Chapter Text
Rumi groans, hands scrabbling for purchase on her sheets, wishing for something more solid to grab on to.
Like Mira. Or Zoey. Preferably both.
Thoughts of the omegas — only a few rooms away, in the apartment — make her stomach clench and her hips jerk into her mattress.
But her door is locked for a reason, and as soon as Rumi had felt the first twinges of her rut coming, she had moved her beanbag chair in front of it. Not that it would be an actual obstacle, but having to kick it out of the way was just one more barrier between her and them, one more chance for her to make the right decision.
She can’t be near them. Can’t trust herself to be in their presence and not do something like bury her face in their necks, or rub her scent all over them. Can’t trust herself not to break down confessing how much she needs them, in or out of rut. Can’t trust herself not to expose her patterns to them, reveal every secret, put her life in their hands if only they would give her a little relief.
As she presses her face into the mattress, her hands slip under her pillows, brushing against fabric that shouldn’t be there. Her fingers hook into it, drag it out into the light, and Rumi groans at the sight of Zoey’s sky blue tank top. She buries her nose in it, inhales the sweet-tart scent of apples that is Zoey, tries not to whine with how much she wishes her maknae was actually here with her.
Rumi’s not surprised at finding the shirt, because Zoey always finds a way to do this. Any time Rumi tells the other two that she’s going to be locking herself away for her rut, she inevitably finds one of Zoey’s shirts hidden away in her room. Tucked underneath covers or folded neatly on her dresser. Once hung up on the back of the bathroom door. Always with Zoey’s scent all over it, more than just the remnants left over after laundering.
It kills Rumi. It saves her.
And Zoey never asks about it, never acknowledges how the shirts end up returned to her, cleaned and ironed. Never even mentioned the time a shirt came back with a hole from one of Rumi’s fangs.
Zoey’s too good to her.
If you hurt her, I will ruin you.
Mira’s voice echoes in Rumi’s head, and she turns her head, sinks her teeth into her pillow.
——
It hadn’t been that long after they’d all gotten together, before they debuted. The girls often hung out in the evenings, trying to anchor their Hunter bond. Sometimes it was movies and games, sometimes it was just doing their own things and letting conversation flow as it would. Rumi had been really looking forward to their quiet time through the day’s entire training session, had been hoping Zoey would be up for playing more of this video game she’d started a few days ago. Rumi has no interest in playing, but sitting next to Zoey, watching the story unfold, listening to Zoey’s chatter about anything and everything that catches her eye? Mira reading and pretending like she’s not paying attention, except for dropping wry little comments here and there?
That sounds like heaven right now.
Until Mira blocks her way into the den. “Go away, Rumi,” she says, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over her chest, shoulders as far back and up as they will go. She takes up most of the doorway, her scent darkening, caramel burning on the stove.
“What?” Rumi’s too surprised for her tone to have any bite to it. “Why?”
“You stink of rut.”
“I— do I?” She doesn’t think she does, but it hasn’t even been a year since she presented; she’s still getting used to the word Alpha and how it lives in her skin.
Mira had already presented by the time Celine brought her in, had arrived with eyes already sharp toward the young woman who she was supposed to live with, train with, twine her every moment of the next few decades together with. A look that had only gotten warier when she’d realized Rumi’s brand new Alpha status.
Then a few months later Zoey had arrived, all sweetness and eagerness to please, the stars in her eyes obvious to everyone else in the house. She’d presented a month later, and Mira, who had been slowly relaxing around Rumi, had immediately tensed all over again.
Now here they were in their home, face to face, Mira looking like she’s ready to pull out her weapon from the Honmoon. “You do,” she says, her voice harsh, leaving no room for doubt. “So tonight, go away.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Rumi protests, anger starting to creep in at the edges. How could Mira even begin to imagine that Rumi would act so recklessly?
Mira only scoffs. “Even if you didn’t, Zoey would,” she says. “She’d offer to help, and she’d mean it. For you. Because you need it. She wouldn’t even hesitate.”
Would that be so bad? Rumi wants to ask, then hesitates at the thought. That was… a lot to take on, actually. Something that could fragment them rather than strengthen. And her patterns... she can’t risk it.
Something must show on her face, because Mira shifts, stepping forward, even as her lips twist into disapproval. “Baby Alpha,” she sneers. “Is it hard hearing no for once?”
Rumi bites back her own harsh words, reins her in temper with difficulty. She hears ‘no’ all the time from Celine, but if she points it out she might have to explain just why—
She can’t even begin to fathom why Mira’s shoulders drop just a fraction, why her eyes suddenly hold something that could be respect. It’s hard to tell. And easily forgotten when Mira continues, “If you’re going to be the leader, Rumi, then lead. Make decisions for us all, not for you. It’s your responsibility. And I swear, if you hurt her, I will ruin you.”
There’s absolutely nothing she can say to that. Nothing that she’s allowed to say. Nothing that will bridge this gap. Rumi turns on her heel and stalks back to her room.
When she wakes up the next morning, the rut fully coursing through her body, she wonders how Mira noticed before she did. Mira recognized the potential danger, the possible threat, and put a stop to it.
Rumi finds that she’s grateful.
——
So here Rumi is, alone during her rut once again. Years of spending two or three days panting into her bed, trying to keep any unwanted sounds from escaping her mouth, much less her room.
She checks the clock on the nightstand, sees that there’s still an hour left before she can take her next dose of the rut treatment. An hour of torturous fire in her veins, of thoughts trickling traitorously through her mind.
Zoey, curled into her chest, nose pressed against her scent gland.
Mira, pressing soothing words and kisses into her back.
Zoey, sitting on her lap, thighs tight around hers, voice excited, eyes bright with that open fondness that always makes Rumi breathe easier.
Mira, between her legs, looking up with that sharp smirk like she knows something Rumi doesn’t, the one that makes heat unfurl in her chest.
She can smell her own scent spike, cinnamon gone harsh, drying out her throat. Rumi rips her mind away from thoughts of the other two, tries to run through choreography in her mind, but it just turns into memories of the dance studio, of seeing them next to her in the mirror, sweaty and beautiful and alight.
Okay okay okay. Unsexy things. Math. Their budget. Rumi pulls her laptop onto the bed, opens it to the spreadsheet for the month, forces her eyes to skim over the lines of numbers and their careful annotations. They snag on an extra line: a bonus paid to their driver, Dae-hyun, “for exceptional service”. Oh, she remembers that. Calling him to pick them up early from a Sunlight Entertainment mixer after someone had said something to Zoey — she’d refused to repeat it, but her scent had soured, her smile had been forced.
Dae-hyun had gotten there faster than expected, had picked them up from a side entrance free from any lurking paparazzi. Had driven them slowly past parks on the river, because Zoey was always soothed by the motion of the car, had stopped without asking at the ice cream place with Zoey’s favorite flavor.
By the time he’d returned them to the tower, Zoey had relaxed again, scent sweet and clear, shoulders loose. Rumi had exited the car last, had pressed way too much money into his hands, unable to find the words to show her appreciation. Needing to trail after Zoey, wrap her in further affection.
Maybe find out who the culprit was and blacklist them from anything having to do with Huntr/x.
The memory does distract her from the need coiling in her stomach, at least until it circles back to those moments in the car. Zoey had asked for a window seat, and Mira had wordlessly taken the middle.
The warmth and weight of Mira’s thigh against hers as Rumi presses reassurance into her skin. Mira’s tense with the situation, the hard line of her mouth set against giving the culprit a piece of her mind. Fighting the instinct to introduce their shin to her heel. Beyond her, Zoey leans against the door, head tilted up toward the sky, the city lights playing through her eyelashes and over her cheeks.
The way Zoey’s scent settles as the car rolls through the streets, the soft sway of the car pressing them into each other and away in random intervals, fleeting touches in the dark. The way she suddenly perks up as a familiar neon sign glides into view while the car rolls to a stop, the surprised gratitude in her voice as she says, “wait, really?”
The richness of the hazelnut ice cream in Rumi’s mouth and the delicate way Mira’s lips close around her spoon. Zoey half inhaling hers as Mira reaches over to wipe a drip off with her fingers before it can get on her dress. Mira’s indignant little “Zoey!” as cold lips press against her cheek in thanks. Zoey giggling as if there’s no weight on her at all, and her singsong little “now for unnie!”
Rumi leaning away, pretending to reach for the car door before Mira’s hand gently closes around the back of her neck, tugs her willingly over Mira’s lap so that Zoey can press a sticky kiss against her cheek as well.
“Fuck!” Rumi slams the laptop closed, then winces and puts it back on the nightstand more gently.
“Fuck,” she repeats, softer, as she brings Zoey’s tank top back to her nose, closing her eyes to feel those lips against her cheek again, to imagine them drifting downward.
The sound that escapes her mouth next is more of a hiss as her fingers trail down her chest to finally wrap around herself. It feels good. It feels incomplete. It should be Zoey. It should be Mira. It should be her omegas here, their skin, their mouths, their heat, their noises—
Zoey underneath her, wrists pinned above her head, knees pressed to her chest, skin flushed and sweaty and glowing, scent sweet, voice sweeter as she begs for faster, deeper.
Mira pressed up against her back, hands tight on her hips, nails digging in to the point of pain, urging her on. Voice dripping honey in her ears, lips following the curve of her spine.
Rumi’s pictured it too many times to count, has been here too often, on her knees, rutting into her hand, teeth pulling pinpricks of blood from her own lip in her need to not let one of their names slip out.
When she comes, the only real satisfaction is in letting herself fall forward onto Zoey’s shirt, in the brief moment of imagining that she’s getting to tuck her nose into Zoey’s neck, that Zoey is just about to laugh at her for being clingy—
And then a different heat, agony searing just underneath her skin, making Rumi writhe against the sheets. She opens her eyes to watch as her patterns, burning a molten magenta, crawl their way further down her arm. Just like every time she imagines them during her rut. She figures it’s a just punishment for her lack of control, for her greed, for every selfish desire to take and bite and claim.
Alpha. Demon. What’s the difference?
——
She can’t hear the Idol Awards crowd over her own thundering heartbeat. Mira and Zoey are here, underneath everything. Here. Not on the stage. It wasn’t them.
Rumi falls to her knees. The scent blocker she’s wearing can’t compete against the level of pheromones she’s pumping out, trying to communicate. Her scent hangs in the air, hot in her desperation, acrid with her need for them to understand. Mira raises her gokdo, Zoey follows with her shin-kal, and Rumi tips her head back to expose her throat in submission.
They’ve recognized the threat. She finds she’s grateful.
————
It’s not okay. What happened — the Idol Awards, the shattering of the Honmoon and Huntr/x alike, the way Rumi almost lost them, the way they almost lost her — none of that is okay.
Things that are okay: the world, the new Honmoon, the idea of a long hiatus, and them.
Mostly.
There are still things that need to be worked out, difficult conversations to be had. Rumi can’t pretend not to flinch back from them sometimes when she sees them approach from the corner of her eyes. Mira can’t help the sharp disappointment that flashes through her, or the way her jaw clenches as Rumi tries to explain her actions of the past seven years.
And Zoey—
Zoey cries out in pain, audible through her bedroom door, and Rumi’s nails dig into her thighs at the sound.
Zoey had lasted two days after the Idol Awards, just long enough to know that Huntr/x wasn’t breaking up, that Rumi and Mira were okay (mostly), that it would take time to heal but that healing would happen.
And then the stress of the situation had triggered her heat early.
Rumi, selfishly, greedily, had been looking forward to Zoey’s next heat, set to start nine days after the Idol Awards. With the Honmoon golden and her patterns gone, she’d been hoping to offer to help with this heat, with a shirt if nothing more. To signal, at the very least, an intention, a desire.
(She’d wanted to return the shirt favor for a long time, but never knew how to give it without implying more than she could offer. She’d wanted to start making amends.)
And a stress-induced heat, she’s rapidly learning, is another beast altogether. Even if she had been ready to offer assistance. Even if Zoey would’ve been willing to accept.
“Rumi,” Mira’s voice breaks through the thoughts that keep swirling endlessly through Rumi’s mind.
She looks up to where Mira stands, just inside Zoey’s room, the door cracked enough to show just a sliver of Mira’s face. Her glasses are slightly askew, her pajamas rumpled, and Rumi can tell by the stiff lines of her body that she’s exhausted.
She still looks beautiful, but there’s another whimper from deeper in the room that has them both twitching in that direction before they catch themselves.
“I think we need you,” Mira continues, and Rumi can feel how her eyes widen in surprise. “Giving her things you’ve scented is just making it worse.”
She’s never been allowed near either of them during their heats. She rubs her palms against her thighs nervously. “Then why do you think me being there would be better?”
“Because she can tell it’s just a substitute, which reminds her that you’re not there. And she’s been asking for both of us. Not for sex,” she clarifies, and Rumi hopes she doesn’t look relieved. “Just for presence and pressure.” Mira looks her up and down, but Rumi can only sense consideration, not judgment. “Can you change into something else, though? Soft materials?”
Nodding, Rumi stands from the couch. “Sure. I’ll be right there.”
“Mira,” comes Zoey’s pained voice, and Mira looks over her shoulder with a soft, soothing noise.
“Just come in when you’re ready.” Mira closes the door, likely in an attempt to save the whole penthouse from smelling like Zoey’s distress.
Rumi returns to her room, opening a drawer and pulling out pajama pants. She hesitates when she reaches for a well-worn t-shirt, wondering how much of her skin should be exposed. Would the sight of her patterns remind Zoey of recent events, distress her more? But there’s no disguising the marks on her face, the one that runs right over the scent gland on the right side of her neck.
Deciding to compromise, Rumi changes: boxers and pajama pants, a sports bra and the t-shirt, with a hoody to complete the ensemble. All clothes that are as soft as she owns, with no wires or buttons or zippers.
She glances at herself in the mirror, watches violet ripple through the visible patterns before she takes a deep breath. “It’s fine,” she tells her reflection, wanting to be fully settled before entering Zoey’s room. She might not be able to hide all of her own uncertainty, between her scent and her patterns, but it’s likely better for her to be calmer. “It’s Mira and Zoey.”
I only love them.
Yeah. That hadn’t come up in their conversations yet either.
Doesn’t matter. Can’t matter. It’s not about her. It’s about what Zoey needs. And Zoey needs her and Mira.
So.
Rumi exits her bedroom, strides over to Zoey’s door with more assurance than she really feels. She knocks on the door out of politeness, before remembering what Mira said. She tries the doorknob, which gives easily under her hand.
The door swings open, and instantly Rumi can smell them. Mira’s warm and rich caramel, soothing, but not quite enough to dull the edge of Zoey’s past-ripe, almost rotting sweetness.
Zoey is lying curled on the bed in just an oversized sleep shirt, the blankets kicked down to the bottom, Mira pressed up along her back. Zoey’s breath is so loud, and her bangs stick messily to her forehead. She peers at the doorway with bleary eyes. “Rumi?”
Pressing the door shut behind her, Rumi crosses the room in a second in order to be at her side, hand hovering over her shoulder. “Hi Zo,” she says quietly. “I’m here.” Her scent warms the air, reinforcing Mira’s, and Zoey closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath.
A hand fists in her hoody, and Zoey yanks her down. Rumi catches herself with a hand on the edge of the bed, her other hand now firmly on Zoey’s shoulder, and Zoey is pulling despite there only being an inch or two of bed available.
“Zoey,” Mira’s voice is stern, unshakeable. “Give her some space.”
“No,” Zoey bites out, and Rumi’s eyebrows raise at the harsh desperation in her voice. “No, you can’t leave.” Her grip tightens, drawing Rumi into an uncomfortable bend as she tries to drag her down.
“I’m not leaving,” Rumi reassures her. “But I can hold you better if you scoot back, okay?”
Zoey’s body trembles as she processes the request. But when Mira shifts, trying to make room, Zoey flinches back into her, turning to grab for her as well. “No!” she cries.
“Sweetheart,” Mira says evenly. “Let Rumi on the bed. Neither of us is going anywhere.”
Rumi puts her knee up on the bed, or at least tries, as it wants to slip off the thin margin available to her. “Can you move back a little? Mira and I both want to hold you.”
Zoey’s eyes dart from Mira to Rumi, sweat beading at her temples. “Both?” she repeats.
“Both,” Rumi confirms. “If you let me in.”
“Okay,” Zoey says, her body going slack, fingers loosening in their clothes, even as her voice drops to just above a whisper.
Taking immediate advantage, Mira hauls her more to the center of the bed, and Rumi, true to her word, crawls in without hesitation.
She presses herself right up to Zoey, legs tangling, Rumi’s arm wrapping around her waist and Mira’s arm as well. Zoey lets out a whimper, somewhere between pain and relief, and buries her nose in Rumi’s neck. “I’ve got you,” Rumi murmurs, feeling each of Zoey’s breaths fluttering against her skin.
The three of them stay like that for a few minutes, letting the silence rest, as Zoey’s scent slowly mellows. She still seems disinclined to move or speak, so Rumi looks at Mira past Zoey. This close, glasses off, the smudges under Mira’s eyes are more obvious. “Nap?” she suggests.
She knows what she’s asking.
If you hurt her, I will ruin you.
Not that Mira wouldn’t still be right there. Not that Zoey hasn’t curved her hips back into Mira’s, seeking as much contact with them both as possible. Not that Rumi has any intention to do anything but try to soothe the girl in her arms.
But Mira’s carried this alone for long enough. Rumi finds she can stroke both Zoey and Mira’s skin at once, and she does so. A long slow slide over Zoey’s side, the tip of her thumb dragging up Mira’s arm. Over and over. “I’ve got you,” Rumi repeats as Zoey curls a little more between them, but she keeps her eyes on Mira.
Mira nods before curving herself against Zoey, forehead resting against the back of her shoulder. “Zoey,” she murmurs, soft but clear. “Better?” Rumi can feel Zoey’s shuddering little nod against her throat; Mira must be able to feel it too, as she breathes out a little, “Good. Get some sleep.”
As Rumi holds them both, she feels Zoey slowly relax. Mira’s breathing evens out, her scent lightening into something sweet and peaceful. Rumi lets herself drift, time passing like a slow river, sinking into the bed, their embraces, their scents, all at once.
At least until Zoey starts to thrash in her arms, wordless grumbles and groans spilling from her throat, hands grasping at Rumi’s hoody like she’s trying to crawl inside.
“Zoey,” Rumi tries, but her voice just seems to make the motions more frantic; she tries to make her scent as reassuring as possible, but Zoey just burrows into her more. In her flailing, as Rumi is trying to duck her head, to try and solve the distance Zoey seems to feel, her hand smacks against Rumi’s face. Not hard enough to hurt, but startling enough for Rumi to pull back with a soft, surprised growl.
And Zoey whimpers, hands flexing before darting out again.
As fingers slide awkwardly over her chin and jaw and lips, Rumi acts on instinct. She bites, catching Zoey’s index and middle fingers gently between her teeth. Hard enough to halt their movement, to feel the give of Zoey’s skin, not hard enough to draw blood or leave marks that will linger long.
And Zoey shivers, violently enough that Mira pushes herself up on an elbow and Rumi’s jaw loosens. Zoey’s fingers slip out of her mouth, and she keens at the loss. “Rumi,” she whimpers. “Rumi, Rumi. Please.” She presses her fingertips to Rumi’s lips, pulls back enough so that Rumi can see her eyes, dark and pleading. She replaces her fingers with her wrist, pressing enough that Rumi’s lips start to part around it. “Please, Rumi, please Rumi, Rumi please—”
Helpless against Zoey’s voice, against the pressure that she feels against her teeth, Rumi opens her mouth, feels Zoey thrust her wrist in, skin scraping along Rumi’s incisors, until Rumi’s jaw aches with it. She closes her teeth gently, as gently as she possibly can, down into Zoey’s skin. Her teeth press lightly over Zoey’s scent gland, and Zoey sucks in a breath as Rumi shudders.
With just a little more force, she could mate Zoey right now, mark her forever.
Her skin tastes like the sweat that clings to it; Rumi’s sinuses are filled with Zoey’s scent. Every single breath is Zoey, Zoey, Zoey.
A low thrum fills the air, and Rumi realizes with a start that it’s coming from her. She’s purring.
Zoey abruptly collapses back into the bed. There’s a flash of pink as Mira steadies her, and Zoey giggles breathlessly. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really good. Mira, you should try this.” Her voice sounds hazy with something akin to pleasure rather than desperation, and Mira looks at her with a fond relief before her eyes flick toward Rumi.
“Rumi seems a little occupied,” she says, and Zoey giggles again, twists toward Mira. The movement makes her wrist tug against Rumi’s mouth, and her purring hitches as she tries not to break skin.
“Give me your wrist,” Zoey says, still dreamily. “I’ll bite you.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Mira.” Zoey drags out the last syllable, scent turning pleading, filling the room with a want that zips over Rumi’s tongue, slides right down her throat, makes her jaw tighten on Zoey’s wrist. Zoey shifts, head tilting back, a soft moan slipping from her lips.
And maybe it’s that sound, wanton and wanting, that makes Mira hastily lift her wrist to Zoey’s mouth. “Fine.”
Rumi watches as Zoey’s fingertips wrap around Mira’s forearm, guide her wrist to where Zoey wants it. The glimpse of her teeth as she opens her mouth. Rumi flicks her eyes to Mira in time to catch the soft twitch of her shoulders as Zoey bites down.
Zoey lets out a garbled jumble of words that Rumi can’t quite parse, but Mira nods as if she understood perfectly.
“Not bad,” she admits, almost reluctant. Pink tinges her skin.
Rumi hums and holds her arm out to Mira, who gives her that narrow-eyed look that Rumi’s always struggled to decipher. Sometimes it seems judgmental, like Mira can’t stand Rumi’s presence. Sometimes it seems searching, like Mira’s trying to decipher Rumi’s intent. And it could be either of those; could be one of those looks that’s made Rumi draw back in the past, made her slink away rather than push them into anything uncomfortable.
But this seems… almost considerate. Like Mira wanting to make sure that she’s not pushing Rumi further than she wants to go.
Rumi holds her wrist up a little higher, eyebrows raised.
Mira sighs, finally. “You’re both ridiculous.” She taps Zoey’s shoulder. “Let go.”
Zoey whines but obeys, and Rumi’s eyes lock on Mira’s wrist as Zoey releases it, the circular indents of Zoey’s teeth on Mira’s skin hypnotizing.
She suddenly doesn’t want to let go of Zoey’s wrist at all. The sight might kill her.
Mira climbs over Zoey to kneel on the bed, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she places her fingers on Rumi’s wrist. The purr redoubles at her light touch, and Mira’s lips twitch almost into a smile. “Only for a moment,” she warns, and at Rumi’s careful nod, delicately leans down and bites.
And oh, it’s light and delicate and so, so good, a jolt that runs up Rumi’s arm, shivers down her spine, twists in her stomach. Her patterns flare iridescent, lighting up Mira’s face. She can feel her heartbeat hammering, wonders if Mira can feel it pulse against her teeth.
When they’d remade the Honmoon, for a moment it had just been their three souls carrying it, giving them the strength to pull their weapons. For the span of a few breaths, Rumi could feel Zoey and Mira in her chest like they were made to live there, right next to her, could feel herself in them like a home she’d known forever but never been to.
It feels a bit like that now. Mira’s teeth against her gland like a hand at the door.
And then it’s gone.
Mira lifts her head, their eyes meeting, and Rumi, unable to speak, just purrs all the louder.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mira says, rolling her eyes. But her scent is rich and golden, her fingers brush over the bite mark, and that’s answer enough.
“That was,” Zoey rasps, eyes wide, “the hottest thing I have ever seen.”
“Because you’re in heat,” Mira reasons.
“Because it’s you two,” Zoey shoots back, and okay, Rumi’s really going to need to have her voice back for this. She carefully opens her jaw a little wider, feeling the ache of it, making sure her teeth are clear of skin before releasing Zoey’s wrist. Zoey shudders at the loss, and Rumi rubs her thumb over the irritated skin.
(She thinks of that mark being permanent. She thinks of that same ring of teeth on Zoey’s neck, and even she can feel how her scent spikes at the image.)
Zoey’s watching her, eyes half lidded, body relaxing back into the bed now. Rumi wonders if the bite is enough to keep that rough desperation at bay, if it can hold Zoey through the rest of the heat.
“Unnie,” Zoey croons, “you liked that.” It’s teasing, yes, but there’s also a deep-seated gratification, something that sounds too self-satisfied to be just the heat.
If Rumi’s ever been proven wrong faster in her life, she can’t remember when.
“Can we not talk about this now?” She can’t hide the slight whine to her voice, tries to ignore the way Mira’s eyes sharpen and the weight of her gaze. Let her look. There’s something in Rumi’s chest that feels cracked open; if Mira can see it and comprehend and Rumi never has to say anything at all, that would be fine by her.
Zoey softens, her scent swirling in a combination of comfort and need that Rumi breathes in, allows it to push her own fears aside. Zoey holds her arms out, flexing her fingers in little grabby hand motions. “If you come here,” she says. “I want a Rumi weighted blanket.”
Carefully, Rumi shifts, letting her legs bracket Zoey’s as she hovers over her body, waiting for Zoey to nod before lowering herself slowly, grateful for the layers of clothes between them. She can still feel how Zoey’s body gives underneath hers, hears the quiet sigh of contentment as she lets Zoey take her full weight.
(She’s seen Zoey jump out of planes and off buildings, watched her fight and parkour around every surface with laughter as sharp as her shin-kal. Why Rumi’s suddenly worried that her own weight will be crushing, she’s not sure.)
“And now Mira,” Zoey says, turning those seeking fingers her way.
“What, at the same time?”
“Yeah. It’ll fix me.”
“It’ll break a rib.”
“Nah,” Zoey says, pressing her grin into Rumi’s hair. “I can take you both.”
The mental image that invokes makes Rumi’s breath catch before she can stop herself. With the way their bodies are pressed together, there’s no way Zoey missed it.
Actually, Zoey’s probably doing it on purpose.
A quick glance Mira’s way reveals her unimpressed expression flicking from Zoey to her.
But though her gaze lingers, Mira only shifts to be closer, a hand resting on Zoey’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she murmurs.
“I’d feel even better if you were on top of me,” Zoey says, and this time Rumi is prepared for it. She’s not falling for the bait this time.
“On top of Rumi, you mean.”
…She is not falling for it. She turns her face into Zoey, so that her expression is hidden in her shoulder. “You said she wanted pressure,” Rumi reminds Mira, projecting her voice to be heard.
There’s a brief silence, one that weighs heavily enough that Rumi doesn’t dare raise her head.
Finally Mira sighs, the mattress shifting under her weight. “Only for a moment,” she says again, sounding exasperated but not frustrated. “Just tap if you can’t breathe, either of you.”
There’s subtle pressure on her back at first, Mira’s hand pressing lightly between her shoulderblades for balance before she lays down slowly. Rumi can feel her chest pressing into her back, can feel how she’s pushed down into Zoey. Feels Zoey’s long, slow exhale, like all of the anxiety is being forced out of her body.
Can also feel the little flutter of her inhale, like it is hard for her to breathe. Rumi counts it out in her head, decides about twenty seconds in that she doesn’t like the pace of Zoey’s breath rising and falling.
Rumi presses her forearms to the bed on either side of Zoey, tightens her core and shoulders, and lifts herself and Mira up an inch, enough that her chest can feel the sudden swell of Zoey’s deep breath, enough that Mira suddenly clutches at her arms so she doesn’t slide off.
Enough that Zoey is looking at her with obvious desire, her heat swelling between them, and Rumi can’t help but think of all the times she’s pictured this exact expression, imagined being in this position.
(How, every time, it ended with her knot in Zoey and her teeth in her neck.)
Her head swirls, and she sucks in a breath that has nothing to do with the physical exertion.
Nails scratch along her sides, and Rumi refocuses on Zoey, whose hands have slipped under her layers to her skin.
There’s a thrum against her back, Mira purring quietly enough that it’s something Rumi feels more than hears.
“Do that again,” Zoey whispers, the intensity of the request not dulled by her volume.
Slowly, Rumi lowers herself again, letting Zoey take their weight bit by bit, until Zoey nods, her fingers pressing a little harder into Rumi’s ribs.
Mira groans softly, almost at her ear, a small strained noise like she was trying to hold it in; Rumi can see her patterns flash pink as caramel washes over her. She’s imagined that a hundred times as well.
“I’m healing,” Zoey declares. “My crops are being watered, my skin is clearing—”
“Your skin is perfect,” Rumi interrupts, confused, attention torn too widely between Zoey’s grin and Mira’s breath against her neck. It is, objectively. And should be. Skincare has its own line in their budget. She barely has time to register that once again, the budget is likely the safer train of thought in this moment. And then.
Mira’s lips press against her skin in a grin. Zoey’s warm laughter, the one that always means Rumi’s said something funny, the one that Zoey almost always follows up with:
“You’re so cute,” Zoey says, fingers trailing over Rumi’s side, skimming over her ribs, and oh, not safe, not safe, not safe.
Mira murmurs a little, “Rumi, you’re trembling.”
Rumi forces a laugh. “Gotta work on my planks, I guess.”
A sharp intake of breath behind her; Zoey’s eyes searching her face, like she’s looking for confirmation of something she already knows.
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” Rumi corrects, voice quiet, and feels Mira relax again, cheek on her shoulder.
Zoey smiles at her, withdraws her hands from Rumi’s side only to cup her face instead, smoothing her thumbs along Rumi’s cheeks. “That’s okay,” she says, her tone soothing. But her smile has a little too much tooth to it; Rumi can’t relax fully into the comfort Zoey is offering. “Can I talk instead? And you just listen?”
Always. She’ll always listen to Zoey. “Yeah,” is what she manages.
“You two are my favorite people in the world,” Zoey says, then immediately presses a finger against Rumi’s lips. “Do not tell my mom.”
Mira huffs a laugh. One of her arms curls around Rumi’s side; her hand slides into the small amount of space between Rumi’s stomach and Zoey’s.
“You know Mira and I help each other with our heats,” Zoey says, and lets Rumi nod. The three of them only go on heavy suppressant dosages when they’re on a major tour; otherwise they keep to a lighter regimen that keeps their cycles shorter and more predictable. Less stress on their bodies that way, even if they have to schedule around them. It’s healthier; more than one idol has collapsed on stage due to long-term suppressant side effects.
So all their cycles are on the joint calendar; it’s been hard not to notice when both Mira and Zoey disappear when those particular tags come up. Harder still not to react to the way they smell like each other for the following few days.
(Hardest yet not to feel every moment of those heats like an eternity. Not to feel their combined absence like a void, leaving her achingly alone.)
Zoey’s hands gently squeeze against her cheeks, and Rumi meets her eyes, unsure when they’d drifted past her to the pillow instead.
“I didn’t give you my shirt for your ruts because I didn’t want you thinking about me.”
“I know,” Rumi mumbles, because she does, she did. But there’s a difference in assisting someone with their cycle, easing the pain, blowing off steam, than with what Rumi’s always wanted from them.
One is intimacy without obligation. Rumi wants forever, with every attendant expectation and commitment.
Which she knows is a lot to ask. It’s a lot to ask in any circumstance. It’s a huge ask given that they live their lives under a microscope, that the three of them haven’t had any substantial time away from each other in almost a decade, given their careers and demon hunting. It’s an insane ask given what Rumi’s kept from them that entire time.
But Rumi wants it all the same.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” Zoey says, and Rumi lets her head drop into Zoey’s neck and breathes. “Will you stay? For the rest of it?”
“As long as you want,” Rumi says.
“You’ve got us,” Mira confirms.
They remain in that position until Rumi’s core starts to burn, her shoulders tensing with Mira’s added weight. Maybe she trembles or makes a noise; Mira rolls off of her right before Rumi can ask for the relief.
Zoey fusses immediately, pressing up with hips and thighs and tossing Rumi off to her other side, where she lands with a little annoyed huff.
“You could’ve asked,” she says, even as Zoey flops herself onto Mira — also without asking, Rumi notes.
Mira glances Rumi’s way as Zoey settles, wiggling into place with a pleased smile. “Not during her heat, she won’t.” Her tone is gruff, but she runs a hand over Zoey’s back soothingly, lets it settle on her hip. “What she wants changes constantly, but she always needs it now.”
“Good,” Rumi says, without really thinking about it, curling up next to them both, hand settling against Zoey’s other hip, legs pressed against Mira’s. Zoey doesn’t try to center herself nearly enough, Rumi thinks.
“Terrible,” Mira replies, but Zoey giggles at her, kisses Mira’s chin and cheek, purrs until Mira relents with a smile.
They manage to stay like that for a while longer, though Zoey reaches out to fist Rumi’s sweatshirt after only a few minutes, grounding herself against both of them. Rumi’s pretty sure that it’s Zoey’s stomach that growls audibly to interrupt the moment; she’d be shocked if Mira got her to eat anything earlier.
“Hey Zo?” Mira murmurs, hand scratching along Zoey’s scalp. Rumi watches how Zoey presses herself into Mira’s touch, feels herself melt over how well they fit together. “If I go make us lunch, will you be okay here with Rumi?”
It doesn’t feel accusatory. There’s a healthy dose of caution to her tone, but given how Zoey was earlier, it seems warranted.
Zoey nods against her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says, though she hides her face against Mira’s neck before she shifts off of her, curling up against Rumi instead. “Hi,” she says, molding her body along Rumi’s.
Rumi laughs as Mira stands, stretching her arms over her head as she watches them with a smile. “Hi,” Rumi answers, wrapping an arm around Zoey. Mira nods and heads out of the room, and Rumi settles, brushing her lips over Zoey’s forehead.
She may not want to talk about it, but she’ll take every opportunity she gets in this moment.
Of course, the heat has other ideas; and it feels like no time at all before Zoey is shifting restlessly, legs pressing against Rumi’s before sweeping back across the bed, before curling up, before repeating the whole sequence again. Her scent spikes, desperation starting to thread back in.
“Where’s Mira?”
“She’s in the kitchen, getting lunch,” Rumi reminds her, putting her hand over Zoey’s as it plucks at her sweatshirt.
But Zoey shakes herself free of Rumi’s attempts at calming her. “I want Mira back,” she whines. “Neither of you is allowed to leave.”
“Okay,” Rumi stalls, remembering what Mira said earlier about Zoey’s changing moods. Heats and ruts have always been confined to bedrooms for privacy, for politeness, for safety. None of those really apply if they’ve all been in bed together, she reasons. “If you’re okay to leave the bed, we could go see her.”
Zoey shifts, clamping her legs almost painfully around one of Rumi’s, arm tight around her waist. “Sounds good,” she says, voice muffled in Rumi’s sweatshirt, and Rumi has to laugh.
“Sweetheart, we need to get up for that.”
There’s a few soft, unintelligible grumbles pressed into her chest, collarbone, neck, as Zoey’s face moves upward, before she finally sighs, breath ghosting over Rumi’s chin and cheek. “Fine.”
“I’ll piggyback you,” Rumi offers, and Zoey brightens, her grasp loosening enough that Rumi can pull away, just enough to sit on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t dare stand or lose contact with the bed, just in case Zoey somehow interprets it as Rumi leaving too. “C’mon, let’s go,” she urges, and Zoey wraps around her waist and shoulders before Rumi stands, putting her hands under Zoey’s thighs for support as she carries her out of the bedroom.
“Rumi?” Zoey says, smushing their cheeks together.
“Hmm?”
“Mira’s cooking, right? Think she’d let me piggyback on her and I could Ratatouille her?” Zoey’s voice is just a murmur in her ear, but Rumi grins and doesn’t modulate her volume at all as she steps them both into the kitchen.
“She’s got a knife. She’d probably stab you.”
“I probably would,” Mira agrees as she turns her head their way, even as the knife continues to slice through carrots. “What’s going on?”
Zoey whines a little at being called out, so Rumi shakes her head, decides to redirect Mira’s question.
“Zoey missed you.”
Mira hums an acknowledgment, but Rumi catches the little flush to her cheeks as she turns her attention back to the cutting board.
Which is why Rumi steps forward, next to Mira, close enough that she can lean her head against her shoulder. When she feels Zoey also lean, Rumi widens her stance to steady them both, watching how Zoey drapes her arms around Mira’s shoulders now, leaning heavily on her. Mira’s head tips forward, the low ponytail she wears while cooking at least keeping it out of her face.
“I can’t cook like this,” she states, and Zoey giggles.
“I thought you liked a challenge?”
“I thought you wanted to eat sometime today,” Mira counters, her hands continuing to work steadily despite her complaints.
“I want—” Zoey starts, then audibly swallows. She doesn’t continue, and the silence makes both Rumi and Mira twist to look at her face, which is flushed as she refuses to meet either of their eyes. “You know what I want,” she mumbles, and Rumi can feel how her legs squeeze her waist.
Mira looks relieved. Rumi feels trapped, that hungry, demanding part of her roaring to life in her chest. “You really are feeling better,” Mira’s saying, a light tease to her voice. “If you’re back to thinking about all that.”
Zoey huffs, half indignant, half amused. “Of course,” she says. “You and Rumi really helped. The question is,” her voice lowers, turns silky in a way that Rumi’s not sure she’s ever heard. “Do you feel like helping more?”
“I am making lunch,” Mira reminds her steadily. “Which you will eat.”
“Rumiiiii.”
“Lunch,” Rumi says, keeping her eyes locked on Mira’s profile, grateful that she can follow Mira’s lead in this.
Zoey hums as she shifts, hips pressing forward into Rumi’s lower back as she pulls back to wrap her arms around Rumi’s shoulders again. “But Mira’s cooking, not you. Want to fool around a little while we wait?”
“I’m not fooling around,” Rumi tells her, hands tightening on Zoey’s thighs, staring at Mira hard enough that she catches her little sidelong glance.
“So you want to get serious?” Zoey purrs it in her ear, scent intensifying. She chuckles as Rumi’s chest expands, taking a deep breath without her permission.
Mira opens her mouth — Rumi recognizes that look, can just hear the scolding tone she’s about to use, and shakes her head. She’s promised not to hide from them anymore; she needs them to understand.
“Honestly?” she asks, and Mira snaps her mouth closed, nods once. Zoey squeezes her a little tighter.
So Rumi twists uncomfortably so she can see Zoey. “I don’t trust myself to help more than this,” she says, and watches the teasing drop completely out of Zoey’s face. She doesn’t dare glance toward Mira, though she hears the click of the knife being put on the counter. “This is your heat, it should be about what you need, but all I keep thinking about is what I want. Which isn’t fair.”
“Rumi,” Zoey murmurs and presses her hands to the back of Rumi’s shoulders. Rumi lets her down with a twisted satisfaction, hurt that she’s pushed Zoey away; relieved that Zoey recognized that she needs the distance. Which only makes Zoey’s next words hit harder, sink into her chest like stones. “I told you: I want you here.”
Rumi turns to see Zoey, puts her own hands behind herself, one hand gripping the other so hard she could swear she feels the bones flex. “To help,” she clarifies so quickly that it borders on rude, is almost interrupting. She nods to Mira. “Presence. Pressure. Fooling around. Zoey, I want to pin you to the mattress for the rest of your heat.” She says it like a plea, searching for understanding, braced for the dismay, but Zoey and Mira just stand there, like they’re waiting for the axe to fall. “I want my teeth in your neck until the whole world knows you’re ours. The thought of you with anyone but Mira or me makes me want to lock every door in this tower and never let you out.”
“What’s stopping you?” Mira asks calmly, arms casually crossed in front of her.
“What she said,” Zoey says breathlessly, eyes wide and dark, fingertips trembling, scent curling thick around her.
Rumi looks between them. “What do you mean?” she demands. “It’s selfish. It’s possessive. It’s controlling. It’s every bad thing ever said about alphas and—” she hesitates, swallows hard. “I don’t want to be that, or hurt you.”
Mira steps forward, and Rumi would step back if the counter didn’t stop her. Mira’s eyes catch the aborted movement, a smirk starting to curve her lips. “You’ve spent all morning next to an omega in heat. How much of that have you done?”
“None of it, but—”
“Because Zoey or I made you?”
“No,” Rumi starts, but Mira just advances again, and Rumi only has a few seconds to decide whether to hold her ground or slide out to the side while she can. And then Zoey moves to block that avenue, and Rumi is left between them.
“So what did?”
Rumi huffs, seeing what Mira is getting at but also what she’s ignoring. “Just because I controlled myself this time doesn’t mean I always will. It only takes one slip.” She closes her eyes, tries not to shudder.
“Rumi,” that’s Zoey’s voice, impossibly soft on her name, fingers brushing over her arm. “Why do you always assume that you’re dangerous? Why do you keep thinking we’ll turn you away?”
“Because I think you should,” Rumi answers quietly, and tries not to flinch when she feels arms wrap around her waist. A nose presses into her neck, and she squints her eyes open on Zoey’s hair taking up most of her vision, Mira hovering behind her before her fingers brush over Rumi’s cheek.
“Do you remember what I said after I presented?” Zoey asks, and audibly takes a long inhale against Rumi’s skin. “About how our scents all melded so well?”
“Like we were made to fit together,” Mira says fondly, and Zoey giggles.
“Yeah. I was so relieved. Can you imagine if I smelled like… barbeque? Or something that just didn’t go?”
Mira’s expression pinches, lip curling. “Never make me imagine that again.”
Rumi laughs, despite herself, and she can feel Zoey’s grin, hear it in her voice.
“Right? It’d be awful! And like, maybe we aren’t actually literally made for each other but we all felt what happened with the Honmoon and how we maybe tied our souls together for all eternity.”
“Eternity or just the rest of our lives?” Mira asks, voice dry.
“No, that definitely felt like eternity,” Zoey insists, and Rumi leans her head back, hums a note just to see the Honmoon in all its newly flickering colors weave around them.
“Definitely,” she says.
“Maybe that’s why you feel it so strongly,” Zoey says. “Because we’re already yours. You’re already ours.”
The thought makes Rumi’s breath catch in her throat, and as she tilts her head back down she can see Mira blink, lips parted on a breath, color rising in her cheeks.
“Zoey,” Rumi says through a laugh, because how else is she supposed to react to that? How else to calm the surge of desire that rushes through her chest at that thought? “You can’t just say that.”
“We all felt it,” Zoey protests, finally lifting her head to meet Rumi’s eyes, twisting to see Mira’s. “Didn’t we?” she adds, slightly more hesitant.
Mira puts an arm around her, leans across her back. “We did.”
Zoey relaxes, presses a kiss to Mira’s jaw before doing the same to Rumi. “Okay, so. Lunch, cuddles, and talking about you two not letting me leave my bed during my next heat?”
There’s no way it can be that simple. “Zoey, I—”
Zoey claps both of her palms against Rumi’s cheeks, squishing them hard. “Rumi. I will never ask you to do something you don’t want to do,” she says. “But I’m not afraid of you. Don’t be afraid of us.”
“Okay,” Rumi manages, and the pressure on her face eases as Zoey releases her with a few gentle pats to her cheeks.
“For the record, that’s the first stupid alpha thing you’ve done,” Zoey says cheerfully. “Trying to decide what’s best for us without talking to us first. Do it again, and I’ll draw moustaches on you while you sleep for a month. In permanent marker.”
“One of those curly villain ones,” Mira suggests, turning back to the counter and the waiting vegetables.
Zoey nods. “Definitely.” She sighs, sags into Rumi’s chest. “Would you bite me again?” she asks, lifting her wrist up, the faint indents of Rumi’s previous bite still visible. “At least until lunch is ready?”
“Not in my kitchen,” Mira says, though a smile tugs at her lips. “To the couch with you.”
Rumi lets herself get dragged away, though when they reach the couch she sits first so she can drag Zoey into her lap, thighs straddling her hips in a way that makes Rumi’s core tighten. She bites into Zoey’s wrist, slowly increasing the pressure until Zoey’s eyes fall closed and a purr slips from her.
Mine, Rumi thinks, and this time it doesn’t feel so harsh.