Call me Court. 26. A June 90's baby. I love fictional men with traumatic pasts, hence the MCU Universe was born. With a few unexpected others in these fanfictional/anime streets. Hope you enjoy my works and don't be scared to share your thoughts. 💭
Summary: After a few too many drinks, secrets start to mean less and your skin starts to hum Eddie’s name, whether you feel it or not. He answers the call.
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected semi-public sex, secret friends with benefits, cream pie, cum eating, little bit of oral (fem rec), dirty talk, drunk!Eddie POV, jealousy, possessiveness, panty stealing, begging, testosterone-off, small physical altercation (not R), desperation station, PDA, switch!Eddie, mild public embarrassment, dubcon (alcohol consumption; one-sided drunk sex), established relationship, Eddie is down horrendously, drunk!horny!Eddie abuses endearments, R wears a skirt (for easy access)
Song Rec: Drunk in Love by Beyoncé
A/N: Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day <3 Also, SURFBOAR— SURFBOAR—
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Eddie feels good.
Actually, he feels better than good—
He feels amazing.
The alcohol in his bloodstream is rushing, warming him from the inside out, leaving him flushed in the face.
The smoky bar is playing old Judas Priest tracks.
He’s drunk enough to not care how badly he’s losing the bet—the one he made thinking Steve would easily beat Robin at a billiards game. How was he supposed to know she was some kind of a whiz at Pool?
He’s got his girl to his right and the two bickering boneheads in front of him.
A couple of beers, some smooth vodka, great music, and friendly competition.
What’s not to love?
Although, you do keep inching away from him every time he gets close. He’s not loving that new development.
Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—
It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.
That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—
You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—
Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—
And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him.
You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars.
And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed.
He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable.
You called his name.
His favorite shape your mouth makes…
Well, that, and the stretch of—
No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.
That and something else.
What was it?
He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…
Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.
You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that
Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now.
Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—
And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been.
But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.
The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball.
“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.
“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor.
“Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.
Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that.
Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.
But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?
You lean forward. “Maybe if you—”
“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”
“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.
Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”
“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?”
“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.
Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long.
Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging.
It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight.
But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”
Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball.
You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone.
He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths.
“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck.
You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare.
When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—
“You need to stop,” you hiss.
His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”
“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”
He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!
He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start.
“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more.
Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”
Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.
“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender.
Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.
Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee.
And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—
“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.”
She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.
“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked.
“Multiple,” Robin confirms.
“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”
Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”
Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”
A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically.
Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity.
He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately.
The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.
You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view.
In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants.
He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with.
Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief.
The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—
You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip.
“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”
Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming.
“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”
He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far.
Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”
There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”
The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder.
“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—”
Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.
“Does he think you’re someone else?”
The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—
Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.
Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.
“How many has he had?”
Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.
He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.
You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him?
With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.
“Fuck, Eddie, st—”
“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate.
Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.
Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder.
“Okay, what the fuck, man.”
A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes.
A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.
Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back.
“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”
“Steve, it’s fine!”
Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin.
If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…
“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”
His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation.
Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder.
You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself.
And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”
Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you.
“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”
He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.
Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home.
He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too.
Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.
Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.
You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—
“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”
Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance.
“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”
The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.
“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”
Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long.
“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”
“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans.
When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down.
“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—”
Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you.
His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain.
“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.
“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”
His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him.
“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”
He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you.
How is it not obvious?
“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.”
You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”
“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking.
A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake.
He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck.
“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”
His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers.
“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight.
Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely.
“Always.”
He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers.
With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket.
You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt.
“Ed— Oh, God!”
His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet.
“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.
“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.
Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out.
Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?”
He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze.
You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth.
It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.
His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it.
“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”
Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze.
“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed.
He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”
Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.
“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.
He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through.
“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance.
It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though.
A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back. “Take what you need, ba—”
He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.
“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”
He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit.
“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”
Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”
His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise
He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone.
“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure.
Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!”
Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance.
With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.
He pauses.
Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only.
“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.”
The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.
The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan.
Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough.
He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”
His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.
He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you.
His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.
“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”
“F-Fu— Eddie!”
Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.
“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”
“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”
Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”
His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze.
“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”
Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.
“E-Eddie…”
Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath.
“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”
You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.
His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”
Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.
And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless.
“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”
He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.”
He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.
“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same.
“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger.
With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy.
But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.
“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.
“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”
“But—”
“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”
Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”
“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”
“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you.
“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo.
He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean.
Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”
His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”
With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse.
A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀
Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.
Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing.
I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.
Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3
Tags: smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, threesome dynamics, possessive behavior, dom/sub undertones, oral sex, penetrative sex, orgasm control, overstimulation, light humiliation, cum play, power dynamics, swearing, no condoms (be safe irl!).
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: You’ve always been Chan’s girl—even if no one dares put a label on it. His apartment is practically yours, and the whole group knows it. Everyone except Jeongin… who knows it too well. Shy, skittish, but far from innocent, he’s spent countless nights listening through the walls as Chan fucks you loud enough to break him. When Chan finally decides to share, the line between voyeurism and corruption blurs, and you find yourself caught between a man who owns you and a boy who wants to.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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The apartment wasn’t just theirs anymore, it was yours too, in the way unspoken things claim space. Chan and Jeongin’s names were scrawled on the lease, but your toothbrush sat snug in the bathroom cup, your perfume soaked into their sheets, your slippers nested by the couch like they’d always belonged.
You didn’t live there, not officially, but you drifted through their world like you were a part of fit—brewing coffee at dawn, sprawling across their couch at midnight, sinking into their gravity like it was the only force that mattered.
With Chan, you didn’t need labels. No promises, no declarations, just his hands on your skin, his lips staking claim whenever the mood struck. His arm slung possessive over your shoulders, his fingers curling tight on your thigh, his mouth stealing your breath in the kitchen like he owned the air itself. You were his, and everyone knew it. No questions asked.
Jeongin, though? He was a different story. Not cold, not distant, just careful. Shy, but with a jagged edge that sliced through his soft smiles. His eyes lingered too long when you sauntered in wearing nothing but Chan’s oversized tee, the hem teasing the tops of your thighs. His ears burned cherry-red when you stretched across the counter for a mug, the fabric riding up just enough to make him choke on his own breath. He’d vanish when things got too close, when you melted into Chan’s lap, lips brushing his throat during movie nights. Door shut, headphones on, like he could block out the heat seeping through the walls.
But Chan saw it. Chan always saw it.
And that night? He made sure Jeongin couldn’t look away.
You were sprawled across Chan’s bed, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing while he hunched over his desk, headphones slung around his neck, tweaking a track. The blue glow of his monitors carved shadows across his jaw, his focus so intense it made your thighs clench. God, you loved him like that—lost in his art, all sharp and quiet.
“You bored, babygirl?” His voice was velvet, that soft, dangerous drawl that always made your chest tighten. He swiveled his chair, eyes raking over you with that smile that could unravel you in seconds.
You hummed, teasing, not looking up. “Maybe a little.”
The bed dipped as he prowled over, snatching your phone and tossing it to the floor like it offended him. His body caged yours, heavy and warm, his eyes dark with intent.
“Got better things to focus on,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on you, slow at first, a tease of lips and tongue, before it turned hungry, devouring, stealing your air. His hands were everywhere; tugging your shirt up, sliding under to claim bare skin, fingers digging in like he wanted to brand you.
The kiss went feral, all teeth and need, his tongue fucking your mouth until you were whimpering into it. The air thickened, electric, the kind of heat that made your skin buzz.
Then—click. The faint sound of Jeongin’s door down the hall.
You froze, lips parting against Chan’s. “He’s home,” you whispered, voice shaky.
Chan’s grin was pure sin. “Good.”
Before you could protest, he kissed you again, harder, pinning you to the mattress like he wanted the whole damn building to know. His hand slid down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your shorts, then dipping lower, finding you already soaked. You gasped, nails biting into his shoulders as his fingers stroked, slow and deliberate, pulling sounds you couldn’t hold back.
“Chan—” you tried, voice trembling.
“Shh,” he breathed, lips brushing yours, his fingers slipping inside your shorts. “Don’t hide from him. Let him know who owns you.”
Your back arched as he worked you open, his touch a slow burn that set your nerves alight. You tried to bite back the moans, but he grabbed your chin, tilting your head back, his eyes blazing into yours. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled. “I want him to hear every single sound you make.”
His fingers curled, relentless, coaxing slick, obscene sounds from your body. The room filled with it—your whimpers, the wet rhythm of his hand, his low hum of approval against your throat. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, fucking you on his fingers until you were shaking. “Louder. Let him hear how good I make you feel.”
The heat in your belly coiled tight, your body trembling under him. You clung to him, torn between shame and the filthy thrill of knowing Jeongin was just down the hall, hearing every desperate sound spilling from your lips.
And Chan didn’t let up. He kissed you like he had forever, but his hands were greedy, impatient, sliding down your body like he needed to own every inch. His lips burned against your collarbone, your chest, sucking bruises that would bloom like secrets by morning.
“Take this off,” he muttered against your skin, tugging at the oversized shirt you wore.
You arched up, letting him peel it away until you were bare beneath him. His breath hitched—he always looked at you like that, like he was drinking you in, memorizing every curve. Then the hunger snapped back, sharp and ravenous.
“Fuck, look at you.” His lips closed around your nipple, tongue circling, and you cried out, fingers tangling in his hair. He groaned, sucking harder, his fingers never slowing their sinful rhythm between your thighs.
The coil inside you tightened, every nerve screaming. You tried to muffle your moans against your hand, but Chan caught your wrist, pinning it above your head.
“No hiding,” he warned, voice a dark growl. “Not when he’s listening.”
You shivered, shame and arousal twisting until you couldn’t tell them apart.
“Chan—”
“Say it,” he demanded, teeth grazing your skin, sharp enough to sting. “Say you want him to hear.”
Your breath caught, but the words tumbled out. “I… I want him to.”
His laugh was low, filthy. “Good girl.”
Then he shifted, sliding down between your legs. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you, hot and wet and merciless. His tongue worked you with devastating precision, licking deep, sucking hard on your clit until you screamed, raw and wrecked.
“Chan—oh, fuck—”
He groaned against you, devouring every twitch of your hips, every broken sound spilling from your lips. The orgasm ripped through you, hard and messy, your moans echoing through the apartment like a confession.
Jeongin tried to ignore it. He really did.
The first muffled sounds hit him when he closed his door, and he told himself to block them out. Headphones on, laptop open, scrolling through anything to drown you out. But the walls were too thin, and Chan was too fucking cruel.
Your moans cut through, sharp and clear, each one like a knife to his restraint. He froze, shame burning his chest, but his body betrayed him fast. Heat pooled low, his cock hardening painfully in his sweats before he even realized his hand was moving.
He hated himself for it—should’ve hated himself—but when you screamed, raw and ruined, his cock jerked so hard he nearly doubled over.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark, pumping faster, eyes squeezed shut. He could see you too clearly—spread out on Chan’s bed, crying his name, body trembling. He’d stolen enough glances to fill in the blanks: your bare thighs, your swollen lips, the way you arched when Chan touched you.
His hips bucked, breath ragged. He wanted to stop, knew he should, but every sound you made dragged him deeper. When your moans broke into sobs of pleasure, he bit his fist, desperate to stay quiet as he came, hot and messy, shame flooding in just as hard as the release.
Slumped against the headboard, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, the ache didn’t fade. His cock twitched, half-hard again, like his body didn’t care about the guilt tearing through him.
He couldn’t stop picturing you.
The way you laughed in the kitchen, soft and unguarded. The way Chan’s hands claimed you, casual but possessive, like you were his to hold. The way your shirt slipped too low sometimes, and Jeongin had to tear his eyes away before his thoughts betrayed him.
Now those thoughts were branded into him. You, writhing on Chan’s sheets, crying out so loud it shook the walls. He bit his lip hard enough to sting, wishing he could scrub the images from his brain, but they clung like sin, heavy and hot.
And the worst part? Some sick, aching part of him wanted it to happen again.
—
Chan’s room reeked of sweat and sex, thick and warm. You lay sprawled across the mattress, hair a mess, lips swollen, chest still heaving in ragged waves. Chan propped himself on one elbow beside you, watching you with that satisfied gleam that made you feel like you’d been unraveled all over again.
“You hear yourself?” His voice was rough, still thick with lust. He brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging slow over your swollen lip. “Loudest I’ve ever heard you.”
Your cheeks burned. “You did that on purpose.”
His grin was wicked. “Damn right I did. You sounded so fucking good, baby.” He leaned down, kissed you deep and slow, savoring the taste of your release on your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes glittered. “Bet he heard every second of it.”
Your stomach flipped, shame and heat curling low. “Chan…”
He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t act like you don’t love it. You’re mine. He needs to know exactly how good I fuck you.”
You shivered, burying your face in his chest, trying not to let the thought of Jeongin listening make you clench all over again.
Chan’s hand slid lazily over your hip, possessive even in the afterglow. “Next time,” he murmured, voice low against your hair, “I’ll make you scream louder.”
And you knew he meant it.
—
The morning after, you padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of Chan’s shirts and a pair of loose shorts, the fabric brushing the tops of your thighs, more tease than cover. The coffee pot bubbled as you leaned over the counter, humming softly to yourself.
Jeongin was already there when you turned, hesitating in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, hoodie zipped to his chin. “Morning,” you said, casual, pouring yourself a mug.
“Morning,” he echoed, voice tight, eyes glued to the fridge like it held the secrets of the universe. He brushed past you to grab the milk, careful not to touch you, but you caught the way his gaze flicked down—just for a second—at your bare legs. His ears flushed pink instantly.
You bit back a smile, sipping your coffee.
The air crackled, sharp and charged. When Chan strolled in, shirtless and smug, you nearly sagged with relief. He came up behind you, pressing a kiss to your temple, his hand sliding low over your hip like he owned you. Which, in this house, he did.
“Sleep okay?” he murmured, loud enough for Jeongin to hear.
You hummed. “Mm, yeah. Really well.”
Chan smirked, fingers squeezing your hip. He glanced at Jeongin, who was pretending to study the milk carton like it was a math problem. “Bet you did, baby,” Chan said, his tone dripping with double meaning. “Wasn’t exactly a quiet night.”
Jeongin choked on his breath, turning fast to shove the milk back in the fridge. You caught his reflection in the stainless steel—jaw clenched, eyes dark. He fled the kitchen a second later, muttering something about his phone.
Chan chuckled against your neck. “Poor kid,” he murmured, low enough for only you. “He’s losing his fucking mind over you.”
—
Jeongin avoided you all day.
You felt it in the way he slipped out of rooms when you entered, in the way he kept his headphones clamped over his ears, volume loud enough for you to catch the faint thump of bass across the living room. His glances were fleeting—sharp with something you couldn’t name before he snapped his gaze away.
It gnawed at you.
“Think he’s mad at me?” you murmured to Chan that afternoon, curled against his side on the couch.
Chan tilted his head, considering. “Not mad.” His arm tightened around you, lips brushing your hair. “Flustered, or confused. Maybe even horny.”
You swatted his chest. “Be serious.”
“I am serious.” He chuckled, low and smug. “You’ve got him twisted up, baby. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
Your face warmed. “Maybe we should… tone it down?”
Chan’s smile was wicked. “Or maybe we should push harder.”
And true to his words, that night, you padded into the kitchen for water. The apartment was dim, quiet, Jeongin already tucked away in his room—or so you thought.
Chan followed you in, lazy and shirtless, his hand sliding over your waist as you reached for a glass. You were about to tease him for being clingy when his hand trailed lower, cupping you through your shorts.
“Chan,” you whispered, glancing toward the hall. “Here?”
“Here,” he said simply, already tugging your shorts down. He bent you over the counter before you could protest, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear.
The first thrust made you gasp, sharp and loud in the quiet apartment. You gripped the countertop, trying to steady yourself as he drove into you, hard and deep, the wet sound of your body echoing in the kitchen.
And then—a soft shift of air behind you.
You froze, eyes widening. Someone was in the doorway.
Jeongin.
He stood there, eyes wide, frozen like he’d stumbled into a fever dream.
“Chan—” you whispered, panicked, trying to pull away.
But Chan only gripped your hips tighter, pounding into you harder, his gaze locking with Jeongin’s. A slow, dangerous smirk curved his mouth.
“Don’t stop,” he growled into your ear, low enough for only you. “He’s watching.”
Shame and heat warred inside you, your body betraying you with every shuddering moan. You tried to bite them back, but Chan’s hand slid up to your throat, tilting your head so your voice spilled free.
“Louder,” he commanded. “Let him know how good I fuck you.”
Your moans filled the kitchen, raw and desperate. Jeongin’s breath hitched audibly—then he bolted, stumbling back into the hallway like he’d been burned.
Chan laughed softly against your skin, fucking you harder, chasing your orgasm with ruthless precision. And when it broke—when you screamed his name into the counter, your body convulsing around him—you knew Jeongin had heard it all.
—
Jeongin barely made it to his room before his hand was in his sweats. His chest heaved, his cock aching painfully, his mind replaying the sight burned into his skull—your body bent over the counter, Chan’s hands gripping you, your face twisted in pleasure.
“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered, jerking himself furiously, his other hand gripping the edge of his desk like it could anchor him. His hips bucked helplessly, the image of you moaning under Chan’s weight making him dizzy.
He came hard, spilling over his fist, his jaw clenched to keep the sounds in. But even as the release ripped through him, there was no relief—only obsession.
Because now it wasn’t just your voice echoing through the walls. It was the picture of you, bent over the kitchen counter and ruined, that he couldn’t shake.
And he knew—no matter how hard he tried to bury it—he wanted it to be him next time.
The sudden knock at his door made him jump, nearly dropping his phone. “Hyung?” he called, voice wary.
Chan leaned against the frame, arms crossed, hair damp from a shower. He looked infuriatingly casual, like he hadn’t just fucked you loud enough to shake the apartment walls.
“You like listening to her, huh?” Chan’s voice was low, smooth. Amused.
Jeongin froze, ears burning. “What—what are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Chan stepped in, pushing the door wider until Jeongin scrambled back on the bed. “The way you run off every time she’s in my clothes. The way you can’t look her in the eye without blushing.” A smirk curved his lips. “Bet you stroke your dick to the thought of her.”
Jeongin’s chest squeezed so tight he could barely breathe. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Chan crouched down, level with him, his voice soft but sharp as a blade. “I hear it too, you know. The creak of your mattress when you think no one notices. You want her.”
Jeongin’s throat went dry. He should’ve denied it again, should’ve shoved Chan away. But the smirk said it all—Chan knew.
And worse, Chan wasn’t angry. He was entertained.
“Don’t worry,” Chan murmured, patting Jeongin’s thigh before standing. “I don’t mind sharing what’s mine. You just have to be brave enough to take it.”
He left before Jeongin could respond, the words sinking in like poison and honey both.
—
Morning in the apartment always smelled like coffee—Chan’s ritual, the hiss of the machine as familiar as your own heartbeat. You padded in barefoot, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, hair mussed from sleep.
Jeongin was already at the table, hunched over a bowl of cereal. Usually, he’d mutter a quiet “morning” and bury his face, but today… his gaze flicked up at you. It darted away fast, but not before you caught it lingering, hungry.
Something had shifted. The way he stood when you passed by—closer now, not brushing by accident but hovering in your space, deliberate but skittish. Like he was testing how far he could push before someone noticed.
You didn’t, not at first. You just smiled, pouring yourself juice, tugging at the hem of Chan’s shirt as it slid high on your thighs. Chan, perched at the counter, hid his grin behind his mug, eyes flicking from you to Jeongin like he was watching a private show.
Then you leaned forward to wipe a spill on the counter. The shirt rode up, baring the curve of your ass. That’s when you felt it.
Firm. Hot. Pressed right against you for a split second too long.
Jeongin.
He bent over you with a muttered “sorry,” reaching past for the butter, but his hips pressed into yours, his hard-on unmistakable through his sweats.
Your breath stuttered. For a heartbeat, you thought you’d imagined it—but then he shifted back, and you caught the flicker in his eyes. Bold. Nervous. Not sorry.
“Careful, Innie,” Chan’s voice drawled from the counter. You froze, cheeks burning, sure he’d scold him. But Chan only sipped his coffee, smirk tugging his lips. “Don’t spill it.”
Jeongin’s jaw clenched. He didn’t meet Chan’s gaze, but you saw it in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes slid sideways toward him like a challenge.
You, caught between them, felt your thighs press together under the hem of the shirt. Heat bloomed low in your stomach—not just from Jeongin’s boldness, but from the way Chan’s smirk said he’d expected this. Like he wanted you flustered.
Breakfast didn’t feel so ordinary anymore.
You tried to shake it off, pretend Jeongin hadn’t just pressed his cock against your ass like that, pretend Chan wasn’t sipping his coffee like it was the best show he’d seen all week. You grabbed toast to keep your hands busy, acting unfazed, though your pulse thundered in your throat.
But Jeongin didn’t retreat. He lingered close behind you, opening the butter dish with a calm that didn’t match the flush creeping up his neck. When you reached for the knife, his hand landed over yours—not clumsy, not accidental, but firm, his palm hot against your skin.
You froze, breath catching.
“Sorry,” he murmured, but his voice was low, rougher than you’d ever heard it in the mornings. He let the contact linger, fingers brushing the back of your hand before he finally pulled away.
The silence was deafening. You dared a glance at Chan.
He was smirking, elbow on the counter, chin propped in his palm as he watched Jeongin slink back to the table with his buttered toast. His gaze flicked to you, lingering on your parted lips, the shirt barely skimming your thighs. Then, deliberately, he winked.
Heat flooded your cheeks. You couldn’t decide what rattled you more—Jeongin’s touch or Chan’s smug approval.
Breakfast continued in a brittle kind of quiet, Jeongin eating fast, eyes glued to his plate. But every now and then, his gaze flicked up—not at you, but at Chan. Like he was waiting to see if he’d crossed a line.
Chan never scolded. He never warned him off. He just sipped his coffee, eyes glinting with amusement, like he was daring him to try again.
And that was worse.
By the time you pushed back from the table, thighs pressed tight together under the hem of the shirt, you knew something had changed. Jeongin wasn’t just shy anymore. He was testing waters he had no business testing. And Chan wasn’t stopping him.
He was encouraging it.
Later that night, Chan pulled you into his room early, tugging you onto his lap while he worked on his laptop. You half-watched a drama on his phone, half-dozed against his chest, until he set the computer aside and tilted your chin up.
“Door stays open tonight,” he murmured, already sliding his hand under your shirt.
Your heart kicked. “Chan—”
“Shh. Be good for me.” His grin was sharp, wicked. “He’s gonna be listening.”
He wasn’t wrong. The hall light spilled across the floor through the cracked door, and even before Chan kissed you, you felt the prickling weight of being watched.
By the time he had you on all fours, his cock driving into you with measured, punishing thrusts, your body was trembling. Every moan felt louder in the quiet apartment, bouncing off the walls, impossible to contain.
“Let him hear you,” Chan growled, fingers digging into your hips. “Let him know how good I fuck you.”
You tried to stifle it, but when he hit that spot inside you, the cry that tore from your throat was shameless, raw. The sound made Chan laugh darkly—and then his gaze flicked to the door.
You followed it, dazed, and your stomach flipped.
Jeongin was there. Standing frozen in the hall, eyes wide, lips parted. Watching.
Your face burned, shame and arousal tangled tight in your chest. But Chan didn’t stop. If anything, he thrust harder, dragging another moan from you until your voice cracked.
“He’s watching, baby,” Chan whispered against your ear. “Don’t hide from it. Show him how pretty you look when you come.”
You broke apart on his cock, legs trembling, the orgasm tearing through you harder than you wanted to admit—because you knew Jeongin saw it.
But Jeongin hadn’t meant to stop. He told himself he was just getting water, that he’d walk past the open door without looking.
But then he heard it—your gasp, the slap of Chan’s hips against your ass—and his feet betrayed him.
And now he was frozen, half-hidden in the shadows, cock straining painfully in his sweats as he watched.
You—on your hands and knees, shirt bunched at your waist, hair falling around your flushed face. Chan—behind you, fucking into you hard enough to make the headboard knock against the wall.
Jeongin’s breath came shallow, ragged. He knew he should leave, knew this was wrong—but the sight of you moaning, back arching, glued him in place.
Then you looked at him.
For a split second, your eyes locked, wide and glazed, your mouth falling open around a cry. It hit him like a punch to the chest—and then you were coming, shaking apart under Chan’s hands, and Jeongin’s cock twitched violently in his sweats.
Chan smirked at him over your shoulder. Like he’d been expecting him all along.
Jeongin’s knees nearly gave out. He didn’t move forward. He didn’t move back. He just stood there, caught like prey, with your wrecked body trembling on the sheets and Chan smirking like he owned you both.
And maybe he did.
Your body still quivered around Chan, heat pooling low as the aftershocks rippled through you. His cock stayed buried inside, grinding lazily like he owned you—and in the doorway, Jeongin hadn’t moved.
Chan’s smirk curved against your ear. “Look at him,” he murmured, voice dripping with dark amusement. “Can’t take his eyes off you.”
You did. You looked—and the sight nearly undid you again. Jeongin stood stiff in the hall, chest rising and falling too fast, one hand clenched at his side, the other twitching like he was fighting not to touch himself. His eyes burned—hungry, guilty, desperate.
Chan kissed your jaw, lips hot against your skin. “Should we let him feel you, baby?” His hand slid down your stomach, brushing over your swollen clit, making you whimper. “He’s been dying for it.”
Your moan came out broken, but you managed a nod, hips jerking under his touch. “Y-yeah,” you gasped, heat flushing your cheeks. “I want him to.”
Chan chuckled low in his chest. He raised his voice just enough to carry. “Innie,” he called, lazy and commanding. “Come here.”
Jeongin didn’t move at first. But his throat worked as he swallowed, and slowly, like gravity dragged him, he stepped into the room.
“Close the door,” Chan said.
The soft click of it shutting sent a thrill through your veins.
“Now,” Chan murmured, pulling you back against his chest, spreading your thighs wider so Jeongin could see everything. “Ask her.”
Jeongin’s skin felt like it was on fire. Every nerve screamed at him to run, but Chan’s voice pinned him in place. And you? fuck, you were spread out in front of him, flushed and trembling, your thighs glistening.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Go on,” Chan pressed, smirking at him over your shoulder. “If you want to touch her, ask.”
Jeongin’s mouth was dry. His voice cracked when he spoke. “C-can I… touch you?”
You looked at him, pupils blown, lips swollen. And then you nodded. “Yes.”
That one word broke him.
His knees nearly buckled as he crossed the room. Chan shifted you onto your back, spreading you open like a gift. Jeongin hovered at the edge of the bed, trembling as he reached out.
His hand landed on your thigh first. Warm. Careful. The muscle twitched under his palm, and when you didn’t pull away, he dragged his fingers higher.
The moment he brushed against your slick folds, he swore under his breath. “Fuck…”
Chan chuckled, still behind you, his hand guiding Jeongin’s wrist. “See how wet she is? That’s for you, Innie. She’s been dripping since breakfast.”
Jeongin groaned, sliding his fingers through the wetness, circling your clit the way Chan directed. You gasped, hips arching up into his touch, and the sound shot straight through him.
He wanted more. Needed more.
“Inside,” Chan ordered, voice dark silk. “Two fingers. Make her feel good.”
Jeongin obeyed, pressing two fingers into your heat. The tight warmth clutched at him instantly, and his jaw dropped. “She’s—she’s so tight,” he gasped.
You moaned, eyes fluttering shut, and Jeongin nearly came in his pants at the sound. He curled his fingers experimentally, and when your back arched off the bed, Chan laughed softly.
“Good boy,” Chan praised. “You feel that? That’s her spot. Keep doing that—don’t stop until she’s shaking.”
And Jeongin did.
His fingers pumped into you, faster, deeper, until you were writhing under his touch, your cries filling the room. His cock throbbed painfully, pre-cum soaking his sweats, but he didn’t stop… he couldn’t.
He watched you fall apart on his hand, mouth open, cheeks flushed, and he thought he might die from how beautiful you looked like this.
And when you broke, crying out as you came around his fingers, Jeongin’s whole body shuddered. He hadn’t even been inside you yet, but he was ruined.
When his mouth found you it was warm, hesitant at first, his tongue flicking shyly against you. But the second he tasted you, something snapped—he groaned low, hands sliding up your thighs, holding you open wider as he buried his face deeper.
“Good boy,” Chan purred above you, smirking as he watched. “She tastes fucking sweet, doesn’t she?”
Jeongin moaned into your cunt, nodding frantically, his tongue working faster. He didn’t answer with words, just licked and sucked, messy and desperate. The wet sounds filled the room, your hips jerking under his mouth.
Your fingers found his hair, tugging as you cried out. He whined at the praise, the sound sending a jolt through your body.
But then you noticed, his free hand had slipped to his waistband. His cock was out, flushed and leaking, and he was pumping himself in tight, fast strokes like he couldn’t help it.
The sight made your stomach twist with heat.
And his other hand… oh god, it was on your breast now, squeezing and kneading, his thumb brushing your nipple like he was drunk on the feel of you. He moaned around your clit, rutting into his own fist, sucking greedily like he’d never get enough.
“F-fuck, Chan—” you gasped, trying to hold on, your body twitching with overstimulation. “He—he’s not stopping—”
That was when Chan moved.
His hand fisted tight in Jeongin’s hair, yanking his head back sharply. You gasped at the suddenness, and Jeongin’s lips tore from your swollen clit with a wet sound, spit glistening down his chin. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, chest heaving.
“That’s enough,” Chan said, low and commanding, his fist still holding Jeongin in place.
Jeongin froze, caught between shame and need, cock still twitching in his hand.
And you… you were trembling, caught on the edge, your body begging for more.
“Please,” you whimpered, eyes darting between them. “I want him inside. I need him inside me.”
Jeongin’s breath caught. His gaze flew to Chan’s face, incredulous, almost afraid to hope. He didn’t move to obey… you could see it, how badly he wanted to, but he wouldn’t without permission.
And Chan knew it. His smirk deepened, grip in Jeongin’s hair tightening possessively as if he owned him too.
“Look at you,” Chan murmured, tilting Jeongin’s head so he had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Begging without words. You want to fuck her that bad?”
Jeongin swallowed hard. His voice cracked. “Yes. Please.”
The sound of it—Jeongin begging both of you—was almost as filthy as the sight of Chan holding him down.
Chan leaned in, his tone dark silk. “Be good for me, Innie.”
And then, with a single nod, he gave him permission. The second Chan let go, Jeongin didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, grabbing your thighs, folding you back so sharply your knees nearly brushed your shoulders. A shocked moan ripped from your throat as his cock slid into you in one deep, unrelenting stroke.
“Oh, fuck—!” you cried, nails digging into the sheets.
Jeongin wasn’t shy anymore. He wasn’t hesitant. He was gone. Every thrust was sharp, practiced and precise, like he’d been studying, waiting, imagining this moment for years. He angled his hips until he found the spot that made your breath shatter, then pounded into it over and over, grunting low in his throat as sweat dripped down his temple.
“Shit, Innie,” Chan murmured behind you, his voice smug and approving. “Look at you. Fucking her like you own her.”
You barely heard them, you were too far gone, every nerve sparking as Jeongin folded you in half, his cock pistoning deep, each thrust dragging a broken cry from your lips. You’d thought he’d be shy, awkward. Instead, he was ruthless, slamming into you with the single-minded desperation of a man starved.
Chan slid closer, catching your mouth in a deep, wet kiss. His tongue filled you, stealing the air from your lungs as Jeongin’s cock stole every ounce of strength from your body. You whimpered into Chan’s mouth, trembling between them.
And then—oh god—Chan’s hand was on your clit again. His fingers circled fast and firm, syncing with Jeongin’s brutal rhythm.
You bucked hard, crying out into the kiss. The double stimulation was too much—Jeongin splitting you open, Chan rubbing you raw.
“Take it,” Chan growled against your lips, smirking when you gasped. His free hand cupped your breast, thumb rolling your nipple as Jeongin drove into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Let him ruin you for me. Show him how sweet you fall apart.”
Jeongin groaned, pounding harder, eyes locked on where his cock disappeared into you. “Fuck, hyung—she’s so tight—I can’t—”
Chan’s hand snapped up, fisting in Jeongin’s damp hair, yanking his head back until his moan cracked in the air. “Not yet,” Chan snarled, voice dark and commanding. “She cums first. Hold it.”
The sound Jeongin made was half-groan, half-whimper. His hips stuttered, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t. He kept pounding into you, fighting against his own climax, chasing your pleasure like it was oxygen.
You broke with a scream, body arching up between them as your orgasm tore through you. The pressure snapped, and you gushed, squirting hard around Jeongin’s cock, wetness spraying his abs, Chan’s hand, everything.
“Holy fuck—!” Jeongin’s eyes rolled back at the sight, his rhythm collapsing into frantic, punishing thrusts as your release soaked him.
“Now,” Chan ordered, yanking his hair once more.
Jeongin ripped himself free with a strangled curse, his cock dragging wet from your spasming cunt just in time to spill across your stomach. Hot, messy ropes painted your skin as he groaned loud enough to echo, trembling as if it was tearing him apart to let go.
You lay sprawled, trembling, dripping wet and painted with him, while Chan smirked above you, satisfied. He wiped his fingers through your release, smearing it up your stomach, pressing them into Jeongin’s mouth without hesitation.
“Good boy,” Chan drawled as Jeongin sucked them in, eyes dazed and glassy. “That’s how you learn.”
Your body still buzzed, every inch raw and sensitive, your cunt pulsing empty in desperate aftershocks. Jeongin’s cum was sticky across your stomach, dripping slowly down your side, your thighs trembling from the force of your orgasm.
Jeongin hovered above you, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon, hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted. His cock was still hard, twitching, like it couldn’t believe what it had just done.
You tried to speak, but your voice cracked on a single, “Fuck…”
Chan chuckled, low and satisfied, sinking back on his heels like a king surveying his kingdom. He dragged a broad hand over your stomach, smearing Jeongin’s spend across your skin, painting you with it deliberately. Then he brought his glistening fingers to Jeongin’s lips again, and the younger boy opened obediently, dazed, sucking without hesitation.
“Good boy,” Chan murmured, the praise rich and smug. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Jeongin should’ve felt ashamed. He should’ve felt guilty. But all he felt was alive. His body still hummed from the restraint, from the way his orgasm had ripped through him when Chan finally allowed it. And watching you writhe and gush under him, your voice breaking as he fucked you into oblivion, that was going to burn into his memory forever.
His tongue wrapped around Chan’s fingers, tasting salt and slick, swallowing down what was left of the mess he’d helped make. His eyes flicked to you, your ruined, trembling body—and his cock twitched again.
Chan smirked, watching him like a hawk. “You’re hooked now, huh? Can’t hide it anymore.”
Jeongin swallowed hard, nodding before he could stop himself. “I… yeah.” His voice cracked, embarrassed, but he didn’t look away.
Chan’s hand cupped his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek, still firm but almost gentle now. “Then you better listen. You don’t touch her unless I say. You don’t get to keep her. You share her. With me.”
Jeongin’s pulse kicked hard in his throat. He nodded again, the words tumbling out without hesitation. “Yes, hyung.”
And God help him, he’d never wanted anything more.
You sank back against the sheets, boneless, every nerve still twitching. Chan’s palm smoothed over your thigh, grounding you. “Easy, baby,” he murmured, voice low, soothing. “You did so good.”
Jeongin hovered awkwardly at first, chest still rising and falling hard, eyes flicking from your face to your body like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look. When he finally shifted, it wasn’t away—it was closer. He grabbed a tissue from the bedside, hesitated, then leaned down to carefully wipe your stomach, his touch gentler than you expected.
Your breath caught, not from the contact, but from the look on his face… so earnest, so wrecked, his lips still swollen from sucking Chan’s fingers.
“Thank you,” you whispered, and Jeongin’s eyes snapped to yours. His cheeks flushed pink, but he nodded, swallowing like the words meant more than you knew.
Chan chuckled softly, leaning back with that trademark smirk. “Look at him. Already trying to take care of you.” His hand ruffled Jeongin’s hair with something between approval and ownership, and Jeongin froze under it, caught, but didn’t pull away.
The three of you ended up tangled on Chan’s bed, your body cocooned between them. Chan on one side, warm and steady, his arm heavy around your waist. Jeongin on the other, stiff at first, clearly unsure if he belonged there. But gradually, as Chan didn’t protest, he edged closer, his knuckles brushing your arm, his breath warm against your hair.
Sleep tugged at you, but the heat lingered, unspoken. The weight of what had happened, of what had changed.
Chan’s lips brushed your ear, his voice a low rumble only you could hear. “This isn’t the end. It’s only the start.”
And with Jeongin’s heartbeat hammering against your back, you knew he was right.
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Authors note: Annyeonghaseyo bad bitchesssss 🤩😍 Who wants some dorm coded smutty servinnnnnnnggggg???? 👀🤭 sooooo as you have seen above 🌝 we’re in a NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES eraaaaa 🫦🫦🫦🫦
The rest of the dorms are coming next so stay tuned babes ❤️
