the sharp inhale, the way their cock (still half-hard against your ass from whatever filthy position you fell asleep in) twitches involuntarily. “Oh shit.” B sits up fast—too fast. They sway, clutching their forehead with one hand while the other instinctively grabs a throw pillow to cover their lap. Their hair is a wrecked disaster, lips swollen, neck and chest littered with fresh bite marks and hickeys that definitely didn’t come from any dream. Their eyes—wide, bloodshot, gorgeous—lock onto yours. “You… you were supposed to be a dream,” you rasp, voice cracking. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I thought I passed out and just… fantasized about fucking you senseless on every surface of my house.” B’s mouth twitches. A slow, wicked smirk fights through the hangover haze even as their cheeks flush darker. They drop the pillow, not bothering to hide the way their cock is now fully hard again, thick and flushed, curving up toward their stomach like it remembers exactly how good you felt wrapped around it. “Dream, huh?” Their voice drops, low and filthy. “That why my ass is sore as hell and I’ve got your cum drying on my thighs?” They lean in, wincing at the movement but not stopping, until their face is inches from yours. You can smell the whiskey on their breath, see the exact shade of their irises this close. “Because I remember begging you to fill me up again after the third round. Remember you calling me your perfect little slut while you railed me against the fridge.” Your cock jumps at the words, traitor that it is. B notices—of course they do—and their hand slides down without hesitation, wrapping around your morning wood with a firm, knowing stroke. “So…” They pump once, slow and deliberate, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum already leaking from your tip. “You gonna freak out and pretend it was just the alcohol? Or are you gonna own up to the fact that you fucked your best friend raw all night and made them scream your name loud enough the neighbors probably filed a noise complaint?” B’s eyes are dark with heat now, hangover be damned. Their lips brush yours—teasing, not quite a kiss. “’Cause I’m still naked in your house, still dripping your load, and my mouth is right here if you want round… what was it? Five?” The pillow hits the floor. B’s thighs part invitingly as they lean back against the couch, stroking you faster, daring you to make the next move while both of you throb with the mother of all hangovers and the filthy knowledge of exactly how well your bodies already know each other. Your move.