Chapter Text
Rumi wakes up late.
The sun is already up. Light glows behind the barrier of her curtains; bright enough that she knows it’s sometime around mid-morning, but not terribly so. It hadn’t woken her.
No, that had been something else.
Rumi feels hot all over. She doesn’t remember the details of her dream, but she remembers the way she had felt, sticky and overwhelmed and good. She remembers the ghost of hands along her skin, of a head between her thighs, of a mouth on hers.
It can’t be past ten and she’s already so turned on it aches.
When she presses her legs together to mitigate the feeling, she can feel that she’s wet. Really wet. It makes her face burn, the knowledge. She’s wearing a hoodie and panties, nothing else, and she’s painfully aware that she’s well on her way to soaking through the latter.
She tucks her face into the neckline of the hoodie - it’s Mira’s, she’d stolen it a week or so ago out of the laundry basket - and inhales shakily, trying and failing to ground herself. It doesn’t help, really, just fills her senses with Mira, the faint smell of her perfume beneath their detergent.
Rumi’s other hand slips helplessly downwards, sliding into her panties. She gasps at how slick she is, then whimpers. She’s so sensitive that her hips buck up into her hand at the lightest of contact; circles her clit with trembling fingers and nearly groans at how little it does to soothe the heat collecting molten and messy between her thighs.
She tries for a couple of minutes, to no avail. Her own hand just isn’t enough.
Rumi takes another shuddering breath. Mira’s scent, fresh and sweet and clean, overwhelms her.
Her own hand isn’t enough. She knows what she has to do.
It’s an effort, getting out of bed. She brushes her teeth and washes her face - and her hands - but doesn’t bother to change before slipping out of her room and making her way down the hall.
Zoey’s door is ajar, her room empty - out showing face at a fundraiser, this morning. Mira’s door is still shut, but Rumi knows she isn’t sleeping. Mira wakes the earliest of all of them.
She knocks with her right hand, fiddles nervously with the hem of her hoodie with her left. It’s long enough on her to hide her desperation from sight, but she still feels almost-uncomfortably exposed.
A quiet “come in” carries through the wood of the door, and Rumi enters.
Mira’s room might be magic. Rumi and Zoey have discussed it before, to Mira’s endless amusement: the way tension seems to leave them the second they step foot inside. It might be the way the room always smells so good, clean and of Mira; the way it’s always tidy but never to the point of sterility. It’s decorated tastefully, curated pops of color on an otherwise calm backdrop.
And it’s comfortable. Mira keeps it warm, because she’s always cold, and on her bed is a neat, cozy arrangement of pillows and blankets and a couple well-loved stuffed animals, and Rumi can feel all the frenetic energy draining from her.
Mira’s in bed, curled around a pillow while she scrolls on her phone. She glances over at Rumi and makes a little inquisitive hum.
Rumi doesn’t say anything. Just stands there and hopes her eyes are big and pleading enough for-
Mira flips the corner of her covers down in silent invitation. Yesss.
Rumi pads over and slips under the covers. It’s immediately so nice. Mira’s sheets smell of her and they’re so warm. Rumi extricates the pillow Mira had been hugging from slender arms and then tucks herself forward into Mira, fits herself in its place against her chest.
Mira’s arms come around to hold her; Rumi can feel her laughing quietly. She melts into it.
They stay like that a while. Mira hums absently under her breath and continues to scroll on her phone, body sleep-soft and pliant and warm. It’s a balm on Rumi’s frayed nerves. She could live here, she thinks.
Eventually, Mira sets her phone down, shifts as if to change position. Rumi can’t help the little noise of protest that escapes her, nestling further into Mira’s front, insistent.
Another soft laugh. “Morning, Rumi,” Mira says, fond and amused. “Clingy today, are we.”
Rumi lifts her head to peer up at Mira, pouts a bit. Mira’s smiling and it only grows, pretty pink lips curling up, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not clingy. Just missed you.”
“I told you last night that you could sleep in here,” Mira says lightly. She stretches her legs out beneath her, lazy and graceful like a cat.
“And I told you that your room is too warm, I don’t know how you fall asleep.”
“You know I run cold. I was cold last night, actually. We could’ve cuddled.”
“Ughh, Mira. Stop. Don’t make me sad.”
“Poor baby,” says Mira, eyes sparkling. “Well, okay then. We wouldn’t want that.”
Rumi makes a little hmphing noise, though she’ll deny it til her dying days. Mira’s still smiling that fond, indulgent little smile and Rumi suddenly wants to kiss it off of her face.
So she tries, craning her head upwards. She’s stopped by a slender hand at her collarbone and a raised eyebrow. “Have you brushed your teeth?”
“Mira, that was one time-”
“Morning breath is so unhygienic-”
“It’s not, actually, Zoey googled it the last time you complained about it.”
“Well, whatever. It’s yucky. Bacteria.”
“You’re, like, 50% bacteria. You know that, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Anyway, have you?”
Rumi sighs. “Yes.”
“Then that’s all you had to say!”
It’s the principle of the thing, Rumi wants to protest, but she finds herself unable to as Mira dips her head to kiss her, and then she’s far from complaining.
Mira tastes like the mint of her toothpaste and her lips are so very soft on Rumi’s own, the kiss gentle and sweet and chaste.
Rumi’s… not really in the mood for sweet and chaste.
She deepens the kiss, opens for Mira, licks into her mouth; Mira makes a little surprised noise in the back of her throat at the sudden heat but obliges her, reciprocates.
It’s all lazy, powerful heat; Mira’s mouth warm and slow and consuming against Rumi’s. Rumi gasps for little breaths but doesn’t dare pull away for a full one, presses herself further into Mira, lets her girlfriend melt her downdowndown, begs her wordlessly to devour her. She’s making little noises, she can hear herself, involuntary and hitching and overwhelmed.
Mira pulls away first.
Rumi can’t help her whimper, can’t help the way she leans forward instinctively to chase, to get her back. Rumi needs her, needs to feel her. She’s so wet all over again, every inch of her aflame.
She’s so worked up, from nothing but some kissing and the promise of what might come, if only she asks for it. She’s panting, she registers distantly. She can’t even bring herself to feel embarrassed about it.
Mira’s eyes flit across her face, assessing. Rumi knows she’s flushed, knows she must look insane, desperate, halfway-wrecked. She gulps down air and trembles.
And then Mira’s gaze meets hers. The soft brown of her eyes has deepened into something darker, molten, but she’s ever-gentle as she asks, “What do you need, Rumi?”
Rumi shifts. God, she’s so turned on. “You.”
Mira smiles, a little, lovely thing. “You have me,” she promises, and then she asks, “What do you need from me?”
And Rumi- Rumi doesn’t know.
She must look as lost as she feels, because Mira makes a soft noise, small and comforting. “It’s okay, darling. It’s okay. You want me to help, baby?”
Rumi nods.
“Okay. Do you need to be good for me, today? Is that it?”
The relief that runs through her at the verbalization is nearly overwhelming. Yes, yes, that’s what she’s needed. She exhales shakily and nods again, clutching needily at the thin, soft fabric of Mira’s worn sleep-shirt.
“Good girl,” Mira says, so very nice. “Alright, baby. What’s got you so wrecked this morning, hm?”
One of her hands slides underneath Rumi’s hoodie; traces light patterns along her spine with careful fingertips, the slightest scrape of a nail. Rumi shivers and manages, “Dream.”
Mira smiles. “Oh?”
It’s a silent command, an order for her to elaborate without any of the usual steel behind it. Rumi shivers again. Mira’s being so, so gentle. It’s steadily melting Rumi’s brain down into something soft and malleable and hers, something that needs direction, that wants to be obedient.
“I don’t- I don’t remember it,” she says, pressing her thighs together. She’s warm and sticky between them. Feels a bit like she’s warm and sticky everywhere. “Just woke up and needed- and needed.”
“Did my baby wake up needy?” Mira asks, kind and crooning and pleased. “Woke up all wet and empty and sensitive and couldn’t figure out how to fix it herself?”
Rumi nods again, biting back a whimper.
“Did you touch yourself, baby?”
She hesitates. She- she had, technically, just to feel, just to try, but it’s not like she got any relief out of it. She doesn’t know how to answer.
Mira seems to take her hesitation for answer enough. “That’s dirty, Rumi,” she says, a little bit taunting, voice soft as if sharing some shameful secret. “I don’t think my good girl would do something like that. You didn’t come, did you?”
She shakes her head rapidly. She has to make sure Mira knows that she was good, that she didn’t, that she came to her instead. “N-no,” she says, and feels herself flush at how wrecked it comes out, as small and whiny as she feels.
“Hm. But you did touch yourself. Got curious? Or just too desperate?”
Rumi can’t stop the whimper from escaping her, this time.
“Were you wet, Rumi?” Mira asks, tone all soft, cruel delight. “Were you aching for it? Oh, it’s okay, I know. I know it’s hard for you. My poor, sensitive baby. What do you want, darling? You know how to ask.”
She’s so turned on it aches. She needs- she needs.
Rumi begs, “Mira, please? Please, please, can you? Can you.”
Mira tuts a little when Rumi falls silent with a little whine. Words are failing her right when she needs them the most. “Can I? Can I what? Come on, Ru, you know you have to ask for it. I can’t help you, otherwise. I don’t know what you need.”
Which is patently false. Mira knows exactly what Rumi needs. Her eyes gleam with promise, with encouragement. She just wants Rumi to say it.
It’s never been easy for Rumi to verbalize her needs; she’s never been comfortable putting her wanting to words. But it’s also never been easier than it is now, with Mira’s gaze on her, gentle and patient, for her to whisper, “I need you to choose. Please?”
Mira’s eyes flash, pleased. Rumi shudders. It’s a heady feeling, inspiring that sort of satisfaction. “Are you still wet, Rumi?”
Obviously. Rumi tries for an unimpressed look but thinks she probably looks more imploring than anything, because Mira laughs. “Aw, babe. You wouldn’t mind if I took a look, right? Just to check?”
Mira doesn’t wait for an answer. One of her hands is still tracing shapes over the bumps of Rumi’s spine, but the other comes down to brush Rumi’s thigh. Mira’s hand is warm, the pressure light, and she uses it to tug Rumi’s probably-ruined panties down before sliding it slowly up towards where Rumi is aching.
Rumi’s legs fall apart. The new access allows Mira’s fingertips to graze along Rumi’s inner thigh, coasting up and then pausing as they meet slick skin. “Baby,” Mira breathes, momentarily surprised. “This much?”
Rumi can’t get a full breath down. Mira’s barely touching her and she can barely breathe. “Yes,” she pants, aware of how pathetic she sounds but completely uncaring. “Yeah, yes, I need you, please.” Mira’s fingers are so close to where she needs her, trailing slowly up to thumb at the crease where Rumi’s inner thigh meets her core, and Rumi nearly whines. “Mira, please?”
“All this from a dream,” Mira says, contemplative, instead of responding to Rumi’s pleading. She pulls her hand back before it can finally dip between Rumi’s thighs - Rumi nearly cries at the denial - and then lifts it to consider- god, to consider her fingers, now coated in Rumi’s slick.
She hadn’t even touched her properly, just skimmed her inner thigh. Rumi burns.
Mira lifts two wet fingers to Rumi’s lips and holds her gaze. Rumi doesn’t need to be told; lets her mouth fall open, makes a little muffled noise as Mira’s fingers slide in, press her tongue flat.
A raised eyebrow from Mira; the command is clear. Rumi doesn’t need to be told. She cleans Mira’s fingers of her mess dutifully, holding the eye contact despite the way it makes her whole face heat, because if she makes it impossible for Mira to miss how good she’s being, then maybe she’ll-
Mira laughs, soft and not unkind. “Oh, you are trying to be good.”
Mira’s fingers withdraw from her mouth; she wipes them on the sheets, cleaning them of Rumi’s spit; pulls Rumi’s panties off properly, with a little help. Then smooths both hands up Rumi’s thighs, thumb sweeping once through the slick still leaking down her inner thigh. Rumi whimpers. She needs Mira to touch her, to touch her properly. She needs-
Mira asks, “Do you want to come, baby?”
And- and Rumi does, she does, but.
She knows what the right answer is. She wants to say yes, to sob it, to get what she’s needed since she woke up, to finally soothe the burn of it between her thighs, but.
She’s Mira’s, today. She wants Mira to choose. It needs to be up to Mira when she comes. All of it needs to be up to Mira.
So she chews at her lip and, blinking back frustrated tears, shakes her head.
Mira’s smirk widens, a little, before softening. “Really? You don’t want me to make you come, Rumi? Are you sure?”
This is mean. This is mean, making her ask for it, mean in a soft, cloying sort of way; makes her feel a little dirty. Sticky. Rumi shivers. “Y-yes.”
“Oh,” Mira says, brushing loose strands of Rumi’s hair back from her face with a gentle hand before placing it once more on her upper thigh. “You can do better than that. Be polite, baby. Ask me not to let you come.”
Rumi presses her thighs together and whimpers, “Please, Mira, please,” and doesn’t know exactly what she’s begging for. Mira waits patiently as Rumi takes a deep, shuddering breath; gathers her thoughts enough to manage, “P-please. Don’t let me come.”
“Hm. Okay. I guess I can do that. If that’s what you really want.”
And then all of a sudden Mira is withdrawing, pulling back; her hands leaving Rumi’s thighs. Rumi makes a pathetic little noise, something halfway between confusion and devastation, and Mira pauses.
Then she smiles again. “Oh. You don’t want me to stop touching you, do you. Poor baby.”
Rumi burns. She burns and burns, because Mira’s right, and because- because that means, then, that-
“Ask me nicely, Rumi,” Mira coos. “Ask me nicely and I’ll give you what you want.”
She wants Mira’s hands on her, her mouth on her, wants to be good for her, but she can’t come. And that means.
“Please,” Rumi says in a near-whisper, half shame, all arousal. “Please, Mira, I want- I need you to- to.”
“Edge you, darling?” Mira’s eyes are so, so dark, fixed on Rumi’s own. “Need me to keep touching you? Keep you full and on the edge for me? Is that right, baby?”
Rumi’s so, so screwed. That’s exactly what she needs. She’s going to hate it. “Yeah,” she gets out, more of a whine than anything, and despite the dread, when Mira smiles at her, kind and proud, all she feels is warm. “Yeah, I need- can you?”
“Good girl, telling me what you need,” Mira says. “Okay, Rumi. But the rest is up to me.” It’s not a question. Not really.
Fuck. Rumi whimpers again.
“Shh, you’re okay. C’mon, baby, on your back.”
Rumi obeys, turns onto her back, lets her legs fall apart. Shivers with anticipation. Mira props herself up over Rumi to kiss her cheek, then her neck, then her shoulder; mouth warm and gentle as she makes her way down Rumi’s body, down, down, until-
Mira stops with her lips an inch from Rumi’s cunt and says, “Tell me when you’re close.”
Rumi’s panting. She manages, “Yeah, yeah,” and then Mira’s mouth is on her.
—
Mira could probably live right here, she thinks; Rumi’s thighs trembling around her ears, the taste of her heavy on her tongue, whimpering high and long and pretty. She could live right here and die happy.
She’s edged her twice with her mouth already; is well on her way to a third. Rumi’s already a shuddering mess beneath Mira’s tongue, sensitive and so desperate Mira’s sure it aches; already a mess, and Mira’s going to make her take more. A lot more. That’s what Rumi needs, when she asks for this: to be overwhelmed by them.
It’s not rare, exactly, for her to need them to take control. But for her to be this needy, this early? Almost unheard of. Zoey’s going to be pissed she’s missing it.
But she’ll get her turn.
Rumi’s hips are starting to twitch up in that helpless, telltale way; she’s moaning little broken pleas, all Mira, oh, Mira and baby, please. All signs that she’s almost there. So Mira focuses in on her clit, groans as Rumi’s hands tangle shakily in her hair, and-
“Close!” Rumi gasps. “Mira, I- oh, please!”
Mira stops, pulls back. This is one of her favorite parts, when they play like this, she thinks - looking up at Rumi from between wet, shuddery thighs; watching her mouth fall open, eyebrows drawn together, like she’s confused at how good it feels. Pretty face slack and soft and wrecked.
“There you go,” Mira says as Rumi pants. “What number was that, love?”
“God,” Rumi sobs. “Three. M-Mira, I’m- I was so close, I-”
“I know, baby,” Mira says, as soothing as she can manage when she’s this turned on. “I know. But this is what you wanted, Rumi. You begged me for this. You have to take it now, okay?”
Rumi sobs again, a little, despairing thing. “O-okay.”
Fuck. She’s so perfect. “Good. So good for me, darling. Want another?”
It’s a rhetorical question, really; Mira’s hand is already sliding up to press the pads of her fingers against Rumi’s pretty, swollen clit. Rumi jerks, a low noise tearing out of her at the friction; she gasps, her face so conflicted. Mira can practically see her thought process: it feels so good but she doesn’t want another edge; it feels so awful but she needs it.
“Hm?” Mira prompts, teasing her thumb lower, lower to the entrance of Rumi’s cunt. It would be so easy to slip in. She’s soaked with her own slick.
Rumi’s hips shift into the touch; she begs, “Please, can I have another?” and when she sounds like this, breathy and broken, what can Mira do but oblige her?
—
Rumi’s half-mush and half-desperation. She thinks that makes her biologically impossible - Zoey would know better - but she isn’t entirely sure right now.
She’s not entirely sure of anything, right now, including what time it is and also maybe her name; can’t really think about anything besides the way Mira’s working four long fingers deep into her cunt.
Mira’s careful, slow and methodical; this isn’t about the stretch, right now, though that’s certainly no small sensation. The thumb of her other hand is at Rumi’s clit, pulling the hood back gently so she can lean in to suck at her exposed clit whenever Rumi starts tightening too much for Mira to keep pushing in.
It’s. So much. Rumi had nearly come just from this, a couple of minutes ago. It had snuck up on her, the intensity, so much so that she’d barely been able to warn Mira in time, and then she’d had to concentrate like her life depended on it to make sure she didn’t come, because it wasn’t like Mira could stop, with four fingers in to the second knuckle.
That had been her seventh edge. She’s steadily ramping up to her eighth. She thinks this one might be the one that breaks her. Mira’s had her way with her thoroughly for the last hour or so - with her mouth, with her fingers, with both together - and if Rumi had thought she was desperate before, she’d been sorely mistaken. She can feel the way her cunt is- is drooling, slick and messy, onto the sheets beneath her.
And still Mira isn’t finished with her.
Mira tries to scissor her fingers apart the littlest bit, and Rumi cries out. The stretch aches, threatens to undo her, and she-
“God,” Rumi manages in an embarrassing little whine, “god, Mira, can I- this time, can-”
“No, baby.”
“But- but please, it’s been- you. I’ve had seven, I’m-”
“That’s good, Rumi, that’s right,” Mira says, absently, still focused on the way Rumi’s cunt is wrapped around her fingers. “You’ve given me seven, but I want more, darling. You’ll give me more.”
“Mira, please-”
Rumi is immediately silenced with pressure against her clit; Mira’s tongue, firm and hot. She moans, a little ohh, and feels the way her cunt relaxes just a fraction around Mira’s fingers; feels the way she slips in a little deeper.
And then keeps going.
“Mira!”
“Oh, there we go,” Mira murmurs, and Rumi summons every ounce of remaining energy in her body to crane her neck down, to see Mira’s face: rapt with attention and more than a little self-satisfied. She’s watching the way her fingers are swallowed millimeter by millimeter by Rumi’s cunt. “There we go. Good girl. Aren’t you loving this, baby?”
She is. God help her, she is; she doesn’t take four often - this is a lot for her - and the look on Mira’s face, sweet and proud, is so much. It’s so much.
Rumi’s going to come.
Mira finally, finally hilts and Rumi cries, “Mira, I’m-”
“I said no, Rumi. Be good. Focus.”
And Rumi- Rumi tries, tries so hard. She wants to be good. Mira wants her to be good and Rumi wants what Mira wants, needs it, but this is so much she’s not sure she can, and-
“You can do it, love. I know you can. You can do it.”
Mira’s so confident. Kind and gentle and so, so sure of it.
Rumi takes a shaky breath and holds it. She can feel her heartbeat in her clit, she’s pretty sure, and every couple of seconds she clenches helplessly around all four fingers, and then that sets her clenching again, but Mira’s sure she can do it, so she holds it.
The orgasm ebbs from her with what feels like all the willpower she’s ever possessed. Her head slumps back, hands going slack where they’d been fisted in the sheets. She thinks her mouth falls open. She thinks she might be wailing.
She doesn’t come. It feels like it takes more effort out of her than an orgasm would’ve. She’s drained, briefly, so mindlessly exhausted that she barely hears Mira’s sweet praise.
And then, because she’s being good, she whimpers, “Eight.”
“Good.” Mira’s fingers begin to scissor apart again; this time, the stretch is a pleasant burn rather than sharp, impossible pain. “Give me another.”
—
Rumi gives her another.
Then she gives her another two, because she’s perfect; these on her hands and knees, while Mira takes her with the strap from behind, deep and hard the way Rumi likes.
Halfway through the second, Mira’s phone vibrates on the nightstand with a text notification. She has everyone but Zoey and Rumi on Do Not Disturb, and Rumi’s a little occupied, so. Y’know. Stands to reason it’s from Zoey.
Her phone is just barely in reach, and Mira has had a rather brilliant idea. She pulls off a frankly impressive maneuver to grab the thing and unlock it one-handed, all the while keeping Rumi split open on the toy she’s fucking her with.
The text is a rather innocuous response to something in their group chat, probably the check-in text Mira had sent when she’d woken up. Mira swipes away from the notification and calls Zoey instead.
She doesn’t pick up, which was what Mira had been counting on. When she hears the message - hi, it’s Zoey, if this isn’t urgent then just text me, dude, what are we doing - and beep-tone for the voicemail, she grins and says, “Hey, Zo. We’ve got, what, three minutes?”
Rumi whimpers. “M-Mira. Mira, what-”
“Can you hear Rumi? I’m taking her from behind right now,” Mira continues, as if she hadn’t heard her. “I had four fingers in her a little while ago, so she’s nice and stretched. And so wet, Zoey, you don’t even know. I could’ve given her my whole fist and she would’ve just taken it.”
Rumi moans high and fucking filthy. “Oh, oh fuck, Mira.”
“We miss you, baby,” Mira croons. “I think she misses you extra, cuz she’s not gonna come til you’re home. Which isn’t for ages yet, there’s still hours to go, and in the meantime she’s just gonna keep letting me do whatever I want. Isn’t that right, baby?”
“Mira, Mira, yes, I’m- yes.”
“Yeah. I know. She’s being so good for us, Zoey. I’m gonna keep her nice and ready for you, okay? We love you. C’mon, Ru, say goodbye.”
She sets the phone down on the pillow Rumi’s got half her face buried in, and then as Rumi lifts her head to try to obey, she fucks into her hard.
Rumi cries a sharp “ah, fuck!” right into the phone speaker, and then she sobs something unintelligible.
“What was that, baby?” Mira fights to keep her voice even, aloof. Holy shit. The noises Rumi makes like this… holy shit.
Another gasping sob. “Mira you have to stop I’m gonna-”
“Can you say please? Can you say, please, Mira, will you edge me again?”
She’s mostly teasing, already slowing her movements to prepare Rumi for this one, but Rumi’s whole body shudders and right when Mira’s sure her elbows are gonna give out, she whines, “Please, Mira, please?”
Mira groans. Says, “Of course, baby. Just because you asked me nicely,” and stops.
And Rumi - dear god, Rumi - cries, “Eleven,” and then manages, “b-bye, Zoey,” just as the line beeps dead.
Mira pulls out and Rumi collapses into the mattress. She’s whimpering on her every exhale, legs splayed bonelessly apart to show off the way she’s shining between them, so wet she’s legitimately leaking it.
“Gonna give you a break,” Mira murmurs to Rumi, throat dry at the sight. Rumi makes a little helpless noise of assent, reaches a hand blindly back for Mira.
What can Mira do? She’s defenseless against that soft, wordless begging, that desire for closeness. She unbuckles the harness, tosses it aside to clean later, and obliges her.
Rumi immediately curls so snugly into her that it feels like she’s trying to crawl into Mira’s skin. Mira grants her the comfort willingly, happily, coos soft assurance as she trembles. There will be time for more later. Time for more mess. For ruin.
For now, Mira holds Rumi tightly and waits.