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Sometimes, Rumi wonders if in a past life, she’d been some sort of demon.
That’s the only explanation she can come up with, anyway, for the reason she seems to be paying her cosmic dues in the here and now. And to be honest, the shopping mall during the holiday seasons is probably the closest thing to the ninth circle of hell she can get to, so the similarities are there.
Rumi tugs at the collar of her sweltering costume, donning an easily recognizable red coat, complete with fur cuffs and big buttons that goes nicely with the identical pair of red pants, black boots, and a hat that’s just a half a size too big for her head. The cherry on top? A hefty white beard and mustache decorating the lower half of her face, bringing with it a level of itchiness that she hadn’t thought possible to achieve.
The wonders of modern technology.
She sits on a cartoonishly oversized plush chair, set up in a rather nice mock living room, the facade of a fireplace close at her left side, a monstrous Christmas tree towering over Rumi on her right. A small table sits next to her seat, a plate of cookies and a glass of milk that she doesn’t even dare to imagine how long it’s been sitting there. All in all, whoever was behind the scenic design really went above and beyond for this whole event, and Rumi is only a bit chagrined to admit that the costume department also did a rather impressive job, even if it means she has to sweat for hours on end with a scratchy beard taped to her face.
It’s for the kids, Bobby had reasoned when Rumi had first been approached with the request to sit in for a special week-long event, taking over the role of Santa for some reason despite the fact that she, in fact, looks nothing like the man in question. It’s good for publicity, Celine had added, when Rumi had desperately looked to her for a means of escape— not that she had anything against children, she adored kids, but to carve out several hours of her day for a full week parading as good old Saint Nick isn’t exactly how she imagined herself spending the week before Christmas. Eventually, Rumi had caved to the request with only a bit more convincing from both Bobby and Celine, mostly won over by the idea of potentially being able to help grant some of the kids’ wishes for gifts, given they were within reason.
“Can I have a monster truck, Santa?”
Well. That one may be a bit of a stretch.
Rumi blinks down at the little girl currently sitting in her lap. She couldn’t have been older than four, maybe five, and she’s looking up at her with such big wet eyes that, for a moment, Rumi rifles through her mental folders searching for some way to say yes outright.
She shifts the child, humming thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty big request— have you been extra good this year?”
The little girl bobs her head frantically, nearly rocking herself right up and off Rumi’s lap. “Yes, yes, yes, I promise.”
She’s so downright sincere it nearly makes Rumi break out into a huge grin, and for once she’s grateful for the pound of artificial hair stuck to her face that conveniently hides most of her lips from view.
“Well,” Rumi says, voice pitching down a bit in a playful attempt at a more stereotypical Santa voice, “if that’s the case, I’ll see what my elves can do for you, just be sure to leave Santa extra space under your tree, okay?”
The girl shrieks in delight, nodding emphatically at the lighthearted request as she launches forward to throw her arms around Rumi’s neck. Rumi squeezes back briefly, before the girl’s wriggling off her lap and taking off back to her waiting mother, babbling so fast that the woman’s eyes go wide with a mixture of amusement and mild horror.
Rumi waves as they walk off, cataloging the request as she tries to come up with something reasonable. They sell miniature versions of cars, right? Surely a monster truck variant existed somewhere out there. She’d ask Bobby to see what he could find.
“That was the last of the first group,” a voice calls out from somewhere close. “You got five minutes to catch your breath.”
Rumi straightens at the voice, suddenly reminded that she’s, thankfully, not strictly alone during these trying times.
A tall woman steps closer, out from behind a giant snowman decoration that Rumi’s ninety percent sure she’d been hiding behind rather than checking it over. Long pink hair flows down her back like a rose-colored waterfall, swaying faintly with every step she takes closer to the chair Rumi’s in. She looks like she’s been pulled straight out of a magazine, a picture-perfect model brought to life for the sole purpose of stunning men and women alike, which makes her get-up all the more amusing. She's in a rather festive Christmas elf costume, a bright green shirt and matching skirt, with stripes like a candy cane at the sleeves with matching tights, tucked into little pointed shoes, but somehow she manages to make the fit look… dangerous in a way that’s certainly not the purpose of it. The silly hat, complete with elf ears of course, sits perfectly placed on the top of her head, not a single strand out of place.
Rumi, with her heavy suit and itchy beard, is only a little bit jealous of how effortless she pulls it off.
The woman’s dark eyes flit over to her, glancing at her with something akin to curiosity through her golden-rimmed glasses, and Rumi comes to the sudden realization that she’s staring— and that the other woman has taken notice, evidently.
“Thanks,” Rumi says, once her tongue manages to unstick from the roof of her mouth.
She glances back down towards the taller woman’s collar and— a name tag, bingo. Her name is Mira.
Mira’s lips hook into a little simper of a smirk, the curiosity melting into some other emotion that Rumi can’t quite put her finger on. She looks around idly, scanning for something, but when her eyes find nothing but the distant, milling crowds, she seems to come to a decision.
She steps even closer, toeing a line that Rumi hasn’t drawn but is certain holds a special kind of weight to it, eyes fixated on her, practically pining her to the cushions with just the force behind it.
“Um,” Rumi says intelligently. “Hi?”
Mira’s smirk widens incrementally. “Hey.”
She glances at something behind Rumi. “Two minutes left of our break.”
“Okay—”
A weight settles on her lap. Heavier than the kids, solid in a way that makes Rumi swallow thickly.
Mira seems rather pleased with herself, having settled herself quite comfortably on Rumi’s lap without a care in the world. Her hands work their way up her front, manicured nails clicking against the large buttons along the way, before her long fingers curl gently into the plush of the fake beard, curling white tufts of hair idly.
Rumi’s pretty sure she blacks out. Dies, even. Either way, she freezes solidly like she’s gone into rigor mortis, stuck into place the moment it registers that Mira’s in her fucking lap suddenly.
“Well,” Mira prompts, voice something sinfully deep and burred, “aren’t you supposed to ask what I want for Christmas?"
Rumi’s jaw works up and down for a moment, helpless like a fish on the end of a lure, gasping for air even as she’s drawn further and further in. She shakes her head, shuddering when Mira unintentionally shifts with the movement, trying her damndest to claw her way back to functioning thoughts. Her hands hover awkwardly, clumsy already with the oversized mittens she’s wearing, and now they jerk around like her arms are malfunctioning.
“Wh— What do you want… this year?” Rumi asks, voice catching in her throat when Mira leans in impossibly close, close enough that Rumi can feel her warm breath against her cheeks, close enough that she can smell the cinnamon flavor of her bubblegum.
Mira’s eyes flutter, teeth flashing when her smirk turns downright wolfish. She leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of Rumi’s ear.
“I wish I could tie you up in ribbons like a present and unwrap you in my bed.”
Everything in Rumi’s brain grinds to a halt.
Mira lingers where she is, puffs of hot air sending renewed shivers racing through her form, and though she can’t see her face, Rumi just knows in her heart of hearts that this fucking elf is smirking. Embarrassingly enough, a pulse of heat different than the one clinging to her sweaty skin rushes through her, landing just below her belly where it pools like magma, even as she continues to flounder under the unyielding pressure Mira exudes, physical and otherwise.
“I—”
A phone alarm goes off suddenly, startling Rumi bad enough that it nearly dislodges the other woman from her lap. Mira doesn’t say anything more, but a quiet laugh rumbles in her chest, and Rumi thinks that if her face gets any hotter her skin may very well just melt right off.
Mercifully, Mira shifts back, pulling back from where she’d had her face practically right next to Rumi’s, however one of her hands moves up and cups her jaw, tilting her head back, forcing her to watch as she rises to her feet, up and off her lap.
There’s a pang in her chest— relief, or something else entirely?
“Break’s over.” Mira says nonchalantly, like she wasn’t just pining Rumi to the chair and whispering sultry things in her ear. “Back to it, Santa.”
She pulls her hand out from under Rumi’s chin, delighting when she sees how Rumi has to catch herself, unconsciously having leaned into the touch.
And then she’s traipsing off, long and unhurried strides carrying her away from Rumi and back towards where the line’s starting to build again, thankfully tucked around the corner so that no one could have possibly seen… whatever that whole scene was. Rumi presses a hand to her neck, and even through the wool of her mitten she can feel her pulse still racing, wrecked from just that brief handful of seconds, undone in record time which is, frankly, terrible for her image.
Still, she can almost feel the phantom touch of Mira still lingering in her lap, feel the ghost of her breaths tickling her ear, and it sends another, smaller wave of heat flushing through her veins. She forces herself to calm down, taking deep breaths until the heat in her cheeks died down, until her breathing smoothed out from the ragged thing Mira had shaped it into like putty.
For the sake of her heart (and the children), she hopes that it’s a one-time thing.
…
Mira isn’t there the next day, and Rumi has a lot of feelings about that.
The majority of her thoughts are variations of relief, not having to wonder if that incident is going to repeat itself. Therein lies the rest of her feelings—
Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be, Rumi’s almost… disappointed that she isn’t there.
Jinu always called her an adrenaline junkie, addicted to the thrill of things that made her heart race until it felt like it’d pop out of her chest, and maybe that was what’s to blame for the very bad no good thoughts that very briefly run through her mind when it questions what she thinks would’ve happened had Mira been here today.
A mother compliments her make-up, applauding how her rosy cheeks looked just like Santa’s.
Rumi smiles through the embarrassment that tries to kill her then and there.
However, just because Mira isn’t there doesn’t mean Rumi’s alone; she’s just in new company.
Zoey had happily introduced herself to Rumi when she showed up, damn near shaking her arm off with her greeting, and if Mira’s get-up had been festive, Zoey’s outfit was a whole new level of whimsical nonsense. Rumi’s fairly certain they were both supposed to be elves, but Zoey is decidedly not wearing green, rather she’s in a brown furry onesie with a cute white belly, complete with a bell-covered harness, brown shoes that look like hooves, and a headband with floppy ears and antlers that twinkle with multicolored lights.
Plus, her nose glows. Occasionally.
Rumi isn’t quite sure how Zoey had managed to essentially jerry-rig a clown nose into a somewhat functional Rudolph prop, but credit where credit is due, when it worked it was a sight to behold. The kids, of course, are obsessed with her costume, and Zoey only feeds their excitement. Where Mira had kindly, if a bit awkwardly, led the kids up to Rumi by taking one of their hands in her own, Zoey will fully carry children to and fro (with permission, obviously) all too eager to piggyback— “Reindeerback!” she corrects, each time— the kids, who laugh and squeal in delight each time.
It’s pretty endearing, and more often than not Rumi finds herself smiling at the antics of the younger woman. She even full-belly laughs at one point when Zoey flops over and plays dead when a devastatingly adorable little kid mimes bang! like one would to a dog. She’s so entertained by the antics that time flies by without her notice, and before she knows it the last kid of the first half is tottling off to his parents, gleefully sharing what Santa had hinted he might find in his stocking.
Zoey waves exuberantly as they leave, grinning wide when the little boy mimes a pair of antlers with his hands over his father’s shoulder. When they leave, she’s quick to flip the sign in front to say ‘Be right back!’ before she’s practically skipping over to Rumi, freckled face flush with joy.
“Half a day down, half a day to go!” She cheers happily, smiling wide. “How’re you holding up, Santa Rumi?”
Rumi chuckles at the title, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m good, all things considered. A little tired.”
Zoey nods sagely as she steps up to the space in front of Rumi’s chair, rubbing her chin in thought. “I thinkkk there’s a coffee shop somewhere nearby us, but I’m not sure if I could make it back in time for part two of reindeer duty. My legs might be too sore to sprint there and back.”
“Well,” Rumi says, voice dipping into a friendly teasing lilt, “you were the one airlifting children around to and fro, can’t imagine much else that could wear you out so quickly.”
The younger woman pops a sly brow up at that, eyes twinkling with something so deeply mischievous it almost scares her, but then Zoey’s shaking her head, nearly dislodging her space buns from the precarious twist she has them in. She's evidently chosen the safer path at a fork in the road Rumi hadn’t even noticed she’d unintentionally set up, one she fears Mira wouldn’t have let slide so easily, and once again she’s silently grateful that the taller woman wasn’t assigned for today. It seems that at least for today, luck is smiling down on her.
And then, of course, Rumi ruins it.
“I mean, what next, we strap you down on a sleigh for them to ride?”
Whatever semblance of composure Zoey had struggled to summon evaporates like boiling water, and a bright peal of laughter bubbles out of her, and this time she isn’t shy at all about the coy waggling of her brows as she bites down on her lip. Rumi screws her eyes shut, wishing suddenly that for Christmas, she’d be granted mercy and the earth would open up to swallow her whole.
There’s a weight suddenly in her lap, and ah, Rumi should’ve knocked on wood.
Lithe arms wind around her neck like snakes, coiling close as Zoey shuffles to a more comfortable position, smiling ravenously all the while. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, sunkissed skin glowing with a radiance Rumi imagines the Christmas lights overhead are seething with jealousy over.
“Oh, Santa,” Zoey hums, eyes growing dark with her blown out pupils, “how did you know what I wanted for Christmas? You wanna strap me down, huh?”
Rumi sputters, choking on stray strands of her fake beard and the words that she would rather strangle her to death. “Wh— That is not what I meant—”
“Well, it’s not fair if you already know my present.” Zoey says with a pout, and suddenly she’s moving again, surprisingly muscular thighs wrapping snugly around Rumi’s leg and shifting just so—
A strangled sort of groan rocks up Rumi’s throat that she squashes down with her tongue before it can really escape, and honestly what’s really not fair about all of this is the fact that Zoey’s still in that stupid reindeer get-up with her fat glowing nose and it’s still working, and heat pools once more between her legs.
Oblivious of her internal struggle, or perhaps all too aware of it, Zoey carries on shamelessly. “Maybe I could tell you what I want filling my stocking, you do stocking stuffers, right?”
Rumi’s not actually Santa. Ninety-five percent of the current population could tell you that with certainty.
She nods anyway.
Zoey’s grin is a wicked thing, curved and glinting like a dagger. “Hm, I dunno.” She leans in close, and that stupid nose bumps against her flaming hot cheek—
“You look like you’d rather be stuffing something else.”
This time, Rumi’s too weak to kill the whine that slides out of her throat, and she’s suddenly extremely grateful for the blaring Christmas radio playing all throughout the mall’s intercom system, because god fucking forbid if anyone heard that—
Zoey’s suddenly sliding back and off her lap and Rumi mindlessly chases after her warmth like a heat-seeking missile before she comes back to herself, slamming her ass back down into the plush cushions of her chair with a mortified squeak. The shorter woman seems to delight in the sight of her pull, evidence of her tampering evident in Rumi’s heaving chest, her blown-out eyes, her flush face.
“Easy tiger.” She says, “Sorry, but break’s over. Catch you on the flip side, Santa Rumi.”
And then she’s saluting, a sweet, dorky little thing before scampering away back to where the line of guests has undoubtedly grown, prancing off like she hadn’t just ruined Rumi’s entire day with just a handful of minutes.
As quick as she can, Rumi whips her phone out and searches how quickly she could order a rabbit’s foot. A four leaf clover. Or a protective charm. Some kind of surefire way to ensure that no way in actual hell this situation will ever happen again.
Estimated delivery? The day after Christmas.
Rumi drops her head into her hands.
…
The next few days are… quiet.
Surprisingly so. Suspiciously so.
Monday had been Mira’s day, Tuesday was Zoey, and then from Wednesday to Saturday, Rumi hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of either one of them. They’ve been swapped out for what Rumi originally imagined when told she’d have help with managing the kids and parents— teenagers who look like they’d rather be dead than here, and a few older women who spend most of their time fawning over the babies in particular. They’re helpful of course, and it’s not like Rumi would rather be braving this all on her own.
But.
Horribly, some part of her wishes Zoey or Mira were there too.
Not as a distraction. Of course not. She just would have preferred the company of people closer to her age range. Obviously. But they never show up on any of those days, and when she casually asks Bobby in passing about the two of them, he just shrugs, telling her that they were some of the last to be added to the guest roster, so they had the last picks of the draw, which meant less time at the mall.
Rumi’s not disappointed. Just a little surprised, is all.
So by the time Sunday finally rolls around, the big, final day before Christmas, she’s fully expecting to see either more teens ready to abandon ship at the drop of a hat or baby-crazy elderly women, but the moment she rounds the corner fastening her big buckled belt into place, her eyes land on two extremely familiar figures, and immediately she freezes up.
Not just Mira. Not just Zoey. It’s both of them— at the same time.
They pause their conversation, turning to look towards Rumi and the moment their eyes land on her, Rumi swears she sees something deviously dark flit across their eyes like shadows.
The hand tightening her belt jerks, and Rumi croaks in surprise as the air in her lungs is promptly forced out.
“Uh,” Rumi says, eloquently, the sheep smiling as it waltzes towards the wolves, “heyyy.”
Mira lets out an amused breath through her nose, raising a well-groomed brow. “Hi.”
“Long time, no see, huh?” Zoey replies, eyes crinkling with the force of her own blinding smile. “Did you miss us, Santa Rumi?”
Like you wouldn’t believe, Rumi thinks.
“...No?” Rumi says, and then she thinks about how easy it would be to fall down the stairs and crack her skull open and forget all this ever happened.
She feels that regret deepen, a yawning chasm of fear taking over her ribcage when both Mira and Zoey raise a brow in challenge. They exchange glances, silently communicating something that Rumi isn’t sure she should be scared of knowing more than she should be scared of not knowing, but then Mira’s striding closer, long legs carrying her with all the grace of a seasoned dancer, and maybe she’s actually been driven insane by them, but Rumi swears Mira’s skirt is leagues shorter than it was Monday.
She draws to a stop one singular step above Rumi, her taller form accented by that extra stair she’s standing on with all the presence of a military commander, towering over her in a way that makes her swallow audibly.
Mira’s narrowed eyes rake up and down her form, as if she’s stripping her bare with thought alone, and it makes Rumi shiver something vicious as she leans down into her space.
“You sure?”
Rumi blinks, eyes fighting against falling into something heavy, something heady. Mira’s deep, luxurious voice doesn’t help her struggle against the tide.
Still, she’s got some beat-up half-dead version of pride still left somewhere in her chest, so she nods her head, opting for a wordless answer because there’s no way in hell she’s trusting her voice to not spill every thought that’s racing through her mind. Mira studies her, dark eyes locked solely on Rumi’s glassy-eyed gaze, searching for something worthwhile.
She leans back, pretty lips pulling into a smirk.
“Hm.” She responds, eyes flitting to something behind Rumi. “Liar.”
Arms suddenly snake around her torso and Rumi nearly leaps into the air, having been so caught up in the inescapable pull of Mira’s presence that she hadn’t even noticed Zoey slipping by, gone entirely unseen as she crept up behind her and pounced, the cat with the canary caught singing in its paws.
“You shouldn’t lie, Santa Rumi.” Zoey says as she hooks her chin over Rumi’s shoulder, hands skating up and down her stomach shamelessly. “Don’t want you to end up on your own naughty list, do we?”
Rumi fights to not spin around, to not give in and grab the shorter woman by her noisy, bell-ridden harness and shake her silly for daring to call her naughty when she’s actively and quite eagerly feeling her up and down, gloved fingers riding the curve of her chest, the flat plane of her stomach. She makes a truly delighted sound when her fingers press just hard enough to feel the beginnings of abs hidden beneath the heavy red coat. Rumi’s just about ready to pop a blood vessel when suddenly Mira’s decided to join the fun, crowding in close to her front, trapping her between a rock and a soft place that she wishes was hard instead.
“Something tells me,” Mira speaks low, voice dipping into a deliciously deep baritone, “that Rumi’s not against being bad.”
Rumi screws her eyes shut, refusing to take this right to the face, pointedly ignoring how her legs quiver, how a heavy band of tension winds itself tight right below her belly.
A large, warm hand plants itself firmly on the corner of her hip and Rumi gasps sharply as her body moves of its own accord, canting into Mira’s palm as it seeks more points of contact. She’s rewarded with a rumbling laugh from Mira and a delighted chuckle from Zoey, who’s yet to cease her own ministrations— if anything, she’s only grown more bold, hands skimming up her chest to her collarbone before dipping back low, running over Mira’s fingers to graze her backside, just enough of a ghosting touch that it makes Rumi honest to god whimper, and her ego finally breathes its last.
Fuck it, fuck this, and fuck them, Rumi throws caution to the wind and surges forward, intent on seriously shutting Mira the fuck up—
But then the large hand on her hip is nudging her right back down, and the smaller hands are all too eager suddenly to withdraw, along with the warm body that had been practically flush against her back, and Rumi whines at the multiple losses of touch, suddenly shivering in the cold wake of their leaving.
Mira’s fingers pat one of her burning cheeks, something like an apology briefly passing across her features before it’s once again taken over by that handsome, infuriating grin of hers.
“Sorry,” Mira says, decidedly not sounding sorry at all, “but the event’s about to start. Can’t have you falling apart in your chair.”
Zoey steps off to the side, hands behind her back as if she’s physically removing the temptation of reaching right back out for more. Her head cocks to the side, fake deer ears flopping adorably with the motion.
“Maybe if you’re really good, we’ll find you again after today’s wrapped.” Zoey adds, smiling impishly, and Rumi remembers suddenly that her cute exterior is a facade for the horribly wicked thing she is inside, and Rumi glares half-heartedly at her, earning nothing but a laugh in turn. As if she’s going to be nice for them after all this torture—
“Well?” Mira asks, tone serious even as her lips twitch in an effort to not grin. “Think you can be good for us?”
It’s embarrassing how quick she is to nod in response, head bobbing so wildly it almost dislodges both her hat and beard. The other two women smile, varying levels of both pleased and amused and so many other things Rumi can’t quite pick out precisely but it’s nearly enough to make her head spin.
But of course, she’s not going down without a fight.
“I can be good. If—” She holds a finger up, all too pleased when she finds Mira and Zoey watching her enraptured. “If you’re good for me too.”
She pitches her voice down low, tilting her head to the side as she eyes the two of them up and down.
“After all, Santa only comes for those on the nice list.”
Rumi allows herself the luxury of drinking in Zoey and Mira’s twin expressions of slack-jawed surprise before she surreptitiously begins making her way up the tiny flight of stairs to her chair, spinning on the balls of her feet to fall back into the cushions with a pleased sigh. The other two are still where she left them, having evidently assumed in all their cockiness that she wasn’t capable of chipping into the fun with her own two cents, now clearly having been sorely mistaken.
Mira’s the first to recover, snapping her mouth shut like a bear trap as she reaches over and closes Zoey’s mouth for her, the shorter woman still clearly stuck in some sort of trance, and Rumi silently preens over her own affect. She’s everyone’s type, after all, so it’s no wonder that she’s learned to weaponize it when she felt so inclined to. Mira whispers something into Zoey’s ear, but when even that can’t seem to jog her out of her stupor, she resorts to a more direct approach.
Stomping her foot over Zoey’s.
Zoey leaps into the air with a yelp, hopping up and down on one foot as she clutches the wounded one with her hands, eyeing Mira sourly until the pink-haired woman repeats what she’d whispered earlier, something Rumi still can’t quite catch, and whatever it is brightens her disposition almost immediately, smiling so hard the freckled apples of her cheeks go a bit rosy. Mira looks just about the same as Rumi feels, staring down at Zoey with such fond attraction that it makes Rumi question what other looks she’s missed between the two of them.
It’s not too long after that though that the guests begin filtering in, expertly guided through by either Mira or Zoey up to Rumi’s space. The kids are the most energetic she’s seen, which makes some amount of sense given that it’s the day before Christmas— these requests are in high demand and top priority.
Rumi does her absolute best to keep up with the unending wave of patrons, even as her eyes flick to the clock every so often. Today’s schedule is so jam-packed that there isn’t time for the usual five minute break, they’ll all have to wait until the end of the day to be free to breathe in something other than sweaty parents and candy-sweet kids.
Mira and Zoey, of course, are no help whatsoever.
Well, that’s not entirely true. They’re excelling at managing the swelling crowds, talking down agitated adults when their patience is running thin and entertaining the kids who are a spot or two short of seeing Rumi. Honestly, they’re nothing short of a blessing wrapped in green skirts and brown onesies.
Except for certain moments.
It seems neither took kindly to Rumi’s last laugh, and now they’re taking it out on her in the most aggravatingly subtle of ways. A lingering touch here, a smoldering look there, an indecent look when Rumi takes a second to suck up water through a straw.
(That one’s courtesy of Zoey, who earns a righteous elbow from Mira. Rumi approves of the swift justice.)
Finally, finally the last of the crowd dwindles, the last kid goes off happy, and the clock finally strikes closing time. Rumi wastes no time in ripping off the fake beard and big hat, flinging them off to who knows where, and her heavy mittens are quick to follow. Pleased at the loss of the unwanted baggage, Rumi sits expectantly in her chair, legs already poised to support whichever of the two women approaches her first. She even kicks her feet in excitement.
Except her lap is decidedly not occupied the moment it’s safe to do so, and when Rumi turns a questioning gaze towards Mira and Zoey, she finds them staring right back, a painfully far distance away from where she wants them to be.
Maybe she wasn’t clear earlier. Rumi pats her lap, raising a brow at the two of them.
They exchange another glance and stay exactly where they are. Mira even starts to examine her nails idly.
Rumi makes a deeply displeased noise in the back of her throat, patting at the tops of her thighs again, louder this time. “Um? Hello?”
Mira looks at her over the rims of her golden glasses. “Hi.” She goes back to eyeing her nails.
Rumi switches targets. Her gaze swivels to Zoey who straightens up when the attention lands on her, eyes wide like a reindeer in headlights. Bingo.
“Zoey,” Rumi calls, patting her lap insistently.
She twitches forward, like a fishing hook’s landed in her belly and is trying to reel her in closer but then Mira’s moving and nudging her back down, as if she’s correcting a misbehaving dog. The way Zoey whines in protest she might as well be.
“Ah, ah.” Mira tuts, clicking her tongue. “Can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Rumi demands petulantly, frustrated that the moment she actually wants someone to be in her lap, there’s no one there.
Mira fixes her with a look she can only describe as quietly smug, her eyes glittering with the emotion even as she nonchalantly adjusts her glasses, pushing them back up the fine bridge of her nose.
“We weren’t good.” She replies easily, shrugging even. “We kept trying to entice you.”
Zoey sighs dejectedly. “Even had a bet about whether you’d give in.”
Mira whacks her for the third time that day, and unfortunately Rumi does laugh a bit at the squeaky toy-esque noise Zoey makes in response. Her humor is short-lived however when she remembers that, still, no one has moved to occupy her lap. She huffs in displeasure, arms folding over her chest as she slouches back into her chair grumpily.
“What about me?” She asks, voice pitching up in a whine. “I was good. Wasn’t that, like, the initial deal?”
Mira and Zoey exchange glances again, and Rumi notes happily that Zoey’s gaze is shimmering with something like permission. Mira’s frown fights a good fight, but honestly there really is no chance of standing against the sheer force that is Zoey’s big, wet-eyed puppy dog look. Rumi’s frankly impressed she lasted as long as she did. She caves with a shake of her head and a big, dramatic sigh, but then just like that, the two of them are prowling up the short flight of stairs like a pair of panthers, slinking up towards their catch to sink their teeth into their prize.
Mira makes it there first, long legs taking longer strides than Zoey can manage, and although she doesn’t make a move to settle down on Rumi’s lap, she does cage her between her arms, hands planted firmly against the wood backing of her chair, pining her down against the back of it. Zoey’s not slow to catch up, her shorter steps made even by her quick pace, and she does indulge Rumi’s request, sliding into her lap like she was born to be there, slotting one of her thighs between her own. Mira adjusts for her space, a subtle shift that strikes Rumi as oddly polite.
“Hm, you were good for us, weren’t you?” Mira muses, her voice a low, rumbling thing. “Didn’t even give in to us when we teased you.”
Rumi keens, hands fluttering down to land like butterflies on Zoey’s waist, fingers digging into the fur of the onesie for but a chance at feeling the softness concealed underneath.
Zoey makes a pleased noise, placing her hands on top of Rumi's, pushing them down harder against her hips. “She was so good for us, Mir.” She confirms with a sigh.
That band of tension from earlier rears its head once more, a thick and heavy heat settling like syrup below her stomach, spiking with each new word and touch they lavish upon her. She bucks her leg up unconsciously and Zoey rewards her with a breathy exhale, hitching in the middle when Rumi’s hands on her hips makes the movement that much more potent.
“So good.” Mira repeats, leaning closer, closer, closer. “Rumi—”
“Hey girls!”
It’s honestly an impressive feat of athleticism that Mira somehow manages to catapult herself in a full one-eighty from her previous position, going from bracketing Rumi to the chair to landing neatly on her free leg in the blink of an eye, composed as ever.
The other two, less graceful in comparison, smack their foreheads together.
Bobby rounds the corner as they rub the sore spots, groaning for a whole new reason, shooting envious glances at Mira who politely ignores them. Somehow they manage to wrangle themselves to some semblance of normality by the time he’s reached the stairs, and they all wave at him when he finally looks up from his clipboard.
“Hi Bobby!”
He smiles at the chorus of greetings, and if it were any other person who had interrupted them, Rumi might have actually lost it, but of course since it’s Bobby he’s immediately forgiven, no questions asked.
“I just wanted to congratulate you for making it through the week, and also thank you all once more for volunteering— you especially Rumi, I know that costume isn’t exactly comfortable.” He says, giving them all an extremely grateful smile.
Despite the heat still thundering dangerously low in her core, Rumi softens. “Of course, the suit really wasn’t so bad. Anything for the kids!”
Bobby smiles, turning his attention to Mira and Zoey.
“And you two— thank you so much for making time in your schedules, I know you’re both pretty popular around the holidays.” He adds, and Rumi’s brows furrow. Weren’t they volunteers?
Mira tips her head graciously. “It was my pleasure. Honestly, between shoots and choreo, this was a refreshing break away from it all.”
“Yeah!” Zoey nods her head emphatically, bouncing up and down in excitement. (Rumi tries not to groan at the motion.) “I mean, well, I’m not in magazines or dancing or anything cool like that but Mira’s right— this was so much fun, I always love getting a chance to entertain the littles!”
“Still,” Bobby says, because he honestly might be allergic to going one whole sentence without complimenting someone, “thank you all again, it really meant a lot to the staff here and to the parents, I’m sure. Plus, with all your donations combined, we’re really going to make their Christmas extra special.”
He glances at his watch, brows rising when he sees the late hour. “Oh gosh! Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you all waiting here while I talk your ears off, you’re all free to go! Staff should be here shortly to start tearing everything down.” He clicks his pen, scribbling something down on his clipboard.
“Happy holidays, girls! See you all soon!” Bobby says with a cheerful wave, and all three of them chime right back with their own goodbyes. When he’s out of ear shot, Rumi swivels her head back and forth between Mira and Zoey, who look at her with matching confused expressions.
“You know Bobby?” She asks, trying desperately to remember if she’d ever heard him mention them in passing beyond what he’d said during this week.
Zoey giggles a little. “Well, honestly it’s not so surprising that he’d know Kang Mira, everyone knows you.” She pokes Mira with a finger, who swats it away.
The shock of realization hits Rumi over the head like a cartoon anvil.
Ah. So that’s why Rumi had likened her to being straight from a magazine. Because she’s fucking Kang Mira. She could almost slap herself for not recognizing her sooner, but to be fair, the elf disguise is a really good disguise.
Mira rolls her eyes, oblivious to Rumi’s musings. “You say that as if Choi Zoey isn’t a top name in the trending tags every week.”
A second anvil lands on Rumi’s thick skull.
To be fair to her, if Mira’s elf get-up was enough to confuse her, then Zoey’s full-body reindeer cosplay is downright witchcraft— that’s the only explanation Rumi can come up with for not recognizing one of Korea’s rapidly rising rappers. Still, the mortification is so strong that for a moment, Rumi strongly considers dropping to her knees and bashing her head into the floor in an apologetic bow for not realizing who they were sooner.
Kang Mira and Choi Zoey. Here and right in front of her face.
And in her lap, no less.
Their situation comes back to Rumi suddenly, and her hands hesitantly land on both of their hips, not squeezing like earlier, but a more controlled, softer touch. Mira and Zoey’s playful bickering back and forth draws to a ceasefire the second her touch settles, and it seems like the two of them suddenly remember where they’re sat, and both their gazes fall to Rumi.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Rumi says, tone belying that she’s not sorry at all. “but I believe you two were in the middle of something.”
Mira takes her mildly bratty tone in stride. “Oh? I don’t seem to recall that.”
“Aw, Rumi.” Zoey coos, reaching up to pat her cheek. “You just want us to say you’re a good girl again, don’t you?”
She leans into Zoey’s hand with a strangled whimper, trying her damndest to ignore the heat flaring in her cheeks at the crooning words. That noise deepens into something more when Zoey swipes her thumb across Rumi’s lower lip, touch as teasing as her words and it’s nearly enough to ignite the heat building between her legs all over again. Rumi shifts her head and fixes her teeth around her thumb, not hard enough to bite but simply enough to keep her there, and Zoey’s responding sharp inhale emboldens something in her, but before she can act on it, Mira rudely plucks Zoey’s hand free from her mouth.
She eyes the damp tip of the finger with a raised brow, but Rumi can see the way her pupils are blown wide, the way she moves her hungry gaze to her mouth, as if she’s trying to piece together what it’d feel like without actually touching her which, to Rumi, is the most impolite thing she could be doing.
Mira seems to sense her mild irritation and laughs, using her hand to direct Zoey’s as she drags the slightly slick thumb down the column of Rumi’s throat, flipping her annoyance to compliance at the drop of a hat.
“As much as I love what I’m seeing,” She says, voice betraying her words with how rough with want it is, “we should probably save it for a more private venue, hm?”
Rumi tips forward and muffles a groan of displeasure against the collar of Mira’s shirt, smiling into the fabric when she feels her shiver beneath her lips at the feeling.
“I don’t know if she can wait that long, Mira.” Zoey chimes in, surprisingly well recovered from her earlier spell. “Just look at her, coming undone already.”
A wandering hand creeps down the length of her spine and Rumi arches into it, only to whine a moment later when another hand reaches back and slaps it away, and for the fourth time that day, Zoey recoils from a blow by Mira’s doing with a yip.
“Can you? This feels like projection.” Mira playfully snips back, and Rumi pulls back just in time to see her tug at one of Zoey’s deer ears. “You’re just as bad.”
Zoey, for her part, shrugs and smiles, a sliver of sunlight somehow made manifest on her lips. “And? I’m owning it. Rumi’s Santa, she’s supposed to be good. I’m just a cute little reindeer.”
Mira scoffs, but it’s so chock-full of affection it nearly folds Rumi over. “Whatever. Are we leaving or not? I’ll leave a reindeer behind if I have to.”
“What?!” Zoey cries out, nearly falling out of Rumi’s lap in her desperate attempt to clamber up and out. Rumi mourns the loss of contact for only a moment as Mira stands and offers her a hand up.
“Yup.” Mira replies, hooking an arm around Rumi’s shoulders possessively as she grins. “From what I hear, Santa only comes once a year, and I’m going to be the one cashing in on that.”
Rumi chokes with how hard she laughs. Zoey sputters in outrage.
She lurches forward, wrapping both of her arms around Rumi’s other arm. “Haven’t you ever heard that sharing is caring? Christmas is literally the season of giving, you have to give me this.”
“What? That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid!”
Rumi manages to fight past the tears of laughter building in her eyes just enough to haul them both in close, momentarily disrupting their petty catfight before it has the chance to spiral into something absolutely wild.
“If you both really want to get a good gift,” she says, and she smiles at the way they both lean forward, as if physically hanging on to her every word.
“Then you’ll take me home, and I’ll give you both everything a mistletoe can’t.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then another. Then—
It’s almost impressive how Mira and Zoey can go from play-fighting to working together as one cohesive unit, but in the blink of an eye the two of them are practically carrying Rumi off towards the exit where Mira’s already called a driver for them to take her to her personal apartment. Rumi’s sat between the two of them in the backseat, and as their warm bodies crowd in all around, laughter and touches and glances warming her to her very core, Rumi realizes that her only wish for Christmas is to keep being by their sides.
And if they get to sit in her lap again, well, that’s just for being good this year.