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Robin had always considered sharing an apartment with Steve Harrington one of the best decisions she’d ever made. The little two-bedroom apartment in Hawkins was nothing to write home about—peeling cream-colored walls, secondhand furniture they’d restored together, and a tiny kitchen where two people barely fit—but it was their refuge, their safe space.
Steve, as a roommate, was almost perfect: tidy, a decent cook, paid the rent on time, and, most importantly, he was her best friend. They’d known each other since that summer at Scoops Ahoy, when they’d shared ridiculous uniforms, ice cream scoops, and confidences between shifts. Since then, their friendship had become unbreakable, a bond Robin treasured deeply. They spent afternoons watching B-movie horror flicks, took turns cooking, told each other everything. Everything. And that, perhaps, was the one downside to their current situation.
Because Steve was an Omega.
And Omegas, much to the misfortune of Robin’s sanity, had certain needs that she—as a perfectly balanced and rational Beta—found fascinating from an anthropological standpoint but utterly infuriating when they interfered with her ability to watch TV in peace.
The problem wasn’t Steve himself, no. Living with him was wonderful. The problem had a first name, a last name, and a dark, curly mane that screamed heavy metal: Eddie Munson.
Eddie was Steve’s boyfriend.
Eddie was an Alpha.
And Eddie, apparently, had one mission in life: to fuck Steve in every corner of the apartment they shared.
Robin adored Eddie, she really did. He was funny, eccentric, passionate about his role-playing games and his loud music, and he treated Steve like the most precious thing in the universe. She loved it when Eddie stayed for dinner, when the three of them sat on the couch to watch a horror movie and Eddie made sarcastic comments that made her laugh until her stomach hurt. She liked how Eddie made Steve happy, how the Omega lit up in a different way when the Alpha was near, how his cheeks flushed and his scent turned sweeter and cozier. Truly, honestly, she didn’t dislike Eddie.
What she disliked was how much they fucked.
What she disliked was not being able to enter her own home without the imminent risk of stumbling upon a live, in-person porn show.
The first time it happened, Robin still retained a certain naivety.
She came home after an exhausting shift at the video store, feet aching and brain fried from recommending the same damn copy of Ghostbusters to customers who had no taste of their own. She opened the apartment door humming a Blondie song, dropped her keys in the little ceramic dish by the entrance, and was just about to announce her arrival with a dramatic groan about her day when the sight in front of her froze the words in her throat.
On the couch—that old brown couch they’d bought together at a garage sale—Eddie was reclining against the cushions, head tilted back and eyes closed. Steve was on top of him, straddling him, legs wrapped around the Alpha’s waist, hands tangled in his dark mane. They were both half-naked: Eddie’s pants pulled down just enough, Steve’s shirt completely open, revealing his mole-dotted chest. They were kissing, hungrily, those deep, wet kisses people share when they’re about to devour each other, and Steve’s hips were moving in a slow but revealing back-and-forth motion—a movement that Robin, in his initial innocence, took a second to process.
But when she did process it, the sound that came out of her throat was something between a squawk and a strangled yell.
"Fuck!"
The effect was immediate. Eddie tensed like a spring, his eyes flying wide open, and in a clumsy move that clashed with his usual theatricality, he grabbed the nearest cushion and crushed it against his lap with such force that Robin could hear the fabric compressing.
Steve, for his part, let out a little squeal—a sound so high-pitched and so unlike him that Robin would have burst out laughing if she weren’t still processing the trauma. The Omega scrambled off Eddie with a sharp movement, nearly tumbling off the couch in the process, and grabbed the sheet that was hanging over the backrest, wrapping himself in it like an improvised Roman toga.
"Robin!" Steve exclaimed, his voice too loud, too strained, too guilty. "Y-You arrived early!"
"It’s my usual time," she replied, eyes still wide, cheeks burning. "I always get home at this time!"
Eddie, meanwhile, remained on the couch, the cushion firmly pressed against his crotch. His expression was a mix of embarrassment and amusement, lips curved in a guilty smile, cheeks faintly flushed beneath the shadow of his eyelashes.
"This… isn’t what it looks like," he said, and the tone was so obviously deceitful, that Robin almost let out a hysterical laugh.
"It’s not what it looks like?" she repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Because it looks like my best friend was riding you on the couch that I also use for sitting."
Steve let out a moan of humiliation.
"We were… we were watching a movie and—"
"And what? You sat on his lap by accident? You slipped?"
"Yes!" Steve said at the same time Eddie said, "No."
They looked at each other. Eddie let out a little snort of laughter.
"Okay, yeah, we were… doing stuff," the Alpha admitted, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. "But we didn’t expect you home so soon."
"I always get here at the same time," Robin repeated, exasperated. "My schedule hasn’t literally changed in two months."
Steve looked like he wanted the couch to swallow him whole. His face was completely red, the blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his neck, and he was clutching the sheet as if it were a shield. His scent was thick with embarrassment and a lingering trace of arousal that hung in the air like fog.
"I’m sorry," Steve murmured, avoiding her eyes. "Really. It won’t happen again."
Robin huffed, but her anger was fading fast. Mainly because seeing Steve turned into a blushing, stammering heap wrapped in a sheet was too ridiculous to stay mad at.
"You’re pigs," she said, though her tone had lost its edge. "Horny pigs, both of you."
"We accept that," Eddie replied, his smile widening a little as if he knew the danger had passed. "We’re pigs, guilty as charged."
Robin rolled her eyes with all her might and headed for the kitchen.
"I’m going to make myself dinner. When I come back, I expect this place to be cleared out and both of you dressed. Fully dressed, up to your necks."
"Yes, ma’am," Eddie said, giving a mock salute with his free hand, the cushion still firmly in his lap.
Steve, still wrapped in his sheet cocoon, got up from the couch clumsily and began picking up his clothes off the floor. Robin watched him out of the corner of her eye as she pulled out ingredients for a sandwich, watching the Omega gather his crumpled jacket, his socks, and his jeans, which had landed next to the coffee table. He moved with that mix of haste and awkwardness people have when caught red-handed, and Robin couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle.
"Next time, put a sock on the door or something," she said. "A signal. Whatever."
Steve turned toward her, and his expression was so grateful, so relieved, that Robin felt a pang of affection in her chest.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and hurried off to the bathroom, leaving a trail of white fabric behind him.
Eddie got up from the couch more calmly. He’d pulled his pants up, though he was shirtless, and Robin could see the dark tattoos adorning his arms and chest. He walked over to the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and looked at her with that expression of his—somewhere between amused and genuinely remorseful.
"Seriously, Buckley, sorry," he said. "We didn’t mean to traumatize you."
"I’m not traumatized," she replied, though she wasn’t completely sure that was true. "Just… surprised, and grossed out."
"Fair. Understandable," Eddie nodded, his dark curls bouncing with the movement. "It won’t happen again, promise."
"I hope not."
But as Robin made her sandwich and Eddie retreated to the bathroom to join Steve, a small part of her knew that promise probably wouldn’t last long. She knew Steve. She knew Eddie. She knew the intensity of their relationship—the way they looked at each other, how they constantly touched, how the Alpha’s and Omega’s scents intertwined in the apartment until they created an intoxicating fragrance that even she, as a Beta, could faintly perceive.
She wasn’t wrong.
The second time happened two weeks later. Robin had had a particularly good day at the video store: she’d reorganized the horror section alphabetically, managed to convince an elderly lady to rent something other than a romantic drama, and Keith hadn’t shown up for the entire shift. She came home feeling almost euphoric, carrying a box of donuts she’d bought on the way as a personal celebration.
She opened the door, and the sound hit her first.
The sound of skin against skin, the sound of ragged gasps, the sound of the couch creaking rhythmically.
Robin froze in the doorway, the box of donuts in her hands, her eyes fixed on the scene in front of her. This time Eddie was on top of Steve, his body covering the Omega like a dark cloak, his hips moving in a steady, deep, powerful rhythm. Steve was beneath him, head thrown back against the armrest of the couch, mouth open in a silent moan, legs wrapped around the Alpha’s waist. Steve’s T-shirt was bunched up under his armpits, his pants somewhere on the floor, and Robin could see, with a clarity that burned her retinas, the exact spot where their bodies were joined.
And then—maybe because she made some involuntary noise, maybe because her faint Beta scent flooded the room—Eddie stopped.
But he didn’t stop right away. It took a second, two, as if his body didn’t want to obey his brain, and in that window of time, Robin saw it. She saw Eddie slowly straighten up, how his hips pulled back, how his cock—thick, slick and fully erect—emerged from inside Steve with an obscene sound, a wet, sucking noise that echoed in the sudden silence of the room. And then, just as the broad, reddened tip left the Omega’s body completely, a gush of wetness surged from Steve’s vagina, a clear, thick fluid that trickled down his spread thighs and stained the couch cushion.
Steve let out a whimper. A small, frustrated, almost pitiful whimper, as if the sudden absence of Eddie’s cock was an unbearable loss. His cunt, exposed and glistening with moisture, visibly throbbed, the swollen, reddened lips parting as if searching for something to fill the emptiness.
"Shit," Eddie murmured, and though his voice sounded embarrassed, Robin could see that his hands were still gripping Steve’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, as if it took a superhuman effort not to bury himself back inside that warm, receptive body.
"You’re… early," Steve panted, and Robin noticed he didn’t even try to cover himself this time. His legs were still spread, his cunt still exposed, and though his face showed a faint blush, he seemed more frustrated by the interruption than ashamed at being seen.
"I’m not early," Robin said, and her voice came out higher than she intended. "It’s six-thirty. I get home at six-thirty. Always, every day... I thought I’d made that clear enough."
"Really?" Eddie blinked, genuinely surprised. "Damn, we lost track of time."
"Clearly."
Steve, meanwhile, had pushed himself up onto his elbows. His body was still trembling slightly, and Robin could see him clenching his thighs together, rubbing them against each other as if trying to relieve an unfulfilled pressure. His scent was overwhelming, even for her, a Beta with less acute senses: sweet and musky and thick with an arousal so dense she could almost taste it in the air.
"We saved some pizza for you," Steve said suddenly, and the comment was so absurd, so out of place, that Robin burst out laughing in disbelief.
"You saved me pizza?" she repeated. "Were you ordering pizza while… while you were doing this?"
"We ordered it before we started," Eddie clarified, as if that would make things better. "We figured it’d arrive in half an hour and we’d have plenty of time, but…" He shrugged, a guilty smile dancing on his lips. "We got… sidetracked."
"You got sidetracked," Robin repeated, rolling her eyes. "You got sidetracked fucking on the couch."
"Technically, we were fucking before the pizza arrived," Steve said, and his tone was so ridiculously casual that Robin wanted to strangle him. "Then the pizza got here and we stopped to eat, and then… we started again."
"You ate pizza first?" Robin had no idea why that particular detail horrified her so much. "You ate, and then… you went back to fucking in the same place you’d eaten?"
"We did the dishes," Eddie said weakly. "And we ate at the table, not on the couch."
Robin covered her face with her hands. She took a deep breath. Exhaled. Repeated the process three more times.
"There’s pizza in the fridge," Steve insisted, and when Robin lowered her hands to look at him, she found him smiling at her with that half-innocent, half-mischievous smile of his, sweat glistening on his forehead, brown hair plastered to his temples. "Pepperoni, your favorite."
"You’re an idiot," she said, but there was no venom in her words. Just weariness, resignation. "A complete and utter idiot, and you," she added, pointing at Eddie. "Are a corrupter, a degenerate.”
"Guilty on all counts," Eddie admitted, and this time he didn’t even try to cover himself. His cock, still partially erect, glistened with Steve’s wetness, and Robin could see a pearly drop at the tip that slowly slid down the flushed head.
She averted her eyes quickly, her cheeks burning.
"I’m going to get the pizza," she announced. "And I’m going to eat it in my room, with the door closed, with my headphones on. And I don’t want to hear anything. Anything. Got it?"
"Absolutely," they both said in unison, and it sounded so rehearsed, so synchronized, that Robin knew immediately it wasn’t the first time they’d made that promise.
Nor would it be the last.
By the third time, Robin already begun to develop a sort of sixth sense.
As she approached the apartment door, she’d strain her ears, trying to detect any suspicious sounds. When she put the key in the lock, she made more noise than necessary, coughing loudly or shuffling her feet to announce her presence. Basic precautions, self-protective measures that any reasonable person would take when sharing a home with two sexually insatiable creatures.
But that day, her precautions didn’t work.
Or maybe they did, and they simply didn’t care.
She opened the apartment door and the first thing she saw was Eddie’s back—clad in his leather jacket—standing in front of the couch. The second thing she saw was Steve, on his knees on the floor, his lips wrapped around the Alpha’s cock.
Robin stood frozen. She blinked.
Blinked again.
Steve was completely naked, his pale, mole-dotted body exposed to the late afternoon light streaming through the window. He was kneeling on a couch cushion he’d placed on the floor, his hands gripping Eddie’s thighs, his lips stretched around the thick cock that disappeared and reappeared from his mouth in a slow, almost reverent motion. The sounds were obscene: the wet noise of saliva, Steve’s muffled moans, Eddie’s deep, ragged breaths.
"Steve," the Alpha groaned, one hand tangled in the Omega’s hair, the other resting on his shoulder. "Fuck, Steve, just like that, yeah, just like that…"
Robin should have left. She should have closed the door, stepped into the hallway, and waited ten minutes, or twenty, or however long it took. But something in her—some mix of disbelief and exasperation and morbid curiosity—kept her rooted to the spot.
Eddie was the first to notice her presence. His eyes flicked toward the door, met Robin’s, and instead of the surprise or embarrassment of the previous times, his expression showed something different: a spark of amusement, as if they were sharing a private joke. His hand in Steve’s hair tightened slightly, pulling back, and the Omega let out a moan of protest as the cock slipped from his mouth with a wet sound.
"Robin," Steve said, his voice hoarse, his lips swollen and shiny with saliva, a translucent string connecting his mouth to the tip of Eddie’s cock. "Hey."
"Hey," she replied, and her voice sounded surprisingly normal considering that her best friend was on his knees with his mouth just peeled off a dick.
"You’re late," Eddie observed, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation. His erection—huge, veiny, and dripping—was still aimed at Steve, just inches from his parted lips.
"Ten minutes late," Robin corrected. "There was traffic."
"Oh."
There was a moment of silence. Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Eddie smiled at him—a slow, adoring smile—before looking back at Robin.
"Do you want us to…?" Steve started, gesturing vaguely toward his state of undress.
"No," Robin said, raising a hand. "Don’t bother. Just… could you please go to your room next time? You have a room. A bed, a private space. That’s all I’m asking for."
Eddie and Steve exchanged a glance. A glance full of meaning, of restrained smiles, of that secret language only couples understand. And then Eddie spoke, and his words were so natural, so devoid of shame, that Robin felt her brain reboot.
"Well, the thing is, we’ve already had sex a lot of times in the bedroom. In every position you can imagine, and some you can’t..." He said, shrugging. "We’re trying new places. To mix it up a little, you know?"
Robin stared at him—stared at Steve. Stared back at Eddie.
"You’re… trying new places?" she repeated, her voice flat. "My house is your sexual testing ground?"
"Our house," Steve corrected weakly. "Technically, it’s my house too."
"The couch is a very versatile spot," Eddie added, and he had the nerve to sound proud of himself. "Good height, good angles. The armrest is perfect for—"
"I don’t need the details," Robin cut him off, raising both hands as if she could physically block the information. "I. Do. Not. Need. The details."
"I was just saying…"
"No."
Robin spun on her heel and headed for her room with a firm stride, ignoring the stifled giggles she heard behind her. She slammed the door and collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Trying new places," she muttered to herself, and let out a hollow laugh. "Trying goddamn new places."
Through the thin wall of her room, she could hear the sounds resuming: Steve’s moans, Eddie’s gasps, the couch creaking again. She put on her headphones and cranked up her Walkman until the music drowned out everything else.
But the image of Steve on his knees, his lips around Eddie, his eyes bright with devotion and desire, stayed burned into her mind for far longer than she’d like to admit.
The fourth time marked a turning point.
About a month later, after the pizza incident, Robin had begun to notice a gradual but noticeable change in her roommates' behavior. They weren’t apologizing as much. They weren’t trying to cover up. They weren’t feigning embarrassment. It was as if, after being caught three times, they had collectively decided that hiding it was a wasted effort and had fully embraced their shamelessness.
Robin came home after a particularly grueling shift. The video store had been packed with noisy teenagers renting horror movies nonstop, her feet ached, her back protested, and all she wanted was a hot shower and her bed. She opened the apartment door, dropped her keys in the little dish, and headed toward the living room.
And then she stopped.
On the couch, Eddie and Steve were in the middle of the act. But this time, when Robin walked in, they didn't pull apart. They didn't cover themselves—they made no move whatsoever to hide what they were doing.
Steve was lying on his back on the couch, legs spread wide and raised, hooked over Eddie's forearms. The Alpha was kneeling between his thighs, his hips pumping in a steady, deep rhythm, his cock disappearing and reappearing from Steve's vagina in long, deliberate strokes. The living room was full of sounds: the wet slap of penetration, Steve's broken moans, Eddie's low grunts, the rhythmic creaking of the couch accompanying every thrust.
"Oh, hey, Robin," Steve gasped, turning his head toward her while still taking his boyfriend’s thrusts. His face was flushed, his eyes bright and clouded with pleasure, his mouth open in an expression of ecstasy. His body bounced slightly with each of Eddie's movements, his erect nipples brushing against the Alpha's chest. "How was... ah... work?"
Robin just stared at them. Simply stared.
Eddie turned his head toward her as well, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of pleasure and amusement. His curly mane was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his muscles tense beneath tattooed skin, his hips moving tirelessly, burying himself over and over inside Steve's body. He grinned at her—a lopsided and utterly shameless grin.
"Buckley," he greeted, his voice deep and slightly hoarse. "Good... evening."
Robin blinked. She processed the scene before her: the two boys on the couch, the ceaseless movement of their bodies, the wetness glistening on both of their skins, the thick, musky scent saturating the air. Her mind tried to find an appropriate response—and failed miserably.
"Seriously?" was all she managed to articulate.
"Seriously what?" Steve asked, his voice breaking into a moan as Eddie delivered a particularly deep thrust. "Ah... God..."
"Seriously, you're not going to...?" She made a vague gesture with her hands, pointing at their entwined bodies. "You're not going to stop? Not even a little?"
Eddie and Steve exchanged a look—that damn look of complicity. And then, slowly, Eddie pulled his hips back, his cock sliding out of Steve's body with an obscene, sucking sound that echoed through the room. But he didn't pull away completely. He simply let himself fall to one side of the couch, dragging Steve with him so that they both ended up reclining against the cushions, half-sitting, half-lying down, their bodies still tangled but no longer joined.
And then Robin could see everything.
She saw Steve, his legs still open, his vagina exposed, stretched, and absolutely soaked. The swollen, reddened labia glistened with the moisture covering them, and the hole, freshly abandoned by Eddie's dick, was still visibly pulsing, opening and closing in rhythmic spasms as if missing the thickness that had been filling it seconds before. A trickle of clear fluid slid from the entrance down toward the couch, forming a small dark stain on the upholstery.
And she saw Eddie, his cock fully erect against his abdomen—large, veiny, and glistening with Steve’s fluids. The glans, reddened and swollen, dripped a pearly liquid that mingled with the Omega's wetness, and the entire length throbbed in time with his racing heart.
Both of them looked at her as if they weren't doing anything out of the ordinary. As if being half-naked, sweaty, and visibly aroused on the shared couch was the most natural thing in the world.
"Yeah?" Eddie said, raising an eyebrow.
Robin felt a vein in her temple start to throb.
"You're... you're just..." She swallowed, searching for the right words. "You're pigs! Depraved, shameless pigs."
"You've said that before," Steve observed, and the idiot sounded amused.
"Well, I’ll say it again!" she burst out. "Because it's true! It's truer now than ever! I'm standing here, right in front of you, and you're both still there, with the pussy exposed and the dick hanging out, like nothing's happening!"
"Because nothing is happening," Eddie said, and his tone was so reasonable, so calm, that Robin wanted to hit him with a cushion. "We're all adults, we're friends. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"Of course there's something to be ashamed of! It’s my couch! It’s my living room! It’s where I watch TV and eat cereal and make phone calls!"
"It's my couch too, Robin," Steve chimed in. "We split the rent, remember?"
"Don’t give me any technicalities now, Harrington!"
Steve let out a little laugh, and the sound turned into a soft moan as his cunt pulsed again. Robin could see his thighs press together slightly, rubbing against each other, seeking friction, seeking relief.
"Sorry," Steve said, though he didn't sound particularly repentant. "It's just that... Eddie and I... we have needs, you know? We're Alpha and Omega, it's different for us."
"Nothing but biological excuses!" Robin shot back. "Steve, I know plenty of alpha-omega couples who don't fuck on the couch when their roommate is about to get home."
"We're special," Eddie said, and his grin was so wide and so brazen that Robin felt her last nerve snap.
"You're insufferable," she declared. "Absolutely insufferable. I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear you. I'm going to my room and I don't want to be disturbed by anything or anyone. Understood?"
"Understood," they both said in unison—again with that perfect synchronization, again with those knowing glances.
Robin snorted—a sound of pure frustration—and stomped off to her bedroom. She slammed the door shut, threw herself on the bed, and covered her face with the pillow.
But even through the pillow and the closed door, she could hear the movements resuming in the living room. The rhythm of the couch, Steve's moans, Eddie's grunts. And a very small, very buried, very secret part of Robin wondered what it would feel like to be desired that way, to be possessed with such intensity, to be the center of someone's universe.
She crushed that thought with ferocity and cranked her Walkman's volume to the max.
The fifth time, Robin didn't even flinch.
Two weeks had passed since the spectacle on the couch. Two weeks in which Robin had entered her apartment with the same caution as a soldier stepping into a minefield, only to find the house empty and silent, or Eddie and Steve watching TV like normal people—clothed, decent, and completely non-pornographic.
She had begun to believe, naively, that maybe, just maybe, her friends had learned their lesson.
Naive. She was so naive.
That Friday, Robin came home with a bag of Chinese takeout, courtesy of the new restaurant that had opened near the video store. Fried rice, sweet-and-sour chicken, spring rolls. A feast. Her stomach growled with anticipation as she put the key in the lock and opened the door.
The sounds greeted her immediately. Panting. Moaning. The creak of the couch.
But this time, Robin didn't even pause at the entrance. She simply closed the door behind her, set the keys in their place, and walked toward the living room with the bag of food in her hand.
The scene she found was, by now, almost familiar. Steve was on all fours on the couch, hands gripping the armrest, back arched, buttocks raised. Eddie was behind him, on his knees, hands digging into the Omega's hips, his cock disappearing and reappearing from Steve's soaking-wet pussy in a wild, animal, primal rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin resonated through the room, accompanied by Steve's high-pitched moans and the Alpha's deep grunts.
Robin walked right past them without stopping, heading for the kitchen.
"Hey, guys," she said, her voice perfectly neutral.
"He... hey, Robin," Steve panted, his voice cut off by Eddie's thrusts. "How was... ah... work?"
"Fine, exhausting. Mrs. Henderson rented Grease for the fifth time this month." She set the bag of food on the kitchen counter and began pulling out the containers. "I think she has an unhealthy obsession with John Travolta."
"Under... understandable..." Steve managed to articulate, his voice breaking into a particularly high moan as Eddie hit some especially sensitive spot inside him.
Eddie, for his part, turned his head slightly toward Robin without stopping the movement of his hips. His face was flushed, sweat trickling down his temples, his curly mane a complete mess. He smiled at her—a crooked smile.
"Did you bring... Chinese?" he asked, his deep voice vibrating with exertion.
"Uh-huh, from the new place."
"Did you order... the spring rolls?"
"Yes, Eddie, I ordered the damn spring rolls. I know you like them."
"I adore you, Buckley."
Robin rolled her eyes and served herself a generous portion of fried rice on a plate. As she did, she could perfectly hear the sex session on the couch continuing unabated: Steve's moans growing sharper, more urgent, and Eddie's movements speeding up, becoming erratic.
"I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." Steve babbled.
"Yes, baby, come on," Eddie growled, leaning over the Omega's back, his chest pressing against Steve's sweaty spine, his hips pumping with renewed force. "Come for me, I want to feel you."
The moan Steve let out was almost a scream, and Robin could hear, even from the kitchen, the wet, obscene sound of his orgasm: the liquid gushing from his cunt, soaking Eddie's cock, splashing his thighs and the couch. A moment later, Eddie let out a deep, guttural grunt, and Robin knew, without needing to look, that he was spilling his seed inside the Omega.
She focused on her fried rice.
A while later, she heard bare footsteps approaching the kitchen. She looked up to find Steve, completely naked, cheeks flushed and body gleaming with sweat, walking toward the sink with a towel in his hand.
"Smells good," Steve said, nodding toward the food as he wiped his belly and thighs with the towel. "Save me some?"
"Sure," Robin replied, surprised at how normal her voice sounded. "There's sweet and sour chicken, rice, and spring rolls for your Alpha."
"Awesome," Steve smiled, a satisfied, relaxed smile. "Thanks. You're the best roommate in the world."
"I know."
Steve retreated to the bathroom, and a moment later Eddie appeared in the kitchen, wearing only his boxers and with his hair pulled back in a makeshift bun. He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, drinking slowly as he watched Robin eat.
"You okay, Buckley?" he asked, his voice still a bit hoarse.
Robin shrugged.
"I guess. I mean, I've seen my best friend get fucked doggy-style on the couch for the fourth or fifth time, I've lost count. But hey, the chicken's good, so... I guess it all evens out."
Eddie burst out laughing.
"You're incredible, you know that? Most people would've moved out by now."
"And let you guys win? No way. This apartment is just as much mine as it is Steve's. I'm not letting two sex addicts chase me out of my own home."
"We're not sex addicts," Eddie protested, but his grin indicated he wasn't taking the accusation very seriously. "We're... enthusiasts."
"You're just a couple of horny pigs."
"That, too. But we love you, Buckley. We really do."
Robin snorted, but a small smile formed on her lips despite everything.
"Yeah, I know. Too bad loving you means seeing your private parts more often than any human being ever should."
"Sorry," Eddie said, and this time he sounded genuinely a little remorseful. "We try to be more discreet, but..."
"But you're a young, horny Alpha and Omega who can't keep your hands to yourselves. I get it. Hate your biology, not you."
"Something like that."
Steve came back from the shower just then, wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, his damp hair slicked back. He smelled of soap and shampoo and, beneath that, the warm, comforting scent Robin always associated with her best friend. He sat down at the kitchen table, and Robin slid a plate of food over to him.
"Thanks," Steve said, digging in with appetite. "You sure you're okay? We're not being too...?"
"Too what? Shameless? Exhibitionistic? Animals?"
"All of the above."
Robin took a moment to consider the question. She looked at Steve, her best friend, with his flushed face and his expression somewhere between guilty and hopeful. She looked at Eddie, with his crooked smile and his dark eyes shining with affection. She sighed.
"It's... weird," she admitted. "But you're my friends, my best friends. And if this is what makes you happy..." She shrugged. "I guess I can learn to live with it. As long as you stay away from my room."
"Always," Eddie said solemnly. "Even if it doesn’t seem like it, we do have boundaries."
"And we promise to try to be in our room more often," Steve added. "Really, we mean it this time."
"We'll see how long that promise lasts."
"You're very cynical, you know that?"
"Living with you guys has made me cynical." Robin pointed her fork at both of them. "But seriously. It's one thing for me to walk in and catch you. What if someone else comes over? What if my mom visits? What if Eddie's uncle shows up unannounced?"
"Your mom doesn't know where we live," Steve said.
"She could find out."
"My uncle always gives a heads-up before coming anywhere, Robin," Eddie interjected. "He's not going to suddenly appear."
"You never know."
Steve and Eddie exchanged a glance—that silent communication that so irritated Robin. Then Steve nodded slowly, and Eddie returned the gesture.
"All right," Steve said. "We’ll set some rules. House rules. Like a schedule for... activities."
"A schedule for fucking?" Robin asked incredulously. "You're seriously going to make a schedule for fucking?"
"A schedule for intimacy," Steve corrected, blushing. "Sounds better."
"Sounds just as ridiculous."
"Do you prefer to keep finding us on the couch every time you get home?"
Robin thought about it.
"Fine, a schedule for intimacy. But if you break it, I'm kicking you both out of the house."
"Deal," Eddie said, extending his hand.
Robin shook it, feeling strangely adult and responsible despite negotiating the terms of her cohabitation with an Alpha who, barely ten minutes ago, had been fucking Steve on the shared couch.
"You're complete idiots," she said, but she was smiling.
"We know," Steve and Eddie replied in unison.
And Robin, in spite of everything, couldn't help loving them even more. Even if she still occasionally found them in compromising situations when she got home.