Work Text:
As Mira finishes pinning up her hair, she pauses with a grimace when her hand brushes the sweat cooling on the back of her neck. She’s got to talk to building support about the temperature control in here; she’s only been warming up for thirty minutes, and one body in the room shouldn’t be racking this kind of heat yet. She pulls her loose shirt away from her skin as she paces over to the stereo, just to get a little air moving.
Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she flicks through the available files until she reaches “NEWSONG6_FINAL_FORREAL_FINAL_PROMISE.wav” with a faint smile. It’s done enough that she can start to build around the cues, even if she knows Zoey still isn’t happy with the second verse and Rumi can’t make up her mind on a key change. She sets the music to run on repeat and sets her phone down on the stereo.
For the first run she just lets the music play, settling the pacing and vibe without letting her mind touch movement yet. It’s a good track, solid construction, strong lyrics, very them. It sets the tone for the second half of the new record well while standing on its own in terms of rhythm. She can hear Zoey playing with cadence through the bridge, dipping back and forth between languages with an elegance she would wrinkle her nose at being described as such.
Round two is the first rough draft. To the imaginary observer in the room it would look identical to her first listen, but this time she starts running the motions in her head. She keeps her eyes unfocused, trained on the empty floor. There’s a style Mira’s more comfortable working in, that fans expect of their performance, but she always enjoys pushing the edges into something new.
She breaks the next rotations out methodically; verses, bridges, chorus. Each needs thought on the focus and mirroring. The track is split in such a way that it will look good to showcase different physicalities she knows everyone leans towards in performance, Rumi’s strength of presence against Zoey’s predator-like confidence. By the fifth run she’s got the groundwork laid. She’s ready to move.
Rumi’s part is the anchor, always. She has advantages working with Rumi’s flexibility and experience, but has to keep the visuals in mind to account for her shorter reach. She lets the first few bars roll as she centers herself in the wall mirror, and then she begins.
It’s easy to sink into the parallel flow of watching and executing. Her body is warm and well conditioned after months of touring. Her lines are clean. The movement feels as good as it looks, which she always considers an early sign of success. Pleased, she spins on her heel as the song loops back around, and freezes in surprise.
Rumi and Zoey are there behind her, lingering in the doorway to the studio, gym bags still on their shoulders. They’re both dressed for practice, Rumi in a sleeveless hoodie, Zoey in nothing but a sports bra under the garish bomber jacket she seems to have halfway unzipped. They’re both staring at her intently.
She tilts her head in question as the song carries on. Without looking away, Rumi closes the door behind her and asks, “Are the cameras on yet?”
“No?” Mira replies, no less puzzled. She starts at the sudden sound of Zoey’s bag hitting the floor, followed by her hat and then her jacket as she walks purposefully over to Mira. The movement of Rumi drawing the blind on the window in the door draws her attention seconds before it’s diverted by Zoey’s arms wrapping around the back of her neck and pulling her down into a deep kiss.
She makes a muffled sound of surprise, arms curling around Zoey half out of reflex and half out of the need to steady herself from the sudden shift in her balance. It’s not unwelcome by any means, but she’s really not sure where this is coming from.
Zoey pulls away and nudges Mira’s head to the side with a low groan, latching on to her neck with a mutter of, “Fuck, you taste amazing.”
Mira laughs breathlessly. “I’m so sweaty,” she tries to deflect, running a hand up Zoey’s back. “What’s going—”
She cuts herself off with a sharp breath at the press of Zoey’s teeth on her skin. “Look,” Zoey mumbles, walking them back until Mira is braced against the barre. “Rumi is like forty-five percent of my impulse control and she’s as horny as I am after that.”
“After…” Mira swallows, one hand on the metal, one still scrabbling for a hold on Zoey’s back. “After what?”
“After watching a beautiful woman we love move like she was put on this earth to dance,” Rumi answers, eyes locked on them as she crosses the floor.
“It’s just work,” Mira insists weakly, unable to keep herself from pushing into Rumi’s touch as she arrives next to her and slides a hand over her stomach under her shirt. “You’ve seen me do this a million times. You both do it.”
“We don’t make something out of the air,” Rumi murmurs. She leans in closer, nosing behind Mira’s ear. “We only do what you tell us.”
“Seriously, do you not understand how sexy it is to watch you do something you’re so fucking good at?” Zoey asks. Mira’s completely befuddled response is lost in a grunt as Zoey flips their positions. Her own face is flushed in the mirror, strands of hair escaping her bun every which way. She watches Rumi’s reflection as she moves behind her, tucking her chin over Mira’s shoulder and curling an arm between her and Zoey.
“This isn’t, ah, gonna get you out of warm up,” Mira warns, nails sinking into Zoey’s back as she feels a bruise being sucked into her collarbone. Rumi smiles, looking entirely unapologetic.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her hand settles around the curve of Mira’s ribs beneath her shirt, catching Mira’s shuddering breath as Zoey’s hand fumbles at her waistband.
“I can’t believe we haven’t done this before,” Zoey says in a half-laugh, half-growl. Mira feels one of Zoey’s arms wrap tightly around her lower back as her other hand finally finds purchase below her waistband. “This is the best idea I’ve had in months. We really need to be early to rehearsal more often.”
Mira opens her mouth to very firmly assert that they will not be allowed to be early if this is what happens, but all that escapes her is a groan as Zoey’s fingers slide against her. For all her eagerness the first touch is soft and perfectly controlled in just the way that makes Mira melt every time. Mira’s eyes track movement in the mirror as Rumi’s lips find the back of her shoulder.
“She’s not wrong,” Rumi says through a series of slow, open mouthed kisses that drag across the back of her neck. “It’s criminal that you’re the only one here who hasn’t seen how gorgeous you are when you come. High time we fixed that.”
Zoey growls in approval, increasing the pressure of her hand by measures. Mira rocks into it, gripping the barre so hard she can almost feel the bones in her hand creaking. There’s nowhere to look but her own face.
She tries to feel embarrassed by how flushed and desperate she looks already, but it pales next to the buzzing intensity of watching what’s happening. Zoey wrapped around her from the front, hand working between Mira’s legs, breath hot and hard against her neck. Rumi draped across her back, watching with almost lazy satisfaction, hands wandering light and aimless over Mira’s sides.
“Good girl,” Rumi all but purrs into her ear, breaking out in a little grin when Mira goes even more red. “Keep your eyes open, okay? I want you to watch every minute of this.”
Mira’s trying, but it’s getting harder by the second to comply. Her brain is already short circuiting under the stimulus, all while being forced to confront the objective reality that watching herself get fucked is extremely hot. She’s built a career on understanding and manipulating the aesthetics of motion, and has always been able to separate herself as a person from her body as a set piece, but this is not that. With Rumi and Zoey she is always and only herself. A person they love and now, undeniably, a body they desire, inseparable in a way she has never examined before.
Zoey bites down on her shoulder. Mira watches herself squirm, hears herself whine at the flicker of tongue against her skin. “C’mon, baby,” Zoey urges in a low, rough voice half-muffled by the hold she won’t release. “You know I can feel how close you are. Let me have it.”
It’s the words that do it in the end. If anyone outside this room spoke to Mira like this she would come out swinging, but wrapped up between the two people she loves most in the world, safe in a way she is nowhere else, the command rips through her like an electrical fire. She watches and feels her climax shudder up her body at the same time, utterly taken by the look of satisfaction on Rumi’s face and the slow softening of Zoey’s touch as they carry her through it.
“Good,” Rumi says, wrapping her arms around Mira, pulling her back as her legs begin to wobble. “That’s so good.”
She lets them shift her like a ragdoll, dazed and wrung out from the intensity of what just happened. Eventually she finds herself turned away from the mirror, back braced against Zoey’s front as Rumi kisses her, slow and soft.
She feels Zoey’s lips against the back of her shoulder, under what will almost certainly be a noticeable bruise in the shape of her teeth. “I want you both to know,” she murmurs between kisses, “that I am devastated that I didn’t get to watch that happen, and will be ordering a mirror for my bedroom ceiling as soon as we get home.”
Rumi chuckles at the involuntary shiver that runs through Mira at the thought. “She’s gonna make you do lunges for that,” Rumi says.
“So many lunges,” Mira confirms, still the slightest bit breathless. Zoey whines loudly behind her while Rumi starts pulling back, steadying hands never leaving Mira’s hips.
“You okay?” She asks. She’s smiling like she knows the answer already, face tinged red, eyes bright and playful. Mira nods, feeling Zoey’s arms wrap tightly around her waist. What a gift, she thinks, to be loved so purposefully, to be cared for so easily. She wouldn’t trade this moment or these girls for the world.
Even if she’s accidentally managed to awaken some sort of competence kink in them.
The bouncer is the only one to recognize her, just as Zoey planned for. She smirks to herself as he motions her to the front of the line, bumping fists with her before letting her in the door. The fourteen-year-old SoundCloud rapper who still lives inside her is basically screaming.
She moves through the restless crowd with ease, heading backstage without drawing any notice. The stylist team are truly godsends; her hair and face are so easily recognizable at this point that a pony tail and a face mask is all it takes to become Clark frigging Kent. She grabs an unclaimed water bottle as she passes a table full of them, sliding her headphones up from around her neck and settling against a spot against the wall to watch.
There are a few familiar faces in the contenders tonight, the field consisting almost exclusively of wannabe tough guys trying to psych each other out before they’re called. The satisfaction of evading notice is old and familiar, a good base to start building herself up from. She flicks through her phone until she gets to an indecipherable to anyone but her playlist and hits play, cranking the volume exactly one measure too high.
Aesop Rock starts off, precise, elegant, and enraged in equal measure. She lives her life in Korean now, but English will always be half of her home. The internal rhyming structure winds her up every time, gets her brain spinning out connections at lightspeed in twelve different directions. She lets her mouth move over the words without moving the air to speak them, closing her eyes and letting the beat sink in.
Doechii is next, slick and strong with just the energy she wants to bring to this party. Alter Ego feels particularly apt this evening. Her train of thought briefly wanders to how high on her collab list Doechii is before she shakes herself back in focus. Work thoughts later, hype now.
She feels the club’s bass in the wall behind her back, nearly syncopating with the beat in her headphones. Her fist starts tapping against the drywall in time. Even deliberately flooding her system with stimulus, the churn of anticipation in her stomach makes her open her eyes again to watch the others get called to the stage one by one. “Don’t fuck this up,” she chants beneath her breath, again and again. “Don’t fuck this up.”
The wrangler turns to her at last, waving her on. She slides her headphones off and launches off the wall.
Her opponent enters from stage right, some guy who takes one look at her and sneers. He wins the coin toss, but joke’s on him. She’s a finisher.
He spends his whole set getting up in her face, desperately trying to distract from the fact that his rapping is lame as hell. Demon hunting aside, she survived ten years in the American public school system as a small, artistic, non-white kid. She eats clowns like this for breakfast.
She endures it, appreciating the intimidating air of mystery her mask brings in addition to keeping her deeply unimpressed expression to herself. When he finishes she allows a bar to pass before she begins.
The energy shifts from the first line she spits out. Less than three and she has the whole crowd wrapped around her finger, hanging on the flawless line she slides between every word. She builds a world out of them, builds the room into a fever pitch. The Honmoon flickers in and out of the edge of her vision, throbbing with the beat, iridescent and strong.
For a beautiful moment she hits the flow of it all, mouth moving before her thoughts, absorbing and refracting the energy of the crowd. There’s so little she can do right in the world, but goddamn she can do this. She can whip a packed roomful of strangers into raw energy to power the pulse of the world, she can keep her girls safe with it.
She finishes her set to a roar. There’s no question who won.
She’s much too respectful of this club’s staff to actually do it, but in her heart she drops the mic as she heads backstage. Without the massive distraction of performing, everything about the noise and the lights and the smells of sweat and liquor and heat are overwhelming. She brushes off all attempts to stop and talk to her and moves decisively towards the back of the building.
She shoulders open the door to the restroom and makes a beeline for the sinks, pulling the mask off her face and tossing it on the counter, leaning down on her hands to catch her breath. Her voice is wrecked but there’s enough adrenaline in her blood to power a small city. The sound of the door opening again makes her tense and glance up, and who she sees in the mirror promptly makes her freeze.
A number of competing thoughts jostle for the top position and Mira and Rumi enter the restroom. She can tell from their expressions that they knew about this. She can also tell that they are deeply into this, particularly from the solid thunk of the lock sliding closed under Mira’s hand. She also also notes that this is how three of her favorite porn videos and about twenty-seven specific fantasies she’s had since she was a dumb sixteen-year-old sneaking into clubs begin.
“I, uh…hi?” She tries to start as Rumi covers the distance between them in four long steps, seizes her by the collar of her hoodie, and kisses her hard on the mouth. Zoey feels herself making a sound somewhere in the neighborhood of interested but confused, still fully expecting anger or worse, disappointment, as Rumi pulls her away from the counter and walks them both back until Zoey’s back connects solidly with Mira’s front.
“Really? Caught performing on your own in an underground club with the world’s most obvious alias and ‘hi’ is the best you’ve got?” Mira’s voice is dry, but her arms wrap around Zoey with a gentleness Zoey can’t help but relax into. She inhales sharply when she feels Rumi’s hands on her as well, gripping hard at her hips.
“Um,” she tries again breathlessly when Rumi pulls away. “How…how long…?”
“About a year,” Rumi says against her lips as she leans in again.
“We got scared the first time you disappeared after the Idol Awards,” Mira continues, fingers dragging up Zoey’s neck, under her chin. “Been trying to give you space, but someone couldn’t control themselves after that.” Zoey forces one eye open just in time to see Mira reach her other hand out to thread her fingers through Rumi’s hair, pulling her harder against Zoey’s mouth. “I think the better question is ‘why’, though.”
Rumi pulls back again, not far, still so close that Zoey can feel the heat of her breath, and watches for an answer. Zoey is no less completely helpless between them than she always is.
“I have to be the best. I can’t…I can’t just coast.” She swallows as her thoughts stutter. “You both deserve, I mean I have to keep you, I mean—”
“Zoey,” Rumi cuts in, moving her hands up to cradle Zoey’s face. “Baby, listen to me. You are incredible, and we are absolutely about to fuck about it.” Zoey can’t hold in a wheeze of a laugh at that, which makes Rumi’s eyes light up through the deadly serious expression her face is set in. “But you don’t need to be anything for us.”
“You’re enough, Zo,” Mira says softly, wrapping her arms back around Zoey. “Always have been, always will be.”
Zoey feels terrifyingly seen. Anyone with eyes could look at this moment and see how much these beautiful, perfect women love her, her of all people. It isn’t the first time she’s had this thought and it’ll be far from the last, but she resolves to dedicate the rest of her life to being worth this.
Rumi leans in again, kissing her so gently she feels like her heart might leap right out of her chest. When she pulls back, it’s just far enough to nudge her nose against Zoey’s.
“Without any further objections, I am going to go down on you now,” she says in a low voice with a growing grin. Zoey nods frantically, feels Mira’s chest rumble with laughter as she pulls Zoey to lean deeper into her. All the blood rushes out of Zoey’s head as Rumi drops silently to her knees.
“Oh no, wait, the floor isn’t super cl—” She chokes on the word as Rumi pulls open the catch of her pants in that same instant Mira’s teeth close around the shell of her ear.
“Shut up and take it,” Mira growls. Between the sound of her voice and the firm grip of her arms, one folded up over Zoey’s chest, the other tight around her middle, Zoey goes completely boneless with a shudder. She can tell Rumi feels it from the soft, amused sound that trickles up as Zoey’s pants get yanked down.
“She liked that,” Rumi says, leaning closer to nip and Zoey’s side as she makes quick work of her underwear.
“Of course she did,” Mira replies, lips to Zoey’s temple with a smile she can feel. “She’s a lot less good at remembering to clear her browser history than she thinks she is.” If Zoey had anywhere near enough wherewithal to process this conversation she would be outraged for herself. Luckily her entire world narrows down to a single point as Rumi leans in.
She’s everywhere at once, rough and selfish in a way that makes Zoey’s legs weak.
“S-so, um…” Zoey stammers, gripping Mira’s forearm with one hand while the other slips over Rumi’s braid. “You liked…it was good?”
Mira makes a thoughtful noise by her ear, pressing her lips just behind it. “Wasn’t half bad,” she says, the tease clear in her voice. “Though it’s important to me that you know that Rumi turned to me after your set and said ‘If I don’t eat her out in the next five minutes I’m going to lose my mind’.”
“Hah—” Zoey whimpers as Rumi forces her legs further apart, shoving two fingers inside with what feels close to a snarl around Zoey’s clit. “Happy to oblige.”
Mira makes a low, amused sound, fingers trailing up Zoey’s neck. “Hope you’re getting your fill, Rumi, ‘cause she’s mine as soon as we get home.” Zoey can’t manage to keep her jaw from hanging open as Mira starts tracing her lips. “Gonna see what else this mouth can do.”
She hopes it isn’t today, but Zoey is largely convinced that this is how she will eventually die. The human body simply isn’t built to sustain this frequency and quality of sex. It’s getting preposterous that every time is the best she’s ever had. She moans around Mira’s fingers as they slide into her mouth, then tries half-heartedly to swallow the sound when the memory that they are very much not somewhere private glances off her brain.
“Mm, at least someone’s remembered we’re in public,” Mira says with an audible smile, even if Zoey feels her tense when Zoey starts sucking. Zoey shakes with the effort to contain herself. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get enough of this feeling, of both of them inside her at once. The only thing that comes close is when she can take them both at the same time.
“That’s it,” Mira whispers in her ear as she jerks in Rumi’s iron grip. “Give her what she wants. I know you want it, too.”
Zoey does, she really, really does, almost as much as she wants to linger here on the knife’s edge, helpless and held tight. But she can feel herself slipping, feel all the words that make up her world blurring into meaninglessness. Rumi feels it happen before Zoey’s body locks up, and her appreciative groan against Zoey’s skin magnifies raw electricity that tears through her. The stacking intensity of keeping herself quiet makes the edges of her vision go black until she screws her eyes shut.
They ease her down from the high, Rumi’s mouth going soft against her, Mira’s voice low and warm in her ear. Eventually Rumi pulls away, nuzzling against the skin of Zoey’s stomach as she redresses her. Zoey manages to force her eyes back open when she feels her stand.
“Thank you,” Rumi says softly. She brings her hands up to Zoey’s face, smoothing a thumb over her cheekbone.
“I think you’re confused about the thanking,” Zoey replies, her own voice weak and roughened to her ear. Rumi’s grin is contagious, and she feels Mira chuckle against her back. Her thoughts drift as her breath starts coming back, and she frowns.
“What’s wrong with my alias?”
“It’s a character and a half away from calling my family crazy bastards,” Mira says, sounding more amused than anything else.
“You’re saying that like I am both incorrect about that and also not incredibly good at wordplay.”
Mira snorts. “That’s a lot of sass for someone who just got their brains fucked out in a public restroom.” Zoey tips her head back far enough to catch Mira’s eye as Rumi’s hands slide down her neck.
“Then take me home and put me in my place,” she challenges with a grin.
Rumi pads down the hallway, opening the door to her bedroom with a yawn. It’s been a quiet day, the sort where she hasn’t really had to wake all the way up, and it’s late enough now that she’s ready for bed again. It took her a while, but she enjoys this feeling now. Being safe enough to rest, to really rest.
She makes her way over to her closet and braces herself. Zoey’s had a challenging day with texture sensitivity, and she knows there’s a blanket somewhere in there that will help make tonight easier. She put it away years ago, a gift from some upscale European company that was looking for free publicity while they were touring, deciding it was too nice for everyday (possibly ever) use. But she has a distant memory of its texture, light and buttery soft with a surprising ability to hold warmth. She just has to find it.
She slides open the closet door with a grimace. Every aspect of her life has been clean, organized, and tightly controlled, with the exception of this one closet she almost never has to look in. They moved into the penthouse together almost seven years ago at this point, and there are boxes she hasn’t touched or thought of since then on the floor.
“Okay,” she says aloud, setting her shoulders before diving in. It takes a minute of wedging herself between opaque garment bags and weirdly tall boxes, but she eventually reaches the set of shelves built into the back wall. She feels blindly, straining to reach with one hand while holding on to the hanger bar for dear life with the other.
She makes two discoveries in quick succession. The first is the feeling of her target at her fingertips, surprisingly soft with just enough grip for her to catch hold of it and yank it forward. The second is a shape the blanket drags over in its way to freedom, tall enough to be one of the weird boxes, but more solid and rounded at the edges. She frowns, shoving the blanket out behind her and reaching back in for the mystery shape.
“Oh,” she says softly as a guitar case gets pulled into her chest.
She holds it close as she works to extricate herself from the closet’s clutches. Once she’s free she takes a real look at it, instantly recognizing the acoustic guitar she has never used professionally but could never bear to get rid of. She leans in against the wall as she slides the closet door closed, considering it as she leans down to pick up the blanket.
The smell of the blanket distracts her briefly, the cloying mustiness of fabric left forgotten in an enclosed space, and she walks over to her bed to spread it out for a few minutes of air. When she turns back around the guitar case is still there in the wall, waiting for her. Zoey is still getting ready for bed and Mira is finishing up her shower. They wouldn’t begrudge her a few minutes with an old friend.
She walks back over and cracks open the latches on the case, pulling the instrument from its cradle of faux crushed velvet. When she tucks it under her arm and strums, she winces at how out of tune it is. She hums the notes to match as she meanders over to her chair, working the pegs easily.
When she sits she sinks back into the chair, the worst possible posture and the way she always felt most comfortable playing. She doesn’t start with anything in particular, fingers wandering over the frets as she picks out notes that sound nice next to each other in the air. But eventually she hits a chord, all harmonics somehow, and her hands remember the Capricho.
It was always a special piece for her as she was learning, the most technical thing she could execute in Spanish guitar, and secretly the most emotional she ever allowed herself to be playing. The difficulty was just a mask like all the others she hid behind. She closes her eyes and lets the muscle memory take over, riding the ebb and flow of feeling that flexes into the shape of a song. It’s been so long she can’t associate the sound with a single memory, but the echo of every time she’s moved her hands on this guitar glows softly in the background.
It ends quietly, almost mournfully, but the satisfaction of it feels warm and full in her chest. When she opens her eyes, she’s startled to find that she is no longer alone.
Zoey is sitting on the floor by her feet, staring up in unmitigated wonder. Mira is standing in the doorway, towel in hand, hair still damp. Rumi isn’t sure what to do or say, and the strings scrape against the wood as her hand tightens without her permission.
“This came first, didn’t it.” It’s less a question from Mira’s voice than it is an observation, a correct one, from nothing more than one piece of music. “Before anything else, before singing. This was your music.”
Rumi’s never told anyone that before. She fell in line for vocal training, worked hard at it, became the best she could be because she had to, but guitar was always and only hers first. Not what powered the Honmoon, not what the world needed to save it, just hers.
“I have so many questions.” Zoey scoots closer, curls a hand around the back of Rumi’s calf with a breathless grin. “But they can wait. Will you play for us again sometime?”
“I…” Rumi isn’t sure where to start. The latent anxiety that she’s kept something from them again, even without meaning to, hums underneath the terrifying intensity of someone openly knowing a part of her she didn’t know could be shared. “Yeah. Yeah, I can—”
She cuts herself off in surprise when Zoey leans forward and presses her lips to Rumi’s knee before pulling herself to standing. She reaches down and gently takes the guitar from Rumi’s grasp. Rumi watches her carry it over to the open case and lay it down with care before the quiet thump of Mira’s towel landing in her laundry hamper pulls her attention away. Mira is in front of her now, leaning down with one hand against the back of the chair, the other sliding under Rumi’s chin as she pulls her into a slow kiss.
She tastes like toothpaste, smells like soap, and moves with the perfect, unhurried intimacy of someone who has done this a hundred times and knows they will do it a thousand more. Everything Rumi ached for alone with her patterns, here like it has always belonged this way.
“Stop worrying so hard and let us love you,” Mira murmurs against her lips before slipping one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. She lifts her effortlessly and carries her the five steps to the bed, laying her down gently. Rumi reaches up and pulls her down immediately.
“Hey, wait for—ooh,” Zoey interrupts herself as she reaches the bed, leaning down to smooth a hand along the blanket Rumi had almost forgotten about. “Is this it? It’s so soft.” Before Rumi can confirm, Zoey jumps on the bed and does a strange little wriggle on the fabric, like she’s trying to burrow into it. Rumi laughs, and she can feel Mira dip her head to hide her own amusement as Zoey sighs, “Ahh yeah, that’s the stuff. Ten more of these, please.”
“Anything you want,” Rumi assures, squeaking out the last word when she feels Mira’s lips on her neck. Zoey looks over with a dawning grin, abandoning the blanket to crawl closer. “Later,” she says, pushing Mira’s damp hair behind her shoulder to nip at her ear before settling herself next to Rumi. “More important things to do right now.”
Rumi closes her eyes, curling one arm up to feel the shape of Mira’s shoulderblade through her shirt, reaching with the other to pull Zoey even closer. Her anxiety ebbs under the press of their bodies around her. It never lasts long when they’re together like this.
She whimpers in disappointment when she feels Zoey pull back.
“Can I drive?”
“Since when do you ask?” A breathless laugh catches in Rumi’s chest at the tease in Mira’s voice.
“Shush, you; I’m extremely considerate at all times.” Rumi pushes her face into the pressure of Zoey’s hand against her cheek. She doesn’t process what’s about to happen when Zoey’s voice drops, quiet and commanding.
“Switch,” she says. Rumi’s eyes fly open when Mira moves them, and she braces her hands reflexively on the bed as she finds herself on top. Zoey has moved as well, kneeling over Mira’s knees, reaching a hand each to Rumi’s waist and shoulder and pulling with gentle insistence.
“Up,” she says in the same quiet, unyielding tone. Rumi allows herself to be moved, positioned, breathing into Zoey’s hold as she settles them both to kneeling. Zoey’s hand slides slowly down her stomach, curling around the hem of her shirt. “I want to see you,” she whispers next to Rumi’s ear as she begins to draw the fabric up. “I know Mira does, too.”
Mira makes a soft noise below them, and Rumi feels another hand tracing over her skin as it meets the air. She lifts her arms as the shirt gets pulled off, feels Zoey reach to curl one of them back around Zoey’s neck.
She reaches down to Rumi’s free hand and laces their fingers together, pulling it up to her mouth. “I wanna learn everything these hands can do,” she says into Rumi’s skin, pressing her lips along the back of her hand. “Every song you can play, every silly plant you grow.” Rumi tries to muster some indignation for her plants, but simply can’t through the warm haze of their attention on her. Zoey shifts her hand just enough to drag her tongue along the sensitive skin at the inside of Rumi’s wrist as Mira’s hands ghost slowly up the length of her thighs.
“You forgot about her shorts again,” Mira says. Rumi feels her fingertips edging under the loose hem of them, and grins when she feels Zoey huff indignantly.
“We can work around them,” Zoey says, pressing a kiss to Rumi’s wrist before releasing her hand. “Now can I please get back to the seduction part of this?”
“Be my guest.”
Rumi stifles a laugh when she feels as much as hears Zoey grumble, “You’re both lucky I have incredible game.” As much as Rumi loves getting carried away by them, she may love this even more. The simple understanding that even like this, held bare between them, they cannot help but be themselves.
She gasps when Zoey’s hands move, one firm at her breast while the other skates lightly over her hipbone, the contrast setting her skin on fire. Zoey makes a low, pleased sound by her ear.
“That’s more like it,” she murmurs, nipping at the back of Rumi’s neck. “I may not know it all yet, but I know how to make my girl feel good.” Rumi swallows a sudden bolt of fear, wanting to be here for this and not lost in her own anxious mind.
“Hey.” Rumi opens her eyes at the insistence in Mira’s voice, looks down to see her small, understanding half-smile. “No one’s mad.” The press of her hands is more firm now, grounding in a way Rumi didn’t know she needed. “We have all the time in the world to learn the rest.”
Zoey makes a soft affirmative noise, pausing to wrap her arms fully around Rumi. “You let us in,” she says with a kiss to Rumi’s shoulder. “We can take it from here.”
Rumi’s chest throbs. How do they keep doing this to her, seeing her so clearly through the meager scraps that slip from her control? How can they be so patient with her as she learns to loosen her grip?
She can’t linger long in the thought as they both start to move again, Mira’s hand gliding up her leg beneath the fabric there, Zoey’s moving down towards her waistband. She feels the sharp edges of Zoey’s teeth against her skin, the pressure gentle as her fingertips slide under.
“All we’ve ever wanted was to love you,” she says. The first touch is perfect, a jolt of pleasure that anchors her back in her body. “Thank you for letting us.”
Rumi rocks into the pressure of Zoey’s hand, rising just enough for Mira’s to brace under her. One of Mira’s hands has settled on her hip, guiding her further up only to ease her down onto her fingers. Three of them right away, the stretch just the right amount of overwhelming. Rumi feels a rough, pleased sound escape her as she lets them move her.
It doesn’t strike her so much as settle over her, the thought that being with them like this has become so intrinsic to her that it feels like music. Their breath has rhythm, the movement of the three of them together flexes into the same sort shape as a song. It feels like hers, they feel like hers. Their hands on her body, in her body feel so right she knows she will need them for the rest of her life.
She can’t survive long under the weight of the knowledge, under Zoey’s beautiful, constant motion and Mira’s grounding, steadfast presence. The moment splinters through her like a lightning strike, Zoey pressing just hard enough against her as Mira pulls her down at just the right angle to make the world go white. Distantly, she hears them each make a sound of satisfaction, like they’re taking nearly as much pleasure in it.
“That’s it,” Zoey says softly, pulling Rumi back against her chest as she melts. “That’s so good, babygirl.” She presses her lips to Rumi’s shoulder once more before moving them, laying Rumi down gently against Mira’s chest. Rumi feels Mira’s arms come around her, relaxing even further into the smell of her nightshirt and the clean skin beneath it. Zoey’s hand moves aimless across her back, fingertips following the line of one pattern to the next. They settle into a familiar silence, close and warm.
Rumi feels Mira’s chest rise in a slow, sleepy breath beneath her ear. “Don’t let me fall asleep without dealing with my hair or it’ll be a nightmare in the morning,” she mumbles. Rumi makes the executive decision to help by snuggling deeper into Mira’s shirt.
“Can I brush it?” Zoey asks. Rumi cracks open an eye to track her, smiling when she sees she’s dragged the blanket half under and half over herself. “I love brushing your hair.”
“Gay,” Mira yawns. Zoey snorts. “Please, like single sex attraction could begin to contain my swag.”
“Is there an understanding of human sexuality that could?” Rumi asks. She yelps when Mira lightly pinches her side.
“Don’t encourage her,” she scolds, half-heartedly at best through closed eyes and an unwilling smile.
“See if I help you now,” Zoey grumbles, scooting closer to drape half the blanket over Rumi’s back.
“You will,” Mira says confidently. “In ten minutes when Rumi’s fallen asleep I’ll get up, and you’ll follow me to the bathroom where you may, indeed, brush my hair.”
“Okay fine, but you don’t have to be so smug about it.”
“Will you come back?” Rumi asks, already starting to drift, much to her own chagrin. She feels Zoey’s arm curl around her back and Mira’s hand come up to brush against her cheek.
“Of course,” Mira says softly.
“You know I love a sleepover,” Zoey adds.
“‘Kay,” Rumi says, her voice already beginning to sound distant. She has the fleeting thought to fight it, to stay awake in this moment for as long as she can, but it’s hard not to relax. She’s starting to trust that there will be more moments like this to look forward to, not to mention how much she likes waking up pressed between them.
Sleep takes her slowly, and for the first time, she lets it.