“Demon Puberty Is a Scam”

by Rawrkie

Summary:

Rumi: accidentally grows a demon dick.
Zoey: wants to poke it.
Mira: insists on “peer review.”

Somehow, this turns into confessions, orgasms, and the most unscientific love triangle in history.

Notes:

Okay, so this fic is basically done (shocking, I know — especially since I usually stick to one-shots, but somehow this mutated into a multi-chapter beast), and yet here I am still poking it with a stick — editing, smoothing, maybe cranking the smut dial up to eleven, maybe adding more dumb jokes. For now, you’re getting this chapter. The rest? Who knows. I could yeet them all at once today, or I could do the responsible thing and drip-feed them across the weeks. Realistically? I’ll probably dump a bunch now and then disappear like a cryptid until the next wave.

Anyway, if you enjoy, please toss me a kudos, leave a comment, tell me your favourite joke, or just scream into the void with me. Hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it. 💜

(Also, quick note: this is labelled Explicit for a reason. Chapter 1 might be suspiciously PG-13 — kind of — but don’t get comfortable. It won’t stay that way. Think of this as the calm before the extremely horny storm.)

Chapter 1: Cover It, Deny It, Survive It

Rumi woke drowning in fire.

It clung to her skin, slick and suffocating, as though her veins had been poured full of molten glass. Sweat plastered the sheets to her body, damp cotton wrapping her like a shroud. The battle had ended only hours ago, but her chest rose and fell as if she had fought ten more in her dreams. She pressed a hand to her ribs and felt it: the wild thrum of her heart, hammering too hard, too fast.

The demon markings that curved across her body—sigils she had once hidden in shame—were alight, faint but undeniable. They pulsed in the dark, syncing with her heartbeat. Once, they had been dormant scars. Now, they gleamed like veins of ember beneath her flesh, alive and hungry.

It wasn’t pain, though she almost wished it were. Pain she could grit her teeth against, train with, fight through. This was worse. This was want, raw and merciless. A hunger stitched into her bones, coiling and uncoiling like some restless beast. Every nerve ending sang with it.

She curled in tighter, dragging the blanket over her head as though thin cloth could keep the world at bay. Shame pooled inside her chest, thick and choking. Mira and Zoey had seen the truth of her at last—the demon blood she had hidden for so long—but this was different. New. Strange. Obscene. She was terrified of what she might find if she dared to look down.

Her mouth was dry. She buried her face into the pillow, jaw clenched, trembling as the heat crawled beneath her skin.

“Fantastic,” she muttered into the cotton, her voice hoarse, wry, pathetic. “Either I’m possessed, or I’ve hit demon puberty.”

The words did nothing to ease her dread. No Mira’s dry remark, sharp enough to cut the tension. No Zoey’s too-loud giggle to make the moment feel lighter. Only silence and the pulse of her own blood, insistent and inescapable, reminding her that her body was no longer entirely hers.

Something had shifted inside her. She was afraid to know what.

The heat grew unbearable. Hiding beneath the blanket only magnified it, trapping the furnace of her body until she thought she might combust. With a sharp, desperate movement, Rumi kicked the sheets away—

And froze.

Something dragged heavy against her thighs, hot and alien, a weight that had not been there when she had collapsed into sleep. Her eyes snapped open wide, the dim light of dawn painting her skin in pale blue and gold—and there, sprawled between her legs, terrifyingly real, was the impossible. Flesh that was hers but not hers. Thick, flushed, new. Her body, betrayed.

Her breath stuttered. She could not look away. It was jarring in its familiarity and wrongness at once—an organ she had seen a thousand times in the world, in crude sketches, in the fumbling pornography her members once giggled over late at night, crammed shoulder to shoulder in their dorm room—but now it belonged to her. Not borrowed, not imagined. Growing from her body, nestled against the curve of her thighs, dragging heat through her hips.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, the sound cracking into a rasp. Her pulse roared in her ears. She slammed her thighs shut as though she could erase it, trap it out of sight, force her flesh to take it back.

This isn’t real. This isn’t me. It can’t be me.

Her hands hovered, trembling, refusing to touch. The very idea sent a bolt of terror through her belly. Mira’s sharp smirk, Zoey’s kind eyes flashed unbidden in her mind—and the thought of either of them knowing, of seeing her like this, was unbearable.

“…Oh fuck no,” she croaked, flat and horrified. Louder now, a litany under her breath: “No, no, no, no. This is not happening.”

She scrambled upright, nearly tangling herself in the sheets, almost pitching headfirst off the bed. Her legs felt ungainly, wrong, as though even walking was a betrayal. She lunged for the chair where yesterday’s clothes were draped, snatching a hoodie and the baggiest sweatpants she owned. Her hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the bundle.

If she could just cover it—if she could bury herself under cotton and denial—it wouldn’t be real.

Rumi dragged the hoodie over her head as though armour might protect her from herself. The fabric clung damply to her sweat-soaked skin, every drag of cotton over her shoulders an irritant, every brush against her ribs too much. She yanked on her oldest pair of sweatpants—threadbare, shapeless, the kind she had sworn never to wear outside rehearsal—hauling them up her legs with frantic hands.

The weight between her thighs shifted with the motion, intrusive in its insistence. She hauled the drawstring tight, knotting it as though binding a demon, until the waistband bit into her hips. The markings flickered faintly beneath the pressure, crimson threads of fire, mocking: you cannot hide this.

She layered another hoodie on top, sleeves dangling past her knuckles, hood shadowing her face. She looked less like a pop idol, more like a cautionary tale about teenagers who fell into the wrong crowd. And still, she felt raw, wrong, hyperaware of every seam pressing against her, of the way her anatomy jutted unnaturally forward. Even clothed, she felt naked.

Her stomach churned. Dirty. Unclean. If Mira sees, if Zoey sees— The thought made her knees weak.

She moved too quickly, stumbling as her foot caught in the sagging hem of her sweatpants. She lurched sideways, shoulder smacking into the doorframe with a hollow thud.

From the kitchen, Zoey’s cheerful voice carried down the hall:

“Rumi? What’s with all the noise? Your glowy tattoos fighting back again?”

Rumi froze, mortification clawing up her throat. She pressed her back flat against the wall, clutching at the fabric swaddling her like a shield. Her heart pounded loud enough she swore they must hear it.

“…Yeah,” she croaked, forcing the word through tight lips. “Just… not the tattoos.”

Her voice barely faded before she shoved herself forward, feet dragging her toward the bathroom as though retreat could erase the sound of Zoey’s laughter echoing behind her. She shut the door too quickly, the click of the latch sharp in the silence, and staggered to the sink.

The bathroom was merciless in its honesty. Rumi gripped the porcelain, knuckles white, hoodie sleeves shoved back just far enough to reveal the faint red glow spidering beneath her skin. Her demon markings wound along her ribs, pulsing in slow rhythm with her heartbeat. They gleamed in the fluorescent light, not dead scars but veins of living fire.

She forced her chin up. The mirror did not forgive.

The girl staring back was both herself and not herself. Wide, sleepless eyes shimmered faintly with inhuman colour, pupils dilating strangely as the light caught them. Her mouth looked wrong too—her lips parted just enough to catch the suggestion of sharper canines gleaming at the edges, like a predator mid-smile. And below, swaddled poorly beneath the thick cotton of sweatpants, something obscene and undeniable pushed forward, changing the shape of her body even in reflection.

Her breath fogged the glass. She leaned closer, searching for a lie in the mirror, some crack that would prove illusion. None came. The girl in the glass looked beautiful and terrifying, her strangeness making her luminous. And Rumi hated it.

“They accepted the demon,” she whispered, raw, strangled. “They won’t accept this.”

It wasn’t the markings that terrified her anymore, nor the glow in her eyes, nor the teeth sharp enough to draw blood if she bit down wrong. It was the thought of Mira’s blunt stare narrowing in disbelief, of Zoey’s kind, open eyes filling with shock. That rejection would cut deeper than any blade.

Her stomach twisted. She tore her gaze from her face, from her hips, gripping the sink until her palms ached.

“Goddamn it,” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “This isn’t even practical. How do guys sit down in these things?”

The words echoed in the sterile bathroom air—absurd, pathetic—yet the only shield she had left against the sight of her own body.

She lingered a moment longer, fingers gripping porcelain until her knuckles ached. The mirror offered no mercy, only the faint glow of her markings searing back at her like a secret she could never carve away. Finally, with a shallow breath, she tugged the hood lower until it shadowed her eyes, chin nearly swallowed by the cotton. Her trembling hands burrowed deep into the kangaroo pocket, as if she could hide them—and everything else—there. Then she forced her feet to move. Each step down the hall felt clumsy, every drag of fabric against her skin a reminder of what she carried.

The smell of food reached her before she reached them—warm, familiar, achingly normal. Rice steamed gently in the cooker, kimchi jjigae burbled on the stove, and a fried egg hissed in a pan slick with sesame oil. The faint bitterness of roasted barley tea clung to the air, grounding after the madness of battle. Sunlight cut through the blinds, glinting on Zoey’s hair as she leaned over the table, bright-eyed and restless. Mira was a counterpoint beside her, shoulders hunched, mug in hand, stoic as if she’d been awake all night.

Rumi padded in on socked feet, every step a reminder of the new weight she carried. The drawstring of her sweatpants was cinched so tight it might cut her in half, and still she felt obscene. She had swaddled herself in layer upon layer, hoodie over hoodie, as though cotton could swallow her whole. Her demon markings prickled under the fabric, glowing faintly as if mocking her attempt to hide.

For a heartbeat she lingered in the doorway, chest tight. They looked so alive, so warm, so utterly themselves—Zoey brimming with energy despite the hour, Mira silent and sharp-edged, gaze unwavering even in repose. If they knew, Rumi thought, if they saw me like this… would they still smile at me like that?

Zoey’s head popped up the instant she noticed her. “Unnie, wow!” she chirped, voice too loud, too bright. Her face lit with mischief. “That look is… what even is that? Hoodie chic? Cotton avalanche?” She giggled, shoulders shaking, affection bubbling out of her like steam.

Mira didn’t laugh. She raised her eyes once, unimpressed, before setting her mug down with a dull ceramic clink. “You’re pale,” she said flatly, tone cutting through Zoey’s chatter. “Like you went three more rounds with Gwi-Ma in your sleep. Did you even rest at all?”

Heat crawled up Rumi’s neck. She tugged the hood forward a little more, then yanked the drawstrings tight, cinching the fabric until most of her face disappeared. Only a narrow strip of skin remained, her breath damp and hot against the cotton. Shuffling to the seat Zoey had nudged out for her, she wrapped trembling hands around the tea slid across the table. Deadpan. Keep it normal. Keep it controlled.

“Fine,” she muttered, voice stripped of inflection. “Totally fine.”

Zoey burst into another fit of giggles, already distracted by the steam curling from the jjigae, as if Rumi’s discomfort were just another morning quirk. Mira, though, didn’t look away. Her gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking, like she was already dissecting the excuse before Rumi had even given it.

Chapter 2: Sweat, Secrets, and Stretching

Summary:

Rehearsal’s back on, but Rumi’s not the only one struggling to keep in step. Zoey’s all jokes, Mira’s all suspicion, and Rumi’s one wardrobe malfunction away from disaster.

The practice room smelled faintly of floor polish and sweat, as if even the mirrors were tired of reflecting their endless routines. Their sneakers squeaked across the polished wood, bags dropped in a careless pile near the door. The demon fight still clung to them like smoke, but in the sterile brightness of the rehearsal studio it almost felt like a dream—except for the ache in their limbs, proof etched into every muscle fibre that it had all been horribly, terrifyingly real.

Zoey bounced anyway, untamed energy sparking out of her like a faulty lightbulb. Her hair was still a mess from the hurried wash earlier, damp strands curling at her temples, but her grin was as blinding as ever. She stretched her arms overhead with theatrical flair and announced, as though to the universe itself:

“We literally kicked Gwi-Ma’s ass! And lived! We deserve, like, a national holiday. Or free fried chicken for life. Something.”

Her voice echoed in the empty space, absurdly cheerful against the memory of claws and blood and neon light. Rumi winced—not at the words, but at the way they rang in her chest, dragging last night back: the Saja Boys turning feral, the Honmoon stuttering, a body of light breaking apart in her arms. She tugged her hood lower, hunching further into it as if fabric could erase her from sight.

Mira gave Zoey a flat, unimpressed look, one brow lifting with surgical precision. “You deserve sleep,” she muttered, already tugging her leg into a stretch, every line of her body sharp with discipline. “Shut up and stretch.”

Zoey gasped, scandalised. “Wow. No respect for national heroes. Do you know how many K-pop idols can say they’ve personally banished a demon lord? None. Just us. We’re icons. Legends. There should be memes already.” She glanced at her phone on the floor, as if half-expecting to find a fan edit waiting.

Rumi sank down onto the floor without a word, limbs stiff, her body all angles and avoidance. Her hoodie swallowed her frame, strings drawn tight, and the sweatpants pooled around her ankles in shapeless folds. Even her hands shook slightly as she braced against the mat, though she prayed the tremor looked like exhaustion and not the truth rattling through her bones.

The truth was still there. Burning faintly under her skin, glowing where Mira’s sharp eyes might find it if she let her guard slip. She pressed her thighs tighter together, heat coiling low, and tried to keep her breathing even. Just another morning. Just another rehearsal.

Zoey had already flopped onto the ground in an exaggerated split, grinning at herself in the mirror like she was starring in her own variety show. Mira rolled her eyes but didn’t comment, bending into her own stretch with military precision. And Rumi, hood shadowing her eyes, sat frozen between them, praying her body wouldn’t betray her.

They moved as one—sort of. Mira counted beats under her breath, precise and clipped, every line of her posture demanding order. Zoey hummed tunelessly along with the rhythm, bouncing into stretches like she was auditioning for a children’s cartoon. Rumi tried to mimic both at once, which meant she succeeded at neither: too stiff to follow Mira properly, too joyless to match Zoey’s levity.

Her hood shadowed her eyes, her breath damp against the cotton. Every muscle in her body begged to stay still, to lock down, to avoid the betrayal that waited if she shifted wrong. But stretches required movement, and Mira’s sharp gaze allowed no shortcuts.

“Down,” Mira said, tone flat, uncompromising. She bent forward in a clean hinge, palms flat against the floor.

Zoey dropped beside her, wobbling dramatically until she was nose-first against her knees, her giggles spilling louder than any effort.

Rumi followed, slow, clumsy, sweatpants tugging with the bend.

And then—

Zoey choked on a laugh mid-stretch. Her eyes flicked down, went comically wide, and she nearly tipped over sideways in her scramble to smother the giggles behind her sleeve.

“Uh… Rumi…” she wheezed, half-delighted, half-scandalised. “Are you, like… smuggling props down there? Or just really, really happy to see us?”

The room went deadly quiet for Rumi, heat slamming into her face. She snapped upright too fast, tugging at her hoodie like she could vanish into it. “It’s just baggy pants. Shut up.” The words came too sharp, too panicked.

Zoey dissolved completely, collapsing onto her mat in a fit of giggles, limbs flailing like a kid who’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Mira didn’t laugh. She straightened slowly, eyes flat and cutting, her gaze raking Rumi like a scalpel. When she spoke, her voice was soft but merciless. “Baggy pants don’t twitch.”

The world seemed to freeze around those words. Zoey made a strangled noise in her sleeve, half-horrified, half-choking on laughter. Rumi froze, rooted to the spot, pulse hammering. Mira didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. And Zoey, still giggling helplessly, suddenly realised she might be the only one in the room who thought this was funny.

Zoey, still hiccupping with leftover giggles, eventually gave up pretending she could stretch. She flopped onto her mat in a heap, rolled herself halfway across the floor like an overexcited seal, and finally dragged herself toward the corner for water. The sound of her bottle cap popping echoed through the practice room like a merciful distraction.

But Mira didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on Rumi, dark and unblinking. She took a single, deliberate step forward. Not threatening, not loud—but impossible to ignore. “You’re not fine,” she said flatly. “What’s going on?”

Rumi’s stomach plummeted. Her hands twitched for her hoodie strings again, tugging them tighter until her chin nearly vanished inside the cotton. “I told you, it’s just—sweatpants. Bad angle. I’m sore.” The words tumbled out too fast, tripping over themselves.

Mira’s brow twitched, the faintest curve of disbelief. Her voice dropped lower, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I’ve watched you fight demons, Rumi. You lie worse than Zoey fakes aegyo.”

Rumi choked mid-breath, coughing so violently she nearly doubled over. Heat flooded her face, humiliation sparking sharp as fire.

From the corner, Zoey perked up instantly, water bottle still halfway to her lips. “Hey! My aegyo is amazing!” she chirped, cheeks puffed in a cartoonish pout for emphasis.

The timing was so ridiculous, Rumi let out a strangled, half-panicked bark of laughter that she immediately regretted. Mira didn’t laugh at all. She only tilted her head, gaze narrowing, as if she’d already peeled another layer back and was waiting to see how much further Rumi would squirm.

The air between Mira and Rumi had stretched tight, sharp as a wire. Rumi could feel it pressing into her ribs, Mira’s silence cutting deeper than any blade. Her hoodie strings dug against her chin as if they might hold her whole face together.

Then Zoey reappeared like a wrecking ball of sunshine, wobbling back into their orbit with both arms full of water bottles. “Hydration is victory!” she declared, nearly tripping over her own feet as she plopped down beside Rumi. She shoved one bottle into her hands and leaned in so close her ponytail brushed Rumi’s shoulder.

Her grin was enormous, conspiratorial. She cupped her hand to the side of her mouth and stage-whispered: “Seriously though, if you’re hiding a sword down there or something, I won’t tell.”

The words detonated inside Rumi’s skull. Her whole body jolted, heat slamming into her ears. “Zoey!” she yelped, voice cracking with more panic than she meant. The bottle nearly slipped out of her hands.

Zoey just beamed wider, utterly delighted at getting such a dramatic reaction. Her laughter rang through the practice room, bright and unbothered, like she thought the world was still as safe as yesterday. Mira didn’t laugh. She lingered a step behind them, arms folded tight across her chest, her gaze razor-sharp and silent. If Zoey was sunshine, Mira was the shadow Rumi couldn’t escape—the one that already knew the truth, or would peel it out of her sooner or later. The tension hadn’t gone anywhere. It had only tucked itself under Zoey’s laughter, waiting.

The music kicked on again, dragging them back into formation whether they were ready or not. Habit took over: the familiar beat, the mirrored wall, the thump of sneakers against polished wood.

Zoey bounced back to life immediately, her giggles carrying into every move. She exaggerated the choreography just enough to make it silly, sticking out her tongue at Rumi every time they caught eyes. By the third run-through she was practically running her own commentary. “Careful, Rumi, you’re gonna knock the speaker over with that thing—” she sing-songed, dissolving into laughter before she could finish the line.

Rumi wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole. Her hood clung damp against the back of her neck, sweat soaking through her shirt. Every muscle in her body felt wrong—like she was piloting someone else’s skin, someone else’s anatomy, trying too hard to look normal. She overthought a step, tried to pull her legs in tighter, and stumbled. Just a hitch, nothing dramatic, but it echoed in her chest like a gunshot.

Zoey snorted so hard she had to grab the barre for balance. “Smooth, unnie. Totally nailed it.”

Rumi’s face burned hot enough to set the mirrors fogging.

And then—cutting clean through Zoey’s laughter—Mira’s voice. Flat. Unyielding. “You’re hiding something.”

The room stilled, the music still pulsing beneath it. Mira’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t blink, her arms folded like iron bars. “And I’m going to find out.”

The words dropped heavy in the space between them, as inevitable as the pounding of Rumi’s heart.

Chapter 3: Grip, Spill, Fang

Summary:

Mira discovers Rumi’s new hardware. Science ensues.

⚠️ Dubious-consent vibes in this one — tread carefully.

The dorm was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed on her ears and made her own heartbeat sound too loud. Rumi lay on her back, eyes wide in the dark, hoodie bunched at her shoulders, thin sleep shorts doing nothing to hide her problem.

It was easier when she didn’t name it. Easier to pretend it was some glitch after Gwi-Ma, some wrongness that wasn’t really hers. But her cock throbbed against the waistband, hot and heavy, too solid to deny anymore. It jutted up, straining against damp cotton that clung with sweat and precome. Every twitch betrayed her.

She groaned into her pillow, dragging the hood low over her face as if fabric could blot out reality. Her whole body ached from rehearsal, muscles burning, but that ache was nothing compared to the pulsing hunger between her thighs. Wrongness that felt treacherously right—heat curling in her belly, her cock twitching every time her mind betrayed her with images she shouldn’t want.

Zoey’s bright laugh, her skirts flaring, the bounce of her chest that Rumi had no business noticing. Mira’s sharp bark of correction, eyes narrowing like knives until her skin flushed hot and her body stirred without permission.

“Stop,” she hissed into the pillow, voice muffled, desperate. “Please, just stop.”

But her body didn’t stop. Her cock pressed insistently against the fabric, swollen and needy. She shifted onto her stomach, only to curse when the pressure sent a shock of pleasure lancing through her. Her hips jerked, grinding against the mattress in a pathetic rut. Heat surged, slick leaking, shorts sticking damply to her.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Except every time she whispered the word, her body whispered yes. Heat knotted in her stomach, shame thick as blood in her mouth. She pulled her hood strings until they cut her cheeks, as if she could squeeze herself into nothing. But the truth remained: she had a cock now. And it was driving her mad.

She was still trembling when the silence broke.

A hinge creaked. Her body went rigid, blood thundering in her ears. No, no, no—please not Zoey. The humiliation would kill her. But it wasn’t Zoey. It was Mira.

Of course it was Mira. Mira never crept. She stepped inside like the shadows bent for her, sat herself at the edge of Rumi’s bed as though it were a throne. Arms folded, chin angled, eyes narrowed with suspicion sharpened to a blade.

“Baggy pants don’t twitch.” Her voice was steel dragged over stone. Flat. Certain.

Rumi’s stomach dropped. Mira’s gaze flicked to the twitching mound under the blanket, steady and merciless. Rumi yanked the covers to her nose, curling tighter. “Go away,” she rasped.

Mira didn’t. She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ve been acting weird. When did this start? After the fight?”

Rumi’s chest heaved, hoodie strings biting into her flushed cheeks. The words scraped out raw: “…after Gwi-Ma. It just—happened.” The admission burned, humiliation lighting her skin. “You know, don’t you? You already know.”

Mira’s brow twitched. She let silence stretch until Rumi squirmed. Then: “Yeah. But I wanted to hear you say it.” Her eyes stayed on the blanket. “Have you touched yourself yet? Just to see what it’s like?”

Rumi nearly shot upright, choking. “No! I don’t even want to—” Her voice broke into a squeak. Mira’s mouth curved faintly, almost cruel, almost amused, but her eyes glimmered darker, hunger leaking through.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t do it alone.” A pause. Flat. Unrelenting. “Maybe you should let me try. For science.”

Rumi’s heart stuttered. “Mira—no, absolutely not—”

But Mira was already tugging at the blanket. “Don’t,” Rumi whispered, voice trembling. But the cotton slipped anyway, slow and inevitable, until Mira saw everything.

The bulge strained against damp shorts, thick and twitching. Wetness spread, soaking the tip dark. Mira’s breath caught. For once her mask cracked, hunger bleeding into her eyes. Years of sarcasm and discipline buckled under the sight of Rumi, trembling and undone.

“Baggy pants, huh.” Her voice rasped low. Her hand hovered, traitorous, over the waistband. Rumi whimpered into her hood. “Don’t look at it.”

“I can’t not,” Mira said. Her fingers brushed the hem. Feather-light, enough to make Rumi jolt, thighs snapping shut. A muffled groan leaked into her pillow. Mira swallowed hard. Then, soft but sharp: “Don’t hide from me.”

Her hand cupped the swell through thin cotton. Rumi gasped, back arching, mortified. Mira’s thumb pressed the damp patch, smearing wetness wider. Her hips jerked helplessly upward. Mira’s mouth curved into something sharper than a smile, eyes burning now, hunger too raw to hide.

“You’ll never know until you try,” she murmured. “Let me.”

Rumi shook her head, but her body betrayed her, thrusting into Mira’s palm. Heat rolled through Mira as she slipped her hand beneath the waistband. Skin met skin—hot, velvet, heavy in her fist. Rumi cried out, thighs clamping around her wrist, but Mira stroked anyway, deliberate, slow, wetness slicking her grip.

Her breath stuttered. The musk rising from Rumi’s skin was dizzying, salt-sweet, primal. She bent closer without thinking, inhaling. Her heart hammered, restraint unraveling. She had wanted this for so long. Wanted Rumi. Wanted Zoey. Wanted too much. And now Rumi trembled under her hand, cock jerking, every whimper confession.

“Relax,” Mira whispered, her forehead brushing Rumi’s shoulder. Her lips grazed fabric, the words a command and a plea. “You’ll feel better if you stop fighting.”

Her hand worked steady now, fist closing around Rumi’s cock with deliberate pressure. She hadn’t expected it to be so thick, so hot in her grip—velvet skin stretched over iron hardness, heavy and throbbing with every ragged breath Rumi dragged in. The sheer weight of it shocked her; her fingers barely curled around, her thumb gliding slick over the swollen head with each stroke.

Her other hand slid lower, cupping Rumi’s balls. They were firm, full, rolling gently in her palm as though they carried the secret of her shame and hunger both. She toyed with them carefully, thumb stroking circles, and the effect was instant: Rumi’s strangled cry, her thighs clamping, her hips jerking helplessly upward into Mira’s grip.

Rumi was shaking, hoodie strings digging cruel into her flushed cheeks as she buried herself deeper, trying to hide. Her eyes squeezed shut, shame warring with the raw, broken sounds spilling from her throat.

“I can’t—I can’t—” she gasped, voice breaking.

“Yes, you can.” Mira’s own voice was rough now, trembling on the edge of her control. She bent closer, mouth against Rumi’s hood, whispering unseen, like confession and command at once: “Let go.”

Rumi sobbed, body seizing, orgasm ripping through her like lightning. Her cock pulsed hard in Mira’s fist, spilling hot across her stomach and Mira’s wrist. Thick ropes spurted, painting skin and fabric. Mira didn’t pull back. She milked each twitch, each gush, her gaze locked on Rumi’s ruined expression.

“Fuck—Mira—” The words cracked apart.

“Shhh.” Mira soothed, lips brushing her ear, her hand coaxing her through aftershocks. The demonic marks across Rumi’s skin glowed faintly with each twitch of her cock, molten veins alive under her flesh.

At last, Rumi slumped back, spent and trembling, chest heaving under her hoodie. Mira loosened her grip, her hand slick, her fingers glistening. She stared at them for a heartbeat—sticky, shining with Rumi’s release—then, deliberate as a knife sliding home, lifted them to her mouth.

She sucked the first finger clean, lips closing tight, tongue curling to gather every drop. A low hum slipped from her throat—approval, pleasure—as she tasted, savoured. Then the next, slower still, tongue dragging the length before pulling it deep between her lips. When she drew it out, her mouth glistened, wet and obscene, and Rumi’s eyes—wide, hood slipped back just far enough—were locked helplessly on her.

Mira didn’t look away. She took the last finger deeper, cheeks hollowing, her tongue tracing slow along the pad before releasing it with a soft pop. Her mouth shone in the low light, slick with Rumi’s taste. She licked her palm next, dragging her tongue through the mess with unhurried precision, a hum vibrating low in her throat. “Mmm.” Her mouth curved faintly, but her eyes stayed hot, unwavering. “Sweet.”

Rumi whimpered, horrified, the sound muffled in cotton as she tried to bury herself again. But her gaze betrayed her, magnet-pulled to Mira’s tongue catching the final glimmer of her own release.

“Enough hiding,” Mira murmured, voice low, deliberate, tugging the hoodie down with slow insistence. The fabric peeled back, baring flushed cheeks, sweat-bright skin, and tear-glossed eyes that darted and flinched. Her mouth was still parted, slack with the echo of ecstasy.

Mira’s hand slid up, inevitable, cupping Rumi’s jaw as though claiming it. Her thumb brushed over trembling lips, feeling the damp heat of her breath. She tilted Rumi’s face upward, patient and merciless both, until her mouth opened slightly, vulnerable.

And there they were. Fangs. White against flushed pink, sharp points glinting faintly. Mira’s breath caught before she could stop it. Something primal, dangerous, other—etched into Rumi’s body. It sent a shiver racing through her veins. She lingered, eyes drinking them in, her thumb pressing firmer now, pushing Rumi’s upper lip higher, baring them fully as if she needed to memorise every curve of that forbidden sharpness.

Her thumb slid along one fang, the pad catching on its edge. She pressed harder, until soft flesh dimpled against sharp enamel, the faintest sting blooming where pressure met point. The promise of pain, not its delivery. Mira shuddered, thighs pressing together, a thrill of want she couldn’t disguise.

“God,” she whispered, not flat this time, not careless. Reverent. Her thumb traced slowly across the fang again, lingering as if bewitched. “This… does things to me.”

Rumi swallowed hard, throat working beneath her palm. Her eyes—wide, wet, undone—stayed locked on Mira’s, stunned into stillness by the raw hunger shining back at her. She had never seen Mira look like this: fascinated, infatuated, aroused. Shame and fear tangled with something heavier, entrancing, impossible to pull away from.

“You’re beautiful,” Mira said at last. Her tone was as flat as ever, but dragged low, weighed down by the heat burning in her chest.

Rumi shuddered, clutching the blanket tighter, white-knuckled, hiding and yearning all at once. Mira drew it gently up over her chest, smoothing the fabric with slow hands. But her gaze lingered, drawn lower, catching on the urgent swell beneath, cock still swollen, still straining. Her own thighs clenched, the ache sharp, but she forced steadiness into her voice.

“Don’t look so tragic,” she murmured, voice flat, though her gaze stayed dark and hungry. “You’ll sleep now. Better than before.”

But Rumi curled tighter, trembling. And Mira stayed—sentinel at her bedside, palm resting on her shoulder, pulse hammering with secret want she could not name. For a moment, she imagined more: her mouth taking what her hand had teased, Rumi undone again, spilling hot and helpless against her tongue. The thought ached, curling tight in her belly, but she locked it away.

Instead, she sat, sharp-eyed in the hush, as though listening to walls and shadows. Mira always seemed to know when the world would intrude—when the next shoe was about to drop. And now, some instinct prickled down her spine, warning her they weren’t alone for long.

So she waited. Guarding. Wanting. Burning.

Notes:

🚨Critical update: fang kink activated.🚨

Chapter 4: Hands, Mouths, Teeth

Summary:

🚨 BREAKING: Centre Rumi caught in bed with BOTH groupmates! Sources claim “there was biting and way too much slick.” Witnesses say Mira offered her throat like it was a brand partnership, while Zoey taste-tested things no idol dietician would ever sign off on. Fans are in chaos, management scrambling, neighbours filing noise complaints. The internet agrees: this comeback is guaranteed #1.

The door banged open without warning, the squeak of the hinges loud in the hush. Rumi froze, breath caught in her throat, Mira’s hand going rigid where it rested on her shoulder.

And then Zoey was there—hair mussed from bed, sleeves of her oversized hoodie dangling past her hands, eyes wide and shining. She bounced into the room with the heedless energy of someone who had rehearsed this moment in her head a dozen times and finally dared to make it real.

She knew. Not fully, not yet, but enough. Mira’s deadpan jab, Rumi’s scandalised laughter, the twitch she had failed to hide. The silence that followed. The truth had only been there a day, but already it pressed in, undeniable.

Now she had her answer.

The air in Rumi’s room was thick with heat and want—the sheen of sweat on her skin, Mira sitting sentinel at her side, gaze dark and unyielding. It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was confirmation.

Zoey’s mouth fell open, and words tumbled out, bubbling, blunt, unstoppable.

“Wait, wait—what the hell—oh my god.” Her grin split wide, half disbelief, half delight. “I knew it. Don’t keep it all to yourself—can I touch?”

Rumi made a strangled sound, burying her face in the blanket, mortified.

Mira didn’t even blink. Her voice landed flat, timed like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Peer review.”

The silence that followed was molten. Rumi trembled under the blanket, caught between horror and the desperate ache that had undone her only minutes ago. Zoey’s laughter rang bright, but there was heat in her eyes now, curiosity barely disguised as innocence. And Mira—Mira only watched, gaze sharp and unflinching, as if this had always been inevitable.

Zoey’s laughter faltered, snagging in her throat. The wide-eyed giddiness that had carried her softened into something else—shy, trembling, hopeful. She shifted from foot to foot, sleeves swinging, a blotchy flush rising high across her cheeks.

“I mean…” The words rushed out too fast to catch. “I’ve thought about this. About us. You. Both of you. Is that weird? Oh god, it’s weird. I shouldn’t have said—”

“Zoey.”

Mira’s voice cut clean through, low and even, the same tone she used to rein in chaos at practice. Calm as a blade. Her gaze pinned Zoey where she stood, a command in the set of her shoulders.

“It’s not weird,” she said, blunt and certain. “Stop talking. Try.”

The silence after was thick enough to choke on. Zoey’s lips parted like she might babble again, but Mira’s eyes held her still.

She swallowed hard. Then she moved. One hesitant step. Another. Until she was at the edge of the bed, knees threatening to buckle. Slowly, clumsy in her own body, she sank down to kneel beside them. The mattress dipped under her weight, her breath warm in the air between them.

Her gaze flicked helplessly over Rumi. Hair damp and clinging to her temples, hoodie rucked up from Mira’s earlier touch, blanket clenched tight in her fists. Demon markings pulsed faintly beneath her skin, molten veins betraying every shiver, every spike of arousal she tried to suppress.

Zoey’s breath hitched. She looked at her like she was fragile porcelain and forbidden treasure both—too delicate to touch, too dangerous not to.

And Rumi—Rumi, who had faced demons and stages without flinching—shrank from that gaze as if it might break her. She was still drowning in the aftermath of Mira’s touch, still burning with the memory of that whisper: let go. Mira had wanted her—shown her without shame—and now Zoey was here too, eyes wide with the same impossible hunger.

Zoey’s voice came small, earnest, trembling.

“Is it okay? If we… if I…?”

Rumi’s heart stuttered. She wanted to hide, wanted to run—yet love surged up, unstoppable, flooding every corner of her. For both of them. Always for both of them.

Her fists loosened on the blanket, breath breaking. Her throat worked, words scraped raw but true:

“Yes.”

Not defeat. Not shame. Release—pure, aching surrender, the very thing Mira had tried to draw from her before. She hadn’t been able to then, not fully. But now, with both of them here, with nowhere left to hide, she yielded.

The shame that had clung to her—first her markings, now this—softened beneath their eyes. They had seen her already, all the strange, terrifying pieces she’d tried to bury. And instead of recoiling, they reached. Mira with her steady, unflinching hunger. Zoey with her wide-eyed, trembling wonder.

The knot inside her began to loosen. The fear of being too much, too monstrous, too wrong ebbed away beneath the weight of their wanting. For the first time, she felt it—the impossible truth that she wasn’t broken. That she could give in and still be desired.

Her fists clenched tighter in the blanket, her body trembling on the edge. And then, at last, they unclenched. The fabric slipped downward, slow, halting, inch by inch, until it revealed the damp cling of her shorts—the dark patch, the thick, urgent swell straining beneath.

Zoey’s breath caught, audible. Her gaze darted from the outline to Mira, cheeks blazing, mouth open in awe. Mira’s lips curved, her voice low and cutting.

“No more pretending.”

Rumi made a strangled sound, caught between shame and want, thighs pressing together even as her hips betrayed her, twitching upward.

Zoey’s hand hovered in the air, trembling. She looked to Mira, searching. Mira gave the faintest tilt of her chin—permission, command, encouragement all in one.

So Zoey lowered her hand, reverent, until her palm brushed the rigid shape through the thin cotton. Heat bled into her skin, shocking, alive. She pressed lightly at first, then curled her fingers, stroking along the ridge.

Her eyes went wide. A nervous laugh bubbled out, breathless, caught between awe and disbelief.

“It’s—oh god—wow.”

Rumi turned her face aside, muffling a whimper into her arm—mortified, desperate, undone.

But Zoey didn’t stop. Her fingers wandered, playful, tracing the ridge until Rumi jerked helplessly.

“Stop teasing,” Mira murmured, voice flat but coiled tight, dark as embers waiting to ignite.

Zoey bit her lip, cheeks flushed. She tugged at the waistband of Rumi’s shorts, her voice falling to a whisper, raw with wonder.

“I want to see. All of you.”

Rumi shook her head, trembling, every instinct screaming to hide. Her fists knotted the blanket again, but then she betrayed herself—nodding, frantic, breath hitching ragged. The words tore out before she could stop them.

“I can’t—hide—I can’t—”

Mira’s gaze sharpened, steady as a blade. She reached, and together with Zoey tugged the damp waistband down. The fabric clung, then gave, slipping free.

The air thickened. Her cock sprang free—hard, flushed, slick from Mira’s earlier touch, heavy enough to throb against her belly. Precum smeared her skin in shining trails. Zoey’s mouth fell open, dazzled. She looked back at Mira, astonished, speechless.

Mira’s voice came hoarse, certain.

“We did this.”

Zoey reached first, fingertips brushing the thick vein before curling around the shaft. She inhaled sharply at the impossible weight in her hand.

“It’s so… big,” she whispered, reverent, hungry.

Mira’s hand came down over hers, grounding, guiding, folding Zoey’s grip into her own. Together they stroked her, slick skin sliding under their palms in obscene, wet drags that pulled sounds from Rumi’s throat she hadn’t known she could make.

“Slower,” Mira instructed, voice low, steady but straining. “She’s not a toy. Learn her.”

Zoey obeyed, breath unsteady, hand moving in tandem with Mira’s—one touch sure, the other curious—each stroke drawing the knot of heat in Rumi’s belly tighter, hotter.

Rumi bucked helplessly, eyes glassy, tears trembling at the corners. Shame clung to her still, but it dissolved beneath their hands, melted into the heat of their wanting. What remained was sensation: the glide of their palms, the obscene wet sounds, the weight of their gazes. The staggering truth that she was not monstrous. She was wanted. Desired by both of them.

All she could do was writhe, breath ragged, undone in ways she had never dared to imagine.

Maybe it was that surrender—her breaking open at last—that pulled Zoey with her. Mira saw it first, the way nerves blurred into something softer, trembling into arousal. Her hand rose, steady, cupping Zoey’s flushed cheek, thumb brushing the delicate line of her jaw as she tilted her chin upward.

“Focus,” she murmured, low and certain. “Don’t overthink. Just feel.”

Zoey’s lashes fluttered—and then their mouths met. Tentative at first, a testing brush, then hungrier as Mira angled her in, guiding with quiet dominance. Zoey whimpered, a soft, startled surrender. One hand stayed wrapped with Mira’s around Rumi’s cock, slick and straining between their palms, while her free hand clutched Mira’s hoodie, fisting the fabric like a lifeline. Mira swallowed the sound like wine.

Rumi’s heart slammed against her ribs. The sight undid her—more than any spotlight, more than any demon fight. Her cock pulsed between their hands, slick spilling hot, but it wasn’t the pressure that unravelled her. It was them. Mira and Zoey, turning not only to her but to each other.

A broken sound tore from her throat. Her fists, clenched in the blanket like armour, finally loosened. She reached—trembling, frantic—one hand at Zoey’s waist, dragging her closer, the other clutching Mira’s arm with raw urgency.

Zoey broke from Mira with a gasp, lips swollen, cheeks blazing. She blinked down at Rumi, saw the hunger laid bare in her face, and blurted, half laugh, half moan: “Oh my god, we’re really doing this.” And before nerves could tangle her again, she bent, kissing Rumi in a messy, desperate rush.

Rumi inhaled sharply against her, the taste of Zoey flooding her—sweet, clumsy, but sharp with want. Her cock throbbed, pinned and aching, every nerve sparking. She whimpered into Zoey’s mouth, then kissed back fiercely, devouring her with all the longing she’d buried.

Mira didn’t stop them. She watched—steady, burning—eyes dark as coals, chest rising hard. Rumi’s cock twitched under their joined hands, slick sliding obscenely with every pulse. Mira’s jaw flexed, restraint fraying, and then she leaned in too, teeth grazing Rumi’s jaw before claiming her mouth, rougher, hungrier.

Rumi moaned, caught between them, head spinning. Zoey whimpered at the loss, then—never one to be left behind—tilted toward Mira, pressing quick, breathless kisses down her throat. “You taste different,” she whispered against her skin, voice trembling with awe. Her free hand slipped beneath Mira’s hoodie, tentative but eager, brushing ribs, grazing the swell of her breast. Mira gasped into Rumi’s mouth, low and ragged.

They tangled, messy and urgent—kisses trading, gasps overlapping, hands roaming. Zoey’s mouth returned to Rumi’s, slower now, shy flicks of tongue that deepened into hunger. Mira pulled back just enough to watch, eyes hooded, lips parted, stroking Rumi with a steady precision that made her buck helplessly.

Zoey, emboldened, let her hand wander down Rumi’s thigh, squeezing, then back up beneath her hoodie to press flat to her chest. Her palm rested over Rumi’s frantic heartbeat. She giggled into her mouth, breathless. “You’re vibrating.”

“Zoey.” Mira’s growl was soft, warning, somewhere between scolding and undone.

“What?” Zoey’s laugh trembled into a moan as Mira squeezed harder, wringing a gasp from Rumi’s throat. “She is.”

Rumi’s hips jerked, slick spilling warm between their joined hands. Mira bit her moan into Rumi’s mouth. Zoey kissed down her throat, tongue teasing salt and sweat, her strokes firmer now, matching Mira’s rhythm as best she could.

It wasn’t just heat anymore. It was confession in every messy kiss, every tremor, every moan swallowed into another’s mouth. Not love spoken aloud—but something unspoken, undeniable.

For the first time, Rumi didn’t sit helpless, drowning in fear. She gave herself over—hands in Mira’s hair, sliding into Zoey’s, tugging them both closer. She kissed with abandon, touched with abandon, letting them feel her surrender, her hunger, her truth.

Her demon markings flared faintly beneath her skin, glowing molten through sweat-slick flesh. Her cock might have sparked the fire, but this—this tangle of mouths and hands and laughter and need—was the blaze that bound them, unbreakable.

Zoey’s fingers toyed with the hem of Rumi’s hoodie, voice hushed and trembling.

“Not just a glimpse. I want to see everything.”

Rumi’s blush burned hotter than the thick ache pooling in her lap. Her mouth opened, closed again, stammering around words that refused to settle. “Y-you first. Hoodie off too.”

Zoey squeaked out a laugh, flustered but obliging. She wriggled out of the oversized fabric, letting it puddle on the floor. The damp cling of her tank top left nothing to the imagination—nipples peaked against thin cotton, skin flushed and dewy with sweat. Rumi’s gaze snagged helplessly on the sight, shame tangling with arousal so fierce she had to squeeze her eyes shut just to endure it.

“Unfair,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Zoey leaned in until her breath feathered Rumi’s ear, a trembling mix of mischief and nerves. “Maybe a little.”

Mira snorted, low and sharp. “She’s not wrong. You look wrecked already.”

And Rumi did—hood shoved halfway down, shorts soaked and clinging, cock straining thick and slick beneath their joined hands. Mira’s grip was steady, precise, inexorable, guiding every stroke. Zoey’s smaller fingers were folded into hers, tentative but eager, trembling each time hot slick surged between their palms.

Rumi’s hips twitched helplessly. A strangled moan tore free. “If you—ah—keep touching me like that, I’m… I’m not gonna last.”

“Good,” Zoey blurted, eyes wide, voice nearly cracking with excitement. “I wanna see—I wanna taste—” She clamped her lips shut like she’d confessed murder, cheeks blazing, but the words hovered in the air, undeniable.

Rumi groaned, head thudding back into the pillow, mortification and want ripping through her in equal measure. “Zoey…”

That was when Mira faltered. Not in her hand—her strokes stayed ruthless—but in her composure. Her gaze kept flicking to Rumi’s mouth, to the sharp gleam of fang each time it parted on a gasp. Her jaw tightened, pupils blown, and something broke loose inside her.

Her thumb pressed upward, forcing Rumi’s lip to bare the dangerous curve of her canines. “Don’t fight it,” she rasped, voice hoarse, hungry. Then, deliberate, she tilted her head, pink ponytails spilling forward as she bared the long, pale line of her throat. Brown eyes burned, unflinching. “Here. Bite me. Leave it where everyone will see. I don’t care. I want it.”

The words struck like a brand. A mark meant everything: it was dominance and devotion, claim and confession. For idols, for hunters, it was risk—tabloid ruin if anyone saw. Yet Mira offered herself without hesitation, daring Rumi to scar her with proof.

Rumi’s breath broke into a sob. “M-Mira—”

Zoey’s eyes went huge, darting from Mira’s offered neck to Rumi’s trembling lips. “Wait—are you—do you like—?” Her question dissolved into a squeak of awe.

Mira ignored her. Her focus was absolute. She cupped Rumi’s jaw, steady and inexorable, pressing her mouth to her throat. The sight was a provocation, a dare wrapped in devotion.

Sharp canines grazed skin. Mira shuddered violently, thighs clenching. “Harder,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Mark me.”

Rumi whimpered against her, trembling with terror and hunger. She could taste the salt of Mira’s skin, feel her pulse hammering. Instinct surged dark and undeniable—and she gave in.

Her teeth sank deep, not cruel, but firm enough to bruise, to brand. Primitive, possessive. Tender, too, as if she already knew how Mira craved it.

Mira gasped raggedly, her control shattering. Her hand left Rumi’s cock entirely, nails biting into her shoulder instead as her body arched into the bite. A raw cry tore free. “F-fuck—yes—”

The sound undid Rumi. Her whole body shook, slick arousal spilling hot down her shaft, hips jerking helplessly. The mark was a claiming, and with it came a revelation: she was no monster. She was wanted—by Mira, who begged for her teeth, and by Zoey, who trembled with wonder at every twitch of her cock.

Zoey’s giggle bubbled out, breathless and helpless, her hand still wrapped around the thick length pulsing in her palm. It twitched, dripping slick until her fingers shone. Her lips parted, curiosity too bright to deny.

Finally she gave in. Heart hammering, emboldened by Mira’s surrender, Zoey bent and parted her lips. The swollen head pushed against her tongue with shocking weight, flooding her mouth with heat and salt. The slick coating her tongue was musky, almost sweet. Her lashes fluttered as she swallowed without thought.

Her whole body jolted at the taste. A startled sound escaped as she pulled back, lips wet, eyes glowing. “I just—had to know,” she whispered, scarlet with awe.

Mira’s laugh came wrecked and breathless. “Christ, Zoey—”

Zoey giggled too, dizzy. “It’s… nice,” she admitted, reverent, as if she’d found something forbidden. Before she could lose her nerve, she ducked down again, lips sealing firmly around the head.

Rumi nearly sobbed, fangs still pressed to Mira’s throat. “I—I can’t—”

Zoey’s tongue traced the slit, drinking every drop, before sliding lower, lips stretching to take more. Her jaw ached with the width, but she pressed on, cheeks hollowing as she sucked. Her hand stroked the base she couldn’t fit, squeezing steady. The weight filled her mouth, her throat trembling as she moaned around it, drunk on the taste.

Mira caught the back of Zoey’s head, guiding her rhythm without force, her other hand sliding up to cup Rumi’s breast through her hoodie. “Don’t look away,” she whispered hot against Rumi’s ear. “Every sound you make—give it to her.”

Zoey bobbed eagerly, messy but greedy, spit mixing with slick and dripping down her chin. Her moans came faster, hungry. She wanted more—wanted all of it.

Rumi tore her mouth from Mira’s throat only for Mira to claim her lips, tasting herself there—her own skin, Rumi’s salt, Zoey’s daring. “You like it, don’t you?” she whispered, triumphant. “Biting me. Watching Zoey taste you.”

Rumi’s reply ripped free, raw. “Yeah—fuck, Mira, I—” But the words broke apart as Zoey sucked harder, worshipful, greedy.

Zoey pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, chin smeared. Her eyes were glassy, drunk. “She’s dripping so much,” she gasped, voice cracked with awe. “She tastes—fuck—so salty, so thick—I can feel her pulsing, Mira, she’s gonna—”

Rumi’s cry cut her off, strangled, desperate. “If you don’t stop—I’m gonna lose it—”

Her thighs shook violently, hips jerking helplessly toward Zoey’s mouth, every muscle trembling.

And Mira only smiled, sharp and hungry, brushing her thumb over the mark blooming on her throat like a crown. “Then give it to us.”

Rumi didn’t mean to. One second Zoey’s lips were clumsy and warm around her, her small hands struggling to steady the impossible weight. The next—her body broke.

She came with a ragged cry, hips jolting upward, hot spurts spilling into Zoey’s mouth. Zoey gasped, throat working frantically to swallow. Slick heat overflowed, dripping down her chin, but she didn’t stop—she clung to Rumi’s cock, moaning around every pulse as if drinking her was a sacrament.

Zoey gave a startled, muffled sound, but she didn’t pull away. Her eyes went wide as she swallowed instinctively—one gulp, then another, throat working desperately until slick overflow streaked from the corners of her mouth, sliding hot down her chin and throat. She gasped as she pulled back, coughing once before dissolving into breathless giggles. Her cheeks were scarlet, but her whole face glowed with pride.

“I didn’t know—there’d be so much,” she laughed, wiping her chin with her palm only to smear it further. “You nearly drowned me!”

Mira’s laugh came low and rough, scraped raw with want. Not mocking, but dark with hunger. She reached out, swiping her thumb along Zoey’s chin, lifting a shining streak to her mouth with deliberate slowness.

“That’s what you get for tasting her,” she murmured, her eyes gone coal-dark. She sucked her thumb clean, smirk sharp as a blade. “Worth it.”

Rumi whimpered, curling in on herself, nerves burning raw. Every inch of her felt oversensitive. Her hoodie clung damp with sweat, shorts sticky against her skin. She fumbled at the hem weakly. “I can’t—too hot—”

“Finally,” Mira muttered, already tugging the fabric over her head with brisk efficiency. “Zoey asked you to strip ages ago.”

Zoey flushed, nodding so quickly her twin buns bobbed. But when her gaze landed on what was revealed, words fled her. “Oh my god…”

The demon markings stretched across Rumi’s ribs and breasts, glowing faintly as though alive, each line pulsing with its own rhythm. The script shimmered with unearthly heat, crawling over her skin in patterns older than memory. Her nipples were dark-tipped and stiff, caught in the glow like twin stars.

Zoey leaned in without thinking, reckless and awestruck. Her small mouth closed around one aching peak, sucking clumsily but with reverence. Her hands braced Rumi’s sides as though steadying a sacred object.

Rumi cried out, back arching hard. “Z-Zoey—”

“She doesn’t listen,” Mira said with a crooked quirk of her lips, though her voice had gone hoarse. She bent low on the other side, tongue tracing the molten lines of script like a map, following each until it spiralled toward the swell of Rumi’s breast. She sucked hard, leaving a bruising mark that glowed beneath her lips.

“She’s alive under here,” Mira whispered against the markings, her breath hot on Rumi’s skin. “Look—see how it pulses when I touch it?”

And it did. The glowing script seemed to throb in time with her heartbeat, brighter each time Mira’s mouth claimed her. For Rumi, it was unbearable exposure—everything she had hidden from them, all the monstrous proof she had sworn to bury. “I—don’t hide?” she whispered, trembling, the words breaking from her lips like a confession.

Zoey pulled back, lips wet and shining, Rumi’s seed still smeared faintly at her chin. Her dark eyes were wide and certain. “Don’t,” she said softly, voice trembling with awe. “You’re beautiful like this. All of you.”

Mira rose, sealing Rumi’s protest with a fierce, quick kiss. “You hear her? You’re not hiding anymore.”

Rumi sagged against the mattress, undone by their mouths and their words. Zoey nestled close to her side, still licking her lips as if she couldn’t stop tasting. Mira, more relentless, traced the markings again and again with tongue and fingertips until Rumi’s body shivered beneath her touch.

The moment thickened, heat pressing in on all sides. Zoey giggled softly, smudging a streak from her cheek with the back of her hand. “She’s still hard,” she whispered, scandalised and delighted all at once.

Mira’s gaze snapped lower, hungry and unblinking. “Of course she is,” she said, voice dropping to a dangerous rasp. “Rumi has to be perfect at everything. Why would this be any different?”

She shifted back, hooking her thumbs into the shorts already clinging low on Rumi’s hips. With deliberate slowness, she worked them the rest of the way down, daring her to stop it. The fabric slid off completely, leaving sweat-slick skin and trembling muscle bare, nothing left to hide.

Then Mira tugged her own top free in one sharp motion. She shoved her sleep shorts down with equal finality, kicking them aside. For the first time, Rumi saw her wholly unmasked—skin pale under the low light, pink hair spilling wild over bare shoulders, breasts heaving with each rough breath. Lower still, the glistening heat between Mira’s thighs caught the light, wetness shining like proof that she had been waiting, starving, all along.

Zoey’s breath caught audibly. Her eyes darted not just to Mira’s bared body, but to the faint crescent mark at her throat—the bite Rumi had left. The sight seemed to brand her too. She flushed hot all over, thighs pressing together tight, as if she could feel the echo of that mark burning into her own skin.

Rumi’s throat worked. Her words tore free strangled, helpless. “I—fuck—I need to go again.”

Mira’s smirk softened into something darker, dangerous and raw. She stepped forward slowly, deliberately, letting Rumi’s gaze devour every inch.

“Good,” she said, voice rough as stone. “I’ve been holding back too long. It’s my turn.”

The air itself pressed tight—Zoey trembling, Mira bare and slick with need, Rumi strung taut between them like a bow at breaking point. Mira climbed onto the mattress with slow grace, one knee, then the other, until she straddled Rumi’s hips. The heat between her thighs brushed the rigid length straining up to meet her.

Her fingers slid down, wrapping Rumi’s cock with surety, guiding it against her slick folds. The contact wrung a broken sound from Rumi’s throat, her body arching helplessly. Mira hovered there, hips rolling in the faintest of teases, promise trembling between them.

And then the last thin thread of restraint snapped.

Notes:

This chapter? Took me FOREVER. You have no idea. My eyes stopped seeing words about 2k ago — everything just looks like slick and bite marks now. I’m legally blind, spiritually exhausted, and probably banned from my own laptop. Worth it though

So, real question: after this chaos — who’s your fave?

Team Rumi: purple-haired disaster, crying about “don’t look at me” while simultaneously rearranging furniture with her hips.
Team Mira: soft dom energy with a full-on fang awakening kink, handing over her neck like a coupon code, then gripping your jaw so you feel it.
Team Zoey: tiny menace, taste-testing things like a chaotic food critic — idol dietician’s worst nightmare, nation’s sweetheart’s best laugh.

Vote wisely. The comeback depends on it.

Chapter 5: Sweat, Shiver, Surrender

Summary:

Half the chapter is sex, the other half is giggling through sex, and somewhere in between Rumi blurts a love confession like she’s on live TV.

Notes:

Remember back in Chapter 1 when I said I might be responsible and drip-feed updates? Yeah… about that. I absolutely did not. I yeeted like, all of them, basically in one go. Zero responsibility was taken.

Mira poised above her, breath shaking, thighs taut as if even gravity dared her to let go.
Then she did. Inch by inch, she lowered herself onto Rumi.

The first slick press swallowed the head of Rumi’s cock, and she nearly broke—every muscle straining not to buck up, not to shatter the fragile control Mira clung to. Slowly, mercilessly, Mira sank down, her body stretching, lips parting on a low, desperate sound she bit back too late. The sound seared itself into Rumi’s chest.

“God—” Rumi’s head thudded back against the pillow, fangs bared, eyes blown wide. Her hands clamped on Mira’s hips, not to guide but to hold herself together.

Mira’s nails dug into her shoulders, sharp crescents to ground them both. She trembled but didn’t relent, lowering herself like a vow, like a claiming. Wet heat engulfed Rumi inch by inch, stretching her open, swallowing her down.

Beside them, Zoey had been so still she might have been carved of glass—until the sight shattered her. As Mira sank deeper, Zoey’s hand slipped beneath her sleep shorts, moving without permission. Her fingers found her clit in frantic circles, pulse stuttering as she watched Mira stretch around Rumi, her own body twitching in echo.

The stretch made Mira shudder, a curse torn from clenched teeth. Her head bowed, pink hair damp against her cheek. “Fuck… Rumi…” Her voice was hoarse, half command, half confession. She rocked once, testing, and gasped. “Don’t—don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

Rumi nearly sobbed, gutted by the words, her cock throbbing inside that impossible clutch. Every instinct screamed to thrust, to take, to lose herself.

And still Mira sank lower, hips dragging down until she was pressed flush, Rumi buried to the hilt. The sheer intensity of it undid Zoey. She whimpered and thrust her fingers inside herself in perfect mirror, walls clenching as though she could feel Mira’s fullness, as though she could take it into her own body.

Rumi turned her head, dizzy with pleasure. The image of Zoey unraveling nearly finished her—mouth parted, lashes wet, fingers working in quick, desperate rhythm. Every grind of Mira’s hips had Zoey’s breath stuttering in tandem, her body arching as though she were the one being fucked.

Mira caught it too. Her gaze dropped to Zoey with a slow, hungry smirk, even as her body trembled around Rumi’s cock. “Look at her,” she whispered, hips circling harder, dragging a ragged sound from Rumi’s throat. “Getting off just watching us. My little menace can’t help herself.”

Zoey keened, hips jerking, slick dripping hot over her fingers. “I—I can’t—oh god—” A giggle cracked through her moan, half sob, half delight, before breaking into squeaks as orgasm tore through her. She convulsed beside them, thighs clamping tight as she came apart in messy, helpless waves.

The sound of it undid Rumi. Her fangs flashed, her body bucking up into Mira in frantic, begging thrusts. Mira met her with devastating grace, nails raking down her chest, her own voice breaking at last.

“Good girl,” Mira gasped, every word a tremor. “Fuck me—just like that—”

And they moved together—Rumi desperate, Mira relentless, Zoey trembling with aftershocks yet still reaching blindly for them both. Three bodies tangled in the same fever, slick and heat and love until there was no beginning and no end.

Through the haze of her own shaking, Zoey realised she couldn’t breathe. Or maybe she was breathing too much—ragged gasps, quick little pants that wouldn’t settle—as her gaze locked on Mira riding Rumi to pieces.

Mira’s body moved with a rhythm that was half control, half surrender, her thighs flexing as she ground down hard, as though daring Rumi to withstand her. Sweat traced the curve of her neck, strands of pink hair plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes—dark, blazing—never left Rumi’s face.

“Fuck, Mira—” Rumi’s voice cracked apart, guttural and desperate, her hips thrusting up into that wet clutch with all the restraint of a breaking dam. Her markings burned molten at her sides, glowing like embers as if her skin itself couldn’t contain the force of it. Fangs dug into her lip, blood beading bright against her tongue, and still she held Mira as though she were the only thing anchoring her to earth.

Zoey’s hand trembled against her slick thighs, sticky and shaking from the orgasm she’d already spilled—but her chest still ached, sharp with need. Watching them like this, she couldn’t tell if it was arousal or awe clawing her throat tight. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Mira’s pace faltered—just a fraction—but Zoey caught it. The sharp inhale, the flutter of lashes, the way Mira’s body quivered like she was fighting not to fall too soon. And then she broke. Her head tipped back, mouth parting in a ragged moan as her hips snapped down, hard and helpless. “Rumi—God, yes—” she gasped, voice cracked open, desperate and raw.

Her thighs shook. Her nails raked red trails down Rumi’s chest. She came apart around her with a sound that made Zoey’s stomach clench tight, equal parts pleasure and surrender.

Rumi didn’t stand a chance. Her body arched off the mattress, shoving up into Mira in frantic thrusts, cock twitching, spilling deep as the heat of her orgasm tore through her. Her markings flared molten-bright across Mira’s hips where they met, glowing like wildfire against sweat-slick skin.

Zoey whimpered, unable to stop herself. The sight—Mira shaking above, Rumi breaking apart beneath—was too much. She crawled forward blindly, limbs jelly, and sprawled across Rumi’s chest, cheek pressed to the frantic beat of her heart. Slowly, she slid lower, her mouth tracing Rumi’s collarbone before rising to the frantic pulse in her throat, kissing it like a prayer. Then she shifted sideways, twisting down between them, her lips finding the taut line of Mira’s trembling thigh. She kissed hungrily, tasting salt and skin, before pressing her face against the heat where their bodies joined, as if she could fuse herself there and never let go.

Her chest ached, too full, too fierce, as if her heart couldn’t hold it all.

“Mine,” she whispered, not even sure which of them she meant. Maybe both.

Rumi’s arms closed around her at once, trembling and protective, pulling her in tight. Mira stayed astride, thighs quivering, her body bowed with strain but refusing to collapse. The three of them clung together in breathless closeness—Zoey pressed to Rumi’s chest, Mira braced above, sweat-slick skin brushing, every ragged inhale binding them tighter.

Zoey’s ear caught the frantic drum of Rumi’s heartbeat, steadying her in the wreckage. Mira leaned closer, her damp hair brushing Zoey’s temple, breath ghosting hot across her cheek as she steadied Zoey with a hand in her hair. And Rumi—poor Rumi—lay caught beneath them both, chest heaving, body shuddering with every aftershock.

It was messy. Overwhelming. Their sweat, their slick, the ruin of everything between them. And yet Zoey’s heart soared, full to breaking. For the first time, she thought, this felt inevitable.

The thought trembled through her, raw and unshakable—then, absurdly, laughter broke it open. At first it was only a tiny, broken giggle from her own throat, but it spread, fuller, breathless, until Mira huffed against her shoulder and even Rumi cracked a helpless laugh through the wreck of her breathing.

It was ridiculous. They were sticky, ruined, half-numb, and yet laughter spilled out of them like release. Zoey pressed wet kisses against Rumi’s jaw and cheek, mumbling nonsense between giggles. Mira’s lips traced lazily along the curve of Rumi’s throat, her teeth grazing as if daring her to squirm.

Rumi groaned and dragged her hands over her face, trying to hide the heat in her cheeks. She was glowing, loose-limbed and undone, every line of her body betraying how sated she was. “I loved you both,” she blurted, raw and embarrassed, her voice muffled behind her palms. “Before this. Always. I just… didn’t think I could say it.”

Zoey lifted her head at once, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, grinning through the blur. “We loved you too, dummy. This just… kind of works out!” she said, the words tumbling out, shaky and honest, punctuated by another laugh that broke into a sniffle.

Mira didn’t answer immediately. She reached up instead, brushing a damp strand of purple hair from Rumi’s face, her fingertips gentle in contrast to the bruises she’d left. Her gaze was steady, grounding. “Don’t overthink it,” she said softly, blunt but warm beneath. “We’re here.”

Rumi’s chest clenched at the words. Her markings flared faintly along her ribs and hips, glowing through sweat-slick skin like dying embers. She bit her lip, fangs catching, but the spiral already threatened—too much, too fast, what now?

Zoey sighed and nestled closer, lips brushing the hollow of Rumi’s throat like she could crawl inside and stay, soft and giddy, her whole body still humming with leftover sparks of pleasure.

Mira lingered upright a moment longer, thighs trembling astride Rumi, before she finally slumped forward. Her palms caught the mattress on either side of Rumi’s shoulders, chest brushing Zoey’s hair as she steadied herself. Then, slowly, she lifted off Rumi’s cock. The slide left Rumi gasping, the sudden loss of Mira’s heat almost a shock against her oversensitised skin. Mira, by contrast, shuddered at the emptiness inside her as slick warmth spilled down her thighs in messy rivulets. She winced—not from regret, but from overstretched muscles, from the sheer force of having taken Rumi to the hilt and beyond.

Rumi blinked up at her, dazed, and the sight undid her: the mess between Mira’s thighs, the tremor still in her limbs, the bold crescent of Rumi’s bite stark against pale skin. Proof and promise all at once. Her hand lifted, trembling, reaching to trace it—

“Fuck,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “How are we even going to cover this up?” The thought slipped out before she could stop it—leader’s instinct, idol’s panic clawing through the haze.

Mira caught her wrist before the spiral could take root. Calm, deliberate, she drew Rumi’s hand down and pressed her lips to her fingers. Her touch was tender where everything else had been raw. Her gaze was steady, anchoring. “Don’t think about that right now,” she said softly, blunt but sure. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Let me keep it. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

Rumi swallowed hard. Her smile came slow and unsteady, a crack in her fear that let joy spill through anyway.

Zoey wriggled between them like she couldn’t stand being left out, still buzzing with leftover arousal. She pressed messy kisses wherever she could reach—Rumi’s collarbone, Mira’s damp shoulder, the hollow of a throat slick with sweat—before collapsing dramatically across them both with a sigh. For a moment she tried to wedge herself between their chests, her cheek mashed to Rumi’s sternum, nose smushed against clammy skin, before tipping her head back with wide eyes and a grin.

“Wow,” she declared, breathless and serious for all of half a second. Then her grin split wider, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’re dating a hentai monster now.”

Rumi made a strangled noise—half laugh, half mortified whimper—as if she’d been punched in the lungs. She tried to bury her face in a pillow, but Zoey gleefully tugged it away.

Mira arched a brow, unbothered even with sweat dripping down her temple, her pink hair sticking in damp ropes to her cheek. “She’s not wrong,” she said bluntly, her voice wrecked but steady, and bent to kiss Rumi slow and deliberate. It was anchoring, cruel in its gentleness, a kiss that told her to stop running.

Zoey squealed into the space between them. “See? Mira agrees. Demon dick. She’s gonna ruin us. I’m gonna have to keep a calendar just to record how many times I survive the week.” She wriggled on top of them both to punctuate her point, her sleep shorts sticking wetly against Rumi’s bare stomach.

“Zoey—!” Rumi groaned, her voice half-smothered by the pillow she tried to hide in, her cheeks crimson.

Mira didn’t even look at Zoey, still pressing kisses along Rumi’s jaw. “Better make it a planner,” she deadpanned. “You’ll need room for the tally marks.”

Zoey gasped, mock scandalised, and smacked Mira’s arm with no force at all. “Unnie! Don’t enable her!” She turned to Rumi, eyes wide, voice pitched like a drama heroine. “See? She’s into it. We’re both doomed.”

Rumi gave up entirely, her laughter breaking into helpless shakes, tears streaking her cheeks. She clung to them both anyway, sticky and sore and overwhelmed, but lighter than she’d felt in years.

Zoey, still buzzing, wasn’t done. She bit her lip, eyes gleaming with another wicked thought. “So… uh. Mira. Does this mean we have to go on birth control now?”

Mira groaned like a woman cursed and shoved her face into Rumi’s shoulder. “You would think of that now.”

Their laughter tangled in the dark, sticky and aching, but bound tight all the same.

Notes:

So yeah, if you liked this fic (ft. the menace known as demon-dick Rumi™) and want more filth of this flavour, scream at me in the comments! Got cursed kink ideas for the girls? Drop those too. I have 8000 fics rotting on my google drive but my Virgo brain won’t let me post like a normal human, so… this is what you get. Thanks for reading my chaos 🖤

P.S. Mira… Mommy. That’s it. That’s the post.