Work Text:
“If you’re into bondage, you can just say that, you know?” Mira drawls from her place on the couch. There’s a cool, soft smile on her face, the kind she so often gets whenever Rumi musters up the courage to talk about sex, the kind of smile that says, Don’t worry, I can read between the lines, and as much as Rumi appreciates it when she’s singing a command in battle or legitimately too shy to say what she means, it really grinds her gears when she’s being honest for once.
“No, I–”
“Because I am so into that shit,” Zoey adds, chipper, three inches to Mira’s left, completely unashamed. Rumi wishes she could feel as uncomplicated as Zoey seems to be about sex, confident in her likes and dislikes and happy to share with both Mira and Rumi, despite the latter’s more recent induction into their relationship. She didn’t have to worry about turning into a feral monster when she got too turned on.
“For the last time,” Rumi sighs, standing in front of the couch, holding her stance with feet shoulder-width apart, “it’s not a kink thing. I just don’t want to hurt either of you. Do you remember that time we were kissing, and Zoey cut her lip on my fangs?”
“That was hot,” Zoey reminisces. “Your pupils slit, and you grabbed my jaw and kissed me deeper–”
“–or that time my claws dug into Mira’s hips because I couldn’t keep my demon attributes from coming out?”
Mira frowns. “That was one time–”
“Or the last time we tried to be intimate?” Rumi asks. “When I had to run and hide because I was scared I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from biting out one of your throats?”
Zoey’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s why you left so suddenly?”
“We thought you were overwhelmed,” Mira says.
Yeah. Overwhelmed with bloodlust, not shyness. Since her patterns had spread, etched across her body from crown to heel, Rumi had become more and more aware of the inhuman instincts within her. Another unwanted gift from her demon father, just as much as Rumi’s sex assigned at birth. While she’d accepted that she’d never be cis, just as she would never be fully human, such feelings were easier to handle outside of the vulnerability of the bedroom.
Rumi sets her jaw. “I don’t trust myself not to hurt you if I lose control of myself.”
“You won’t hurt us,” Zoey says gently. “And if it seemed like you might, we’re Hunters. Mira and I together can handle one little feral demon.”
“But you shouldn’t have to!” Rumi resists the urge to growl. “And you won’t have to if I can’t get my claws or fangs on you.” Such a thing can be easily arranged. A pair of handcuffs. A muzzle. A bit of rope for her legs. Unarmed and defanged, there would be nothing to worry about beyond normal sex anxiety. Compared to Mira and Zoey learning their leader was half-demon, letting them see what Rumi's like while in the throws of passion feels infinitely less vulnerable.
“If it would really make you feel safer…” Mira sounds skeptical.
Not for me, Rumi thinks. “It would.” Technically true, she convinces herself. She’d feel safer in the knowledge that she wouldn’t hurt either of her lovers just because she was too stupid horny to watch her claws or bite back her fangs. “If it goes okay—if I don’t go feral—we can try without it next time. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“Then we’ll try it!” Zoey chirps. “We want your first time to be safe and comfortable for you. That much bondage is pretty intense for your first time, but if it’s the only way to make you feel safe, we’ll make it work.”
“Thank you.” A weight lifts from Rumi’s shoulders. Problem solved. Rumi is going to have sex with her girlfriends, and she’s going to be as excellent at it as she is at everything else, inexperience and demonic instincts be damned. “Can we try once we get the muzzle?”
“Ooh, eager?”
“Zoey,” Mira chides. Then, to Rumi: “Let’s get some cash and street clothes, girl. I want you to pick out your muzzle yourself.”
Rumi’s patterns flicker pink. “Yeah, s-sure thing.”
Visiting a sex store had probably been the most embarrassing experience of Rumi’s entire life, and considering her deepest, darkest secret had been exposed on stage to a live audience of thousands, filmed, and subsequently uploaded online, that was saying something. The way Mira and Zoey walked through the place was so unfairly casual, as if they owned the place (which, with HUNTR/X’s funds, could be arranged), as if it were like any other store, made Rumi feel even more awkward and sweaty beneath her hoodie, her braid bunched up where it met the elastic hem around her waist. Zoey’s excitement at the bachelorette party favors shaped like genitals was as alien to Rumi as the ease with which Mira had pulled Rumi before a collection of muzzles, sized and shaped to fit on human faces.
In the end, Rumi had decided on something comparatively tame. Some of the muzzles hanging from hooks on the wall were animalistic, shaped to look like the snouts of hounds, made from leather or plastic. The ordinary muzzles, those with metal bars and straps without animal ears, were more to Rumi’s taste. Still, even standing behind Mira as she chatted with the pride pin-bedecked employee at the register had made Rumi’s face go hot and patterns gleam beneath her clothes and makeup.
Was it worth it? Yes. Did Rumi want to go back to the sex store ever again? No, mix-and-match condom bulk rate be damned, even if the sheer variety on sale had been… educational. There were a lot of different kinds of condom with textures Rumi had never even considered. While she’s probably as sterile as a mule, half-breed that she is, Rumi had elected not to take any chances. If it turned out Zoey had a taste for ribbed or studded condoms (or if Mira liked such things on the rare occasion she braved bottoming), she could get them herself without dragging Rumi along for the ride.
In the bedroom, Mira asks, “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“If you need to say stop, just say stop,” Zoey adds. “You don’t need to remember a separate safeword. Just tell us what you need.”
“I will,” Rumi promises, and she means it. “And you both want this?” Want me? Even like this?
“Duh,” says Mira. Zoey, for her part, gives Rumi two thumbs up, a big grin, and a nod so enthusiastic her buns nearly come undone.
Rumi runs her thumb across her fingertips, and, finding her nails no sharper than normal, lets out a soft sigh. “Okay.”
Over the past months, casual nudity had become a common occurrence between the three of them. After several trips to the bathhouse, Rumi now finds herself capable of sharing the penthouse with a topless Mira on the couch or Zoey wrapped in nothing but a fuzzy blanket. Exposing her own body still frightens her to a degree—old shame can be quieted, but never silenced, not really—and with both the patterns that mark her as inhuman and the thing between her thighs that makes her different from other women, the way Rumi’s heart hammers when taking off her clothes comes as automatic and unconscious as breathing. No matter how many times Zoey tells her that her penis is no more or less masculine and disgusting or than any other genital configuration, nor Mira’s words of reassurance that her patterns are beautiful and would go perfectly with an outfit that she has planned, rather than proof of Rumi’s demonic, ontologically evil nature as monster to be hunted without remorse, Rumi still doesn’t believe they’re right. The almost-human almost-girl plays along as best she can.
Maybe someday, she’ll believe them.
Heart hammering faster than the beat of Zoey’s highest-tempo rap, Rumi sheds her layers. The hoodie goes first, followed by her sweats, shirt, and socks. Not quite naked, not yet, but bare enough to, as Zoey put it, accessorize.
“We’re gonna show you how it’s done,” Zoey says gently, halfway out of her pants. Were she not handing Rumi her new muzzle, she would have had a free hand to tug them down, rather than trying and failing to kick them off. And then, quietly, under her breath: “Done, done.”
“No quoting lyrics during sex!” Mira warns.
“We’re not doing sex yet!” Zoey whines.
Rumi chuckles. Then, carefully, straps the muzzle around her face. The leather feels cool against her skin, soft enough so as not to chafe, but not so loose as to slip off if Rumi thrashes her head back and forth. One strap goes between her eyes and around her forehead to meet the other two at her nape. Privately, Rumi praises herself for choosing to don the muzzle before binding her hands, as it’s much more comfortable to adjust on her own than to ask Mira or Zoey to do it. So comfortable, in fact, that Rumi wouldn’t mind wearing it around the penthouse, just another cute, sexy accessory in her vast arsenal–
–Rumi startles. This wasn’t sexy! Her muzzle was to make sure she wouldn’t bite her girlfriends bloody in bed. Face burning, Rumi’s metal muzzle does nothing to hide her blush, and the pink glow of her patterns only makes her more obvious.
Thankfully, Mira and Zoey were polite enough to not mention it–
“C’mon, ‘You wanna get wild? I’ll show you wild! / Better come right’ is basically dirty talk.”
“Zoey, don’t make me think of work while we’re boning.”
“Miraaa, you know I’m naughty, not even sorry.”
“Being a lyricist does not make you a cunning linguist.”
“Hey!”
–or maybe they were just too caught up in bantering over which song lyrics were acceptable to reference in bed to notice.
Rumi couldn’t help but smile. Fuck, she loved these idiots. That they cared enough for her in return to take Rumi into their bed warmed her heart. It banished her embarrassment almost as effectively as Mira and Zoey embarrassing themselves just as much.
Regardless, Rumi had done what she could on her own. Her hands waver around the hem of her panties, anxiety and shame bubbling through her system, but she removed them nonetheless. She took a seat upon the bed. “Mira?” she asked.
“Yea—damn, girl! That’s hot!”
Zoey’s head snaps back. “Muzzle,” she drools, and wipes her lip.
Rumi’s patterns blush bright pink, but she tries to act normal. “Mira, you’re more familiar with, uh, knots, right?”
“That would be me,” Zoey says proudly.
“Could you bind my ankles? I don’t wanna kick out with my claws by accident.”
“Ohh, tying knots!” Zoey’s eyes widen. “Yeah, I can do those too.”
Rumi cocks her head. “What do you–”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mira interrupts. “Zoey practices on herself. Gets a kick out of it. I just think it’s cute how much she likes it.”
“Why’re you selling yourself so short?” Zoey retorts. She keeps talking as she takes her place on the bed, wrapping silk gently around Rumi’s ankles, her tongue out as she works a fancy knot into the ribbon. The fabric is smooth, soft, and loose enough to not feel constricting. When Zoey ties the other end to the leg of the bed, she leaves enough slack for Rumi to move her foot back and forth, even if she can’t quite bend her knee without scooting towards the foot of the bed. “You’ve tied me up a billion times and you’re good enough at it that I can tell you like it.”
“It can’t literally be a billion times,” Rumi mutters, unheard.
“Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”
“Um,” Zoey says, “duh?” She ties down Rumi’s other leg efficiently. “Isn’t that the dominant fun of bondage?”
Mira makes a kinda, sorta gesture with her hand, and moves on. “That feel all right, Rumi?” she asks. “Still wanna be tied up? Not too vulnerable?”
Rumi nods automatically. The ropes are a necessary precaution, after all. There is something that gnaws at her inside, legs forced open like this, with her… bits on display, not tucked back or concealed between crossed legs as she would usually do while laying naked. It’s one thing for Mira and Zoey to accept the presence of a flaccid penis in the bathhouse and quite another to witness it at full mast, atypical for not only a woman, but a human. Rumi’s patterns swirl up and down its length, and the corona of the glans is textured with small, fleshy ridges in a way she recalls Zoey describing as “vaguely feline.” Helpless as she is, Rumi cannot stop her younger partner should she decide to examine her more thoroughly.
So yes. Rumi is a little too vulnerable, not that she’ll say so, because if she does, her loving, stupid girlfriends will untie her, and then when Rumi starts acting before thinking, moving on instinct and chasing pleasure without care for thin and fragile human skin beneath her claws and fangs, she’ll hurt her partners in ways she can never take back. The ropes stay on or she’s not having sex. That was what she’d told herself. Better she be vulnerable than risk the most important people in her life.
“Do you like it?” Zoey asks. “Is our little Rumi a rope bunny?”
Rumi scoffs, blushing. Her lip curls as though to growl, growing fangs flashing behind the muzzle. With the stainless steel bars between sharp teeth and soft skin, Rumi doesn’t bother holding them back. Better for them to know what they’re caging. She bites the air for emphasis with a clack. “Just precautionary.”
“Sure,” Mira says, that infuriating smile on her face. “Little Rumi doesn’t seem to agree with you.”
“Don’t call it that!” Rumi tries to cover herself with her legs and strains against her bonds, and when she can’t cover herself with her legs, presses her stupid, traitorous dick down with her hands. To her humiliation, it isn’t any less hard than it was a moment before. At least it didn’t fucking twitch. “It’s—unrelated. To the bondage.”
“You know you’ll have to move your hands if you want them tied too, right?” The bed dips to Rumi’s left, curving beneath Mira’s knees. “If you don’t want them tied, that’s fine. Zoey and I want you to feel safe and comfortable.”
Zoey nods. “We don’t want to do anything you don’t like. Even if you think you need it.”
She does need it. “I like the bondage and I’m just embarrassed by that,” Rumi lies. It’s natural, easy, immediate. And obvious.
“Rumi…”
“You know what happens when we keep big things from each other.” Zoey’s eyes glisten. Her pout stings.
Rumi sighs, tucking her face into her shoulder. “Can we not have this conversation while we’re naked? You said we could try it.” She looks to Mira to back her up, to tell Zoey they’ve had this conversation, but Mira’s still wearing that damn smile.
“Can’t have good sex without good communication,” Mira puts her hand on Rumi’s shoulder. “Talk to us.”
“I don’t…” Rumi swallows. “I don’t dislike the bondage. I just. I need it.”
“To not hurt us,” Zoey murmurs.
“We don’t want to hurt you, either, Rumi.”
Rumi’s heart aches. She breathes. “You’re not hurting me. I promise. The bondage, it’s just–” She bares her fangs in an awkward smile. “I don’t need to worry about these while I’m wearing the muzzle. It’s a relief. The whole thing, the ropes, the handcuffs. It’s a relief. Like I can let go and there’s a safety net to catch me.”
Zoey and Mira share a look. Rumi reads it.
“I trust you to catch me too, I promise.”
Zoey smiles softly. “That was never in question,” she says, finding a place on the bed between Rumi’s bound legs. “You trust us enough to tie you up.”
“To put your trust in tools, rather than oh-so distractible people,” Mira adds, “is very resourceful of you. Very human.”
“Exactly!” Rumi brightens, because she’s a human, and not a demon. Not a fearsome, soul-hungry thing that does nothing but feel, because she can think. Plan ahead, foresee issues, and use every option at her disposal to make sure it goes right. “Just this once. To learn. How I’ll. Um.”
“Better safe than sorry, I get it,” Mira says. It still sounds dismissive to Rumi’s ears, but not enough to push the issue, not when she’s already so close to what she wants, Mira’s bare arm against her own, Zoey sitting at the edge of the bed between Rumi’s bound legs. “As long as you’re safe too. We can’t know unless you tell us.”
“Okay.” Rumi bites her tongue. “I like the muzzle and the ropes make me feel vulnerable but please, please, please let me use them.”
“You don’t have to beg already,” Zoey says, trying and failing not to laugh.
Mira’s eyebrows knit. “And the handcuffs?”
Rumi’s reminded of her hands covering her anatomy. It takes her a moment, her tongue too thick in her mouth to speak. Instead, she offers up her wrists to Mira like tribute, trying not to pay attention to the way Zoey’s gaze bores into her exposed center, the junction of her thighs and insecurities, because she doesn’t know if she’s going to cry or blush or both.
“Good girl,” Mira says, and Rumi whites out for a second. She can’t hear her words.
“What?”
“I,” Mira says, pressing a hand against her bare chest, “am going to handcuff your hands behind my back, hold you in my arms, and keep you right where Zoey and I want you. Sit in my lap.”
Rumi blinks. Belatedly, she realizes she just whimpered, and, without any dignity left, scooches forward so that Mira can get behind her, avoiding eye contact. If Zoey and Mira exchange a look with one another, full of affection and a little bit of sadism, Rumi doesn’t see it.
When Mira’s legs enter Rumi’s peripheral vision, she leans back against the taller woman. It feels as easy and practiced as choreography until the warmth and soft give of Mira’s breasts press against her back, and Rumi’s breath hitches. The touch is alien and electric and as much as Rumi wants to pull away, to seek familiar distance, getting a taste of this closeness just has her craving more. Finding Rumi’s wrists, Mira guides both their hands behind her own back, and with a click, the handcuffs lock, plush against Rumi’s skin and pressing the backs of her hands against the small of Mira’s back. She squeezes her fingers, taking hold of the pillow supporting the two of them.
“Still good?” Mira asks. Her hot breath tickles Rumi’s ear, and she shivers, biting back a noise. Hands snake around to Rumi’s front that are not her own, manicured nails tracing her patterns up her sides and across her patterns. “How about now?”
Rumi whimpers like a bitch.
“Aww,” Mira croons. “Already?”
If her arms were free, Rumi would have crossed them. When she opens her mouth to speak, Mira’s hands move upward, fingertips gliding across Rumi’s nipples, and her words turn to nonsense in her mouth.
Rumi looks to Zoey for help, and in her maknae’s wide, brown eyes, she finds none. A brilliant grin splits her face, the sort Zoey gets at the sight of a substantial pre-concert snack. She’s hungry, ready to load up on Rumi carbs, and bound as she is, Rumi’s as helpless as a cup of ramyeon. The thought makes her shiver, try to curl in on herself, but the bonds around her ankles hold as tight as Mira’s hands around her torso.
“She’s got such pretty tits, Zo,” Mira muses. For emphasis, she drags her fingertips across the swell of Rumi’s breasts, tracing the patterns there. Middle fingers brush over her nipples, nudging them upward, and when the stimulation ends, soft touch continuing up, up, up, over Rumi’s collarbones, her whole body jolts, patterns brightening for a fraction of a second like a flashbang.
Zoey’s hands on Rumi’s thighs prompt a similar reaction, the flickering light illuminating the room unevenly, like an open flame on a windy night. Her small hands support her weight as she leans forward, staring at Rumi’s bare chest in a way that makes Rumi want to curl in on herself and hide. With her own hands still cuffed behind Mira’s back, the best she can manage is slouching her shoulders, and even that doesn’t last long—Mira manhandles her from behind.
“Arch your back,” Mira instructs, guiding Rumi with her touch, and Rumi keens, obedient. Zoey gasps at the sight, squeezing Rumi’s thigh, and Rumi grits her teeth to keep from letting out another embarrassing noise.
“She’s so hot,” Zoey breathes, running her hands up and down Rumi’s legs from knee to hip, all across her soft skin and prismatic patterns except for where Rumi twitches, drips, and needs. The movement seems almost absentminded, fixated as Zoey is on Rumi’s chest. “Touch her tits for me again, Mir? Please?”
Mira does. It’s all so much. The hands on her… Tits, her legs, every point of contact between Rumi and the women who have her bound and at their mercy. Her patterns pulse, and even when the light dims, the room is bright enough that Rumi can tell her eyes are different, pupils slit like a cat’s. Like a demon’s.
If Zoey notices (fat chance of that, Rumi would have to remind her that her eyes are up here) or Mira cares, neither woman shows it. Even as Rumi squirms between them, Mira’s pointy nipples pressing between her shoulder blades, Zoey’s touch restrained from the chest she’s shamelessly ogling, Rumi doesn’t acclimate to the situation one iota. Her patterns pulse again, and when Rumi digs her hands into the pillows behind her, trying not to whimper, she feels her claws tear the fabric.
Rumi’s inner demon is out to play.
Yet it is not with a snarl or snapping of teeth that Rumi responds to Mira’s tight pinch around both her nipples. The patterns over her throat do not distort the pitifully human cry that rushes from her throat, a pleasure-pained, “Gah!” that makes Rumi’s patterns flash fire-engine red. The sound is loud enough to distract Zoey from Rumi’s tits, head snapping up, and the half-vacant, drooly expression is replaced with a trademark grin. If Rumi were not bound, if she could reach her muzzled face, she would have hidden her blush. Instead, she’s exposed, vulnerable. Obvious.
“Aww, Mira!” Zoey says. “Look! She’s horny!”
Rumi’s face burns.
“Get it? Because there’s a horn on the side of her forehead? I wonder if it’s sensitive.”
“I think there might be a different horn of sorts that’s more sensitive,” Mira reminds her. Even as she speaks, her hands don’t stop moving, cupping Rumi’s tits, pinching her nipples between the sides of her fingers just enough to make Rumi’s patterns pulse, and as they do, so does her cock.
Zoey follows its movement with her eyes. “Can I touch it?” she asks, and the searing tension that coils in Rumi’s gut when she realizes Zoey is asking Mira for permission nearly hurts. She whines behind her muzzle through gritted teeth, her hands fisting the ripped pillow behind her, and, most shamefully of all, her hips buck against her will. She wants, needs, craves.
Fucking hell. Rumi can hear the smug smile on Mira’s lips when she says, “Well, there’s your answer.”
Impatient, Zoey doesn’t waste time. She’s not slow or gentle or teasing. It’s with a pragmatic, exploratory grasp that her hand wraps around Rumi’s shaft, feeling the shape and heft of it, slender fingers warm and ever-so-slightly squeezing–
Rumi gasps like she’s just been shot. Were it not for the humiliating throb of her cock in Zoey’s hand, the dribble of hot precum between her thumb and forefinger, or the magenta glow of her patterns traveling from her core up her torso and down her legs, it could have been mistaken for a cry of pain.
Zoey asks anyway. “You good?”
Rumi whines, and Mira translates. “She’s just that sensitive,” she says, and Rumi whines again, trying to hang her head, but Mira won’t let her. “Easy, tiger,” she hums, lifting Rumi’s chin. “You’re being such a good girl for us. So pliant, so obedient. Not dangerous at all.”
It’s exactly what Rumi wanted, and it’s humiliating. She doesn’t want to be this easy, this pathetic, hates how good it feels to give Mira and Zoey this power over her. Every inch of her body exposes the base, instinctual reactions in Rumi’s lizard-demon hindbrain whether she wants to or not. It exhilarates her. It terrifies her. She’s spent decades afraid of the things her gut desires, spent a lifetime learning how to hide her demon, her sex, her body, all her secrets, and now, bound and exposed, she finds she is not allowed a single one. Each pulse of her patterns, jump of her hips, whimper in her throat shows just how needy and desperate Rumi is at just a little touching, and Zoey and Mira know it.
She might cry. She might even enjoy it.
“Do you think she’d let me suck it?” Zoey asks, and the heat that punches Rumi in the gut doesn’t feel like pleasure. It weighs heavy as fear. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, squirms, and shakes her head.
“N-no,” Rumi manages. Zoey cocks her head. “Don’t choke.”
Zoey gasps in mock offense. “Excuse you,” she says, “just because you can swallow down kimbap like a snake doesn’t mean my comparatively strong gag reflex is bad enough I can’t fit you all the way in mouth. You’re not exactly packing a choking hazard down here.” She punctuates her words with a squeeze to Rumi’s length that lights her up like a glowstick and interrupts whatever she was about to say.
“Isn’t that a warning they put on small objects?” Mira dryly remarks.
The expression of shock on Zoey’s face is priceless. Even better is her indignantly sticking out her tongue at Mira and crossing her arms. Even as Rumi’s hips rise, chasing Zoey’s touch, she can’t help but chuckle at Zoey’s casual, petty childishness. It warms her chest like safety, like sex isn’t such a big deal, even as she’s shivering beneath sensual touches, the threat of her claws bound and fangs caged. This was fine. This was play.
“So, no sucking?” Zoey asks, and Rumi nods. “Cool.” She takes hold of Rumi’s cock again, strokes it, and smiles as Rumi keens.
Zoey’s touch is so different from Rumi’s own. Her hands are smaller, softer, angled differently, and Rumi usually isn’t this keyed up when she seeks her own pleasure. For years, she’d masturbated as body maintenance, managing her libido and prostate health, keeping her sex flexible enough for the bottom surgery Celine had promised she’d get once her patterns were gone and she could see a surgeon. With how good this feels, Rumi isn’t so sure she even wants it anymore, any hints of dysphoria buried beneath the thoughtless, desperate hunger melting her brain behind her eyes. She can’t even remember to feel ashamed as she moans, squirming in Zoey’s tight grip and Mira’s warm embrace, patterns flickering like a diamond held before a flashlight.
Distantly, Rumi recognizes movement behind her, the absence of a hand on her right breast, sweat-slicked, cool skin between Mira’s chest and her back. She doesn’t realize what’s happening until Zoey speaks.
“Mira!” Zoey admonishes. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
For her part, Mira replies with a satisfied huff as she rolls her hips against her hands, knuckles brushing against Rumi’s ass, rubbing slow circles around her clit. “Power’s going to your head, babe,” she teases. “Just because you’re not the one tied up for once doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”
Zoey pouts. She releases Rumi’s dick, ignoring the whined, “Noooo,” and pounces.
The first thing Rumi notices is the hot, wet press of Zoey’s cunt against her abs, but what makes her whimper is Zoey’s sloppy, violent kiss assailing Mira’s lips over Rumi’s shoulder. She tries to turn her head to watch, to join, and the bars of her muzzle nudge Zoey’s cheek.
She doesn’t even fucking notice.
So close. The kiss is so close, all teeth and tongue and bitten lips and moans into open mouths, and out of reach. Rumi growls, nuzzling the cage against the kiss, squirming, sandwiched between two women who aren’t paying her a lick of attention. Mira’s tits press against her back, her arm between their bodies, and Zoey’s skin radiates heat, thighs bracketing Rumi’s hips as she kisses Mira into the propped-up pillows between her head and the backboard.
Rumi thrashes. Twists her body from side to side, bonds pulling on her legs, taloned hands ripping through the pillow. Her teeth snap behind her muzzle. She wants, craves, needs to feel Zoey’s lips on her own, Mira’s tongue in her mouth, their taste on her tongue.
It isn’t until she’s able to jostle Zoey away from the kiss that Rumi’s able to hold a single coherent thought in her head, and even then, it’s fleeting. Behind her muzzle, she’s panting, sweaty chest rising and falling, patterns gleaming, illuminating the quizzical expression on Zoey’s face in pinks and greens and blues.
“Sorry,” Rumi manages. Judging by the way she can’t stop herself from squirming against her bonds, she doesn’t really mean it.
A mischievous smile crosses Zoey’s lips, and Rumi feels herself bristle, every hair on her body standing on end like a cornered cat’s. “Aww, tiger,” Zoey says, “were you feeling left out?”
Rumi hisses. It was meant to be a scoff.
“So impatient,” Mira murmurs directly into Rumi’s ear. “Can’t wait your turn? You don’t wanna watch Zo and I make out from between us?”
Zoey grins. “Better than a cuck chair, amiright?”
Rumi snarls, lunging, held back by Mira and her cuffs. Her patterns pulse. “Not fair,” she manages through gritted teeth.
“Do you want your turn?” Mira asks. She takes Rumi by the chin, angling her face to look her in the eye. “To make things fair?”
And then, without waiting for an answer, kisses the tip of Rumi’s muzzle.
It’s a small kiss. Chaste. A press of lips against steel bars. Rumi can see the way Mira’s lips press against the metal, the plush give of kiss-swollen flesh, tinted crimson in the glow of her patterns.
And then it’s over. Mira pulls away with a sweet smile that almost looks genuine, turns her head, and pulls Zoey into another kiss, all teeth and tongue, humming her appreciation.
If she weren’t tied down, Rumi would have fallen off the bed. She can’t think. She can’t think. A deep, resonating snarl emanates from her chest, and whether the red in the room is a demonic rip in the Honmoon or Rumi’s brilliant patterns, she neither knows nor cares. “Please,” she growls. She’s trembling. “Please.”
Zoey breaks the kiss with a pop! “Of course, Rumi!” she beams, “You got a kiss from Mira, but not me! That’s unfair.”
“Please,” Rumi repeats, “the muzzle–”
Her pleas fall on deaf ears.
Slipping back into her lap, Zoey presses a sloppy kiss against the side of Rumi’s muzzle. Open-mouthed, her lips press into the bars, tongue lavishing the steel. Hot breath tickles Rumi’s lips, and she keens. Her cock twitches against Zoey’s ass.
Rumi’s body moves on its own. Her lips strain for Zoey’s, just beyond the bars, and, failing that, her tongue, stretching from her mouth in the most pathetic moment of her entire life. When Zoey slips her own tongue ever-so-slightly inside the muzzle, barely past the bars, Rumi presses her entire face as close as she can, as if the muzzle will crumple, close the distance between them.
The tip of Zoey’s tongue touches Rumi’s for a fraction of a second before it’s gone again. Its absence is like nothing she’s ever known. She’s lightheaded. Whining.
Can’t even open her eyes.
And then Mira’s kissing the other side of her muzzle, wet-mouthed and willing, moaning into the metal, and her breath tastes like Zoey’s tongue. On the other side, Zoey redoubles her assault, lavishing the muzzle’s bars the way she should be kissing Rumi, needy and noisy and exactly what Rumi wants, what Rumi deserves, what Rumi is denied.
The whine Rumi makes is inhuman. All demon.
If she were free, she would cut the muzzle’s straps with her claws, take Zoey’s lower lip between her teeth, and bite. She would hold Mira’s head in place and shove her tongue down her throat. The snarl in her throat would be a purr, a moan, a smug, satisfied beast’s sound, but her arms are bound, pinning her back to Mira’s sweaty front as Mira makes out with the metal in place of Rumi, just too far for Rumi to reach, mirroring the wet affection Zoey lavishes on the other side.
Rumi’s patterns glow brighter than the dawning sun. Her body feels like she’s on fire. She might be crying, caged and bound as Mira and Zoey make out with each side of her muzzle, just out of her reach. Their kisses rise up, further away, not closer, up and up until they’re kissing each other, chins atop Rumi’s muzzle, moaning into one another’s mouths, and there’s not a single fucking thing Rumi can do about it.
A drop of saliva dribbles down someone’s chin and between the muzzle’s metal bars. It catches on Rumi’s lip.
She breaks.
It’s not a growl or snarl or roar that escapes Rumi’s mouth. It’s a howl, head thrown back, wrists straining at the cuffs, ankles against the silk, hips bucking uselessly, her cock centimeters from Zoey’s rear, from any sort of stimulation. Her patterns flicker through a myriad of colors, vivid and muted, bright and dim. Teeth snap together with enough force Rumi’s jaw aches, and she bites and bites again, impotent behind her muzzle.
“Easy, tiger.” Mira breaks the kiss, arms wrapping around Rumi’s torso. “We’ve got you.”
“Please,” Rumi begs, though she knows not what for. It’s the only word she knows.
“So feral,” Zoey says. “So needy.”
“Please!”
“It’s the muzzle,” Mira declares. “If she weren’t caged…”
“Weren’t denied…”
“It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“PLEASE!” Rumi whimper-snarls. On some level, her dispassionate, intellectual brain agrees with Mira, that she’s done this to herself, but she wants to argue that while bound, she’s more comfortable letting go than while she could actually bite, that the muzzle allows her to be herself, but her cock is throbbing and her canines ache and she may or may not be drooling. “Please.”
“Are you still okay?” Zoey asks. Her eyebrows knit, and in Rumi’s peripheral vision, she sees Mira making the same expression. “That wasn’t too much, was it?” She pulls back to look Rumi in the eye, but Rumi just whines, back arching against her bonds.
“‘M fine,” she manages, even if it comes out whiny. She meets Zoey’s gaze. Swallows. “Need you. Need you both. Please?”
“Of course, tiger.” Mira presses a kiss just behind Rumi’s ear. It doesn’t calm her one iota. If anything, it just makes her needier, whining as Zoey steps away from the bed, grabbing a small square of plastic that makes Rumi’s pathetic little brain perk up, as though she’s little more than a pet offered a treat.
Zoey doesn’t put it on right away. “Look at her dick.” She points unnecessarily, but Rumi follows anyway to see what she means. It twitches in time with the pulse of her patterns, every other heartbeat.
“Sick,” Mira replies.
Under normal circumstances, Rumi would have mixed feelings about anyone calling her patterns or her penis sick, but she can’t bring herself to give even half a shit. “Please,” she repeats, her voice wavering.
“You’re sure you don’t wanna let me suck it first?” Zoey bites her lip.
“Put the damn condom on her already, Zo.”
Zoey smiles, shrugs, and does so. Rumi jumps when Zoey’s fingertips brush her cock to roll the rubber down to the base, electricity running up her spine, and her overreaction makes her even more grateful for the condom. Jittery, sensitive, and pathetic as she already is, Rumi knows she needs every advantage she can get if she doesn’t want to pop off before Zoey gets hers. Despite her inexperience, Rumi wants to be good at this, as good as she is at everything else that she puts her mind to, and from what she knows, stamina is important. A thin layer of latex should dull the sensations just enough for her to keep up.
Plus, she doesn’t want to get Zoey pregnant.
…That really should have been the first benefit of condom use Rumi thought of. Stupid horny demon. Her neon-pink, humiliated blush is echoed in her patterns lighting up the room like LCDs. Rumi bites back a whimper.
“Look!” Zoey points again, her mouth a perfect O, eyebrows raised in shock. Through the condom, Rumi’s glow is still visible, diffusing through the latex in a way that makes her whole dick light up. “Mira. Miramiramira. We have got to get a glow-in-the-dark condom for your strap so you and Rumi can have a lightsaber duel!”
Mira snorts. Rumi doesn’t. “Zoey,” she pleads. “I’m losing my mind.”
“Yeah?” Mira asks, breath hot against Rumi’s ear. She shivers. “You sem a little overwhelmed. You sure?”
The only thing overwhelming Rumi is neediness. A growl escapes her lips before she can stop herself, because she can’t think and she’s already begged her girlfriends to utterly wreck her what feels like ten or eleven times and all she’s gotten is more keyed up. If Mira and Zoey were trying to drive her crazy, they were doing a good fucking job of it. “Very sure. Very very sure.”
“Well, you’re the boss,” Mira says, although she clearly doesn’t mean it, not that Rumi can bring herself to care, because fuckfuckfuck this is happening, Zoey’s hips rise, Rumi feels herself being manhandled, and slowly, slowly, slowly–
Zoey’s thighs meet Rumi’s hips, and there’s no air left in her lungs. Her mouth hangs open behind the muzzle, every muscle in her body tensed, from her twitching, taloned feet, bound in silk, to her claws ripping into the ruined pillow sandwiching her cuffed wrists between itself and Mira’s heated back.
And then she thrashes. Whines a high note she’d be proud of if it were on stage but can’t even recognize in her current state. The bonds strain beneath her squirming, pulled taut, and Rumi doesn’t know if she’s grateful for it or enraged. Her patterns pulse at a hundred-twenty BPM, and fuck, so does her cock, burning, melting in Zoey’s warmth like she’s going to be fucking dissolved and absorbed. Zoey’s not just taking her, she’s taking something from her, drawing it up from Rumi’s core and into herself, and Rumi doesn’t know if she’ll ever get it back.
“Easy, tiger,” Mira murmurs. Two pairs of hands find Rumi’s hips to hold her down. It doesn’t still her movement—she’s still squirming, her body taut as a bowstring, but the pressure is enough to keep her hips from bucking, no matter how she tries.
And Zoey. Just. Doesn’t. Fucking. Move.
Rumi makes some sort of pathetic noise with her mouth that almost sounds like pleading. Saliva drips from the corner of her mouth. With her wrists bound and face muzzled, she can’t wipe it away.
Zoey hums. She’s just sitting there, eyes closed, cockwarming Rumi for all she’s worth instead of fucking moving, holy Honmoon–
Rumi thought sex would be good, and it is, but she thought sex would be satisfying, that when Zoey took her within herself she’d feel too good to want more, but all Rumi can feel is want. “More,” she begs, “More, more, moremoremore–”
“So impatient,” Mira admonishes. “Wait for her to get used to you. Be a good girl, Rumi.” The condescension stings almost as much as Mira’s harsh pinch to her nipples, a touch that makes Rumi wince and her patterns flush the color of Mira’s hair.
“Hey,” Zoey says. Rumi bites back her desperate growl. It’s probably meant to be soothing, the way Zoey reaches out to run her hand along the side of Rumi’s face, against the boundary where muzzle meets steel bars, but Rumi can’t keep herself from snapping at those soft fingers. Drool drips from her fangs.
“Move,” Rumi begs, pleads, prays.
“Just a sec,” Zoey replies, and Rumi legitimately starts tearing up. “We really need to find out if half-demons are fertile, Mir, I wanna feel Rumi with nothing between us.” She meets Rumi’s eyes. “Maybe even feel you cum inside me.”
The noise that Rumi makes is filthy. Her hips buck against her will, needier than ever, and Zoey and Mira’s affectionate cooing at how cute they find her just makes Rumi even more embarrassed.
Most obvious of all is the ever-so-slight glow through Zoey’s skin. A faint, vaguely cylindrical shape brightening and dimming erratically. Rumi is the last to realize what it is, that her patterns are that bright, and the momentary shame is so overwhelming she almost asks to stop, the most disgraceful part of her body highlighted through the soft skin of Zoey’s lower stomach, but then Zoey moves and–
Oh. Oh fuck.
Rumi’s not going to be good at this at all, is she?
“Slow down,” Mira commands, and whether that’s relief or agony, Rumi doesn’t know, watching Zoey’s bouncing drop to a gentle grind through tear-blurred vision. She recognizes a pale smear as Zoey’s arm moving to the apex of her thighs, rubbing little circles that make her clench around Rumi, and can feel Mira shove her own arm between her front and Rumi’s sweaty back to mirror the motion.
And, distracted, Zoey stills. Focuses on her clit, as though Rumi’s length buried in her is just a toy, an object to be played with without thought or care, rather than the needy, panting, ruined woman casting Zoey’s shadow against the ceiling in purple pulses of light. For a moment, the only sound is the wet schlick of fingers and friction and none of it is for Rumi. All she feels is warmth around her length, warmth against her back, warmth boiling over in her guts, and any part of it that’s good is outweighed in just how much more she needs. It’s unfair.
So unfair, in fact, that Rumi’s mind collapses around her. Something snaps, and Rumi’s gone, and in her place is a feral demon, snarling, snapping, claws restrained by bonds stretched to their limits. She roars, drool catching on her muzzle, and can taste salt, though whether it’s her tongue cut on her fangs or the flavor of her own tears, Rumi neither knows nor cares. Her hips buck, but it’s not enough, and the deep, reverberating snarl that rumbles from deep within Rumi’s chest–
–collapses into helpless, pitiable whining the moment Zoey starts to move. She’s not quiet about it either, making soft, little, “Unh unh unh” noises as she bounces on Rumi’s dick while rubbing her clit. Rumi’s thrashing degenerates to helpless squirming, as though trying to escape from the overwhelming pleasure torturing her.
“‘M gonna,” Rumi gasps, teary eyes squeezing shut.
Mira’s free hand finds her nipple, which doesn’t help. “Not yet,” she says, lips brushing against Rumi’s ear. “You’re being such a good toy for Zoey, tiger. A nice, hard dildo for her to ride. If you keep being good for her, she’ll let you cum inside. Don’t you want that?”
“Be–nice–” Rumi says through gritted teeth.
“She’s getting there.” Mira’s hand starts to move faster, knuckles brushing against the small of Rumi’s back. “Zo knows what she likes, how to get herself there, she won’t make you wait much longer.”
“Can’t!” Rumi’s voice cracks. She can feel it building, a molten tightness coiling behind her navel, and she’s never tried so hard to stave it off before. “Mira!”
Zoey hilts her and does not move. Rumi sobs into the muzzle.
“Want–want–want–”
“So good for me,” Zoey pants. “So good—so warm.”
“She’s getting close,” Mira proudly informs Rumi. “I would know. You’re being so good, so perfect for us, so hot.”
“Want–want–want–”
Zoey moves. “Unh, unh, unh–”
“Just a little more, Rumi, c’mon–”
“Wantwantwant–”
“Mirrrrrumi, Rumi!”
“Good girl. Let go.”
Rumi snarls. The sound is as explosive as her finish, a violent, resonant roar that echoes with demonic reverb. Maybe it was her patterns flashing red, or maybe the ripples of the Honmoon in the air ripped around her with the energy of her voice, but which, Rumi will never know. Her whole body runs hotter and brighter than a spotlight, skin tingling, and she’s as light in the head as she is in her patterns.
And Mira wasn’t wrong. Zoey wasn’t far behind. Rumi can feel her clamp down around her, sent over the edge with the warmth of Rumi’s protected spend. Back arched, fists clenched, Zoey hits a note high enough to shatter glass, on-key enough that this time, Rumi is certain the Honmoon is lighting up the room just as much as she is.
She drops down—to catch her breath, Rumi thinks, and is immediately proven wrong as Zoey pushes over her shoulder to kiss Mira. It’s closed-mouthed, lips and noses smushed against one another. Her orgasm isn’t as explosive as Rumi’s or Zoey’s, and certainly not as loud, but Rumi’s fucked-out brain can’t miss the way Mira’s body shakes behind her, ever-circling fingers stuttering as her peak fades to aftershocks, slumping into Rumi’s back.
“Holy fuck,” Rumi says, voice hoarse.
For an internationally acclaimed band, the biggest bathtub in HUNTR/X’s penthouse doesn’t feel big enough for the three of them. Frankly, it’s not big enough to fit just Rumi with her unbraided hair, purple tresses like tendrils billowing around the water’s surface. She has her knees to her chest to support her chin, just enough to keep her still-weak body from drowning.
She’s flanked by love. The task of washing her hair is a tedious one that Rumi would not wish upon anyone, but she’d been given no choice in the matter. She can’t complain. Not when Zoey’s hands feel so good on her scalp, nor when Mira takes such care not to tug her hair.
They’d all but carried her to the bath after unbinding her. Her ankles and wrists felt fine, soothed by the warm water, but her legs didn’t seem to get the memo. How could these be the same legs that had danced to Mira’s most impressive choreography before a hundred thousand souls? Rumi couldn’t say.
“That was, uh,” Rumi’s voice breaks. “Is it like that every time?”
Zoey and Mira share a look.
Rumi turns her head back and forth between them, hair sloshing through the warm water. “What? What is it?”
“You were amazing, Rumi,” Mira explains. “It was a lot for your first time, and, well–”
“The bondage was a really good idea,” Zoey adds. “The muzzle was really hot, and I get what you meant about going feral, but that doesn’t make it any less intense for someone who’s never been fucked before.”
“It wasn’t too much in any way I didn’t like, I promise. And next time, even if I’m not bound, could we, uh, keep the muzzle?”
“Yes!” Zoey fist-pumps. “Rumi, you should see how good you look in it! And you got so needy when Mira and I were kissing, so desperate, it was no wonder you could only go one round.”
Rumi blinks. She turns to Mira and sees the wince writ large across her entire fucking body. “...One round?”
Mira swallows. “Look, it’s not your fault. It was your first time, we didn’t want to scare you, and you’re not entirely built for that, and–”
“Do you usually go twice? Three times?”
“Sometimes four,” Zoey admits. “Mira got me to six once.”
“Six?” Rumi’s jaw drops. Something rises up within her, and only when her patterns gleam, rippling beneath the water, a brilliant green, does she realize it signifies envy. She wants six orgasms. It’s so unfair she almost wants to go again right then and there in the too-small bathtub.
“I told you not to mention it.”
“With what, your eyes?”
“Yes!”
“Can you teach me how to do that?” Rumi asks. “Maybe not for myself, even though I want–”
“Want, want, want,” Zoey teases.
“Rude!”
“–but for either of you?” Rumi finishes, ignoring Zoey’s (frankly, adorable) mockery of her recent horny-babble. “I want to be good at this. For you. Be in control of myself and make you feel as good and safe as you made me feel.”
“Aww, Rumi.” Zoey’s lower lip trembles.
“Don’t you see?” Mira asks. “You already have.”
The weepy sentimentality is contagious. “You guys!” Rumi blubbers.
The wet hug they share feels like victory.
“But, um, I do wanna get better at this. Practice my skills. Be good at it. I wouldn’t mind some, uh, lessons, actually–”
“Turn off the workaholic brain and just say you wanna have sex again sometime, Rumi.”
“But I really do want to–”
And she would, in time. No longer bound by the fear of something dangerous within her, nothing could hold Rumi back from doing her very best to learn her lovers’ bodies. Concerns for Rumi’s work/life balance aside, she made her fellow Hunters very happy.