Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As long as she could remember, Rumi had always been starving.

It wasn't the normal hunger for food. No, her belly was always full of a warm meal and mouth tasting of something savory or sweet. Cabinets full of snacks and candy. Small treats littering the kitchen island. Celine’s security team’s pockets full of the strawberry flavored pocky sticks they swore Rumi wouldn't shut up about. Happily chewing them while holding onto the hem of their shirt with a giggle in her throat as they refilled small fingers.

No. That hunger didn’t leave her chest empty, skin itching for another to soothe, a longing for another parent’s words to be directed at her.

It didn't leave her starving to death yet alive with a persistent ache.

This hunger, this craving, was for love. And Celine used to give it to her freely. Fed her without restraint.

Gentle fingers weaving her hair back into a braid while telling her stories of her mother. Oh, how bright and young and beautiful Ryu Mi-yeong was. Celine said she would be just like her, and Rumi would giggle and say she’d try her best.

Playful sparring matches that left Rumi wheezing and knocking her shoulder against her mentor’s on the floor. Rumi’s mouth wide open as she panted while Celine didn't even look winded, eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth at her dramatics. The woman’s smile was wide and her words full of pride when she passed Rumi her water, poking her fingers into her side and telling her to remember to breathe and that the bottle wasn't going anywhere.

During the times when Rumi would crawl into Celine’s bed during dark nights and ask her if she could stay the night and protect her from dreams that weren't bright. The woman would hum and cradle her to her chest, fingers carding through her hair while talking about the plans of tomorrow.

Celine gave it to her so easily back then that Rumi thought it would never run out. That it wouldn’t have been cut down into portions that eventually soured and turned into fleeting rations after she started to grow into a long-dead ghost’s face.

Rumi had tried to ask for love again, to take such a robust slice, just once, when Celine hadn’t kissed her on the forehead before bed for a week. Instead, she was met with a muzzle that could only be unlocked by the key in Celine’s hands. The moments of the past now glimpses in time meant to fade into a fantasy.

As she grew taller and longer, babyfat slowly becoming an afterthought, Rumi learned that something deemed sacred, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in storybooks, can have their magic taken away in a moment.

Celine had finished braiding Rumi’s hair minutes ago. A melody she didn't recognize was hummed from the woman’s lips as her fingers scratched her scalp. Rumi was slowly melting into the touch. Alarm bells were disarmed at a scratch just right behind her ear that had her understanding why dogs would thump their leg in tune to the stimulus.

It was calm, a peaceful moment, until Rumi’s head was turned to the side and Celine shattered it with her stare. There was a longing in the woman’s eyes. A haunting thirst that had Rumi locking up. Spine straightening and fingers curling. It was a gaze that was reserved for times when Celine would visit Mi-yeong’s grave or trace her finger along her mother’s picture.

Reminiscing. Recalling. Reevaluating.

It should've scared her. Did scare her for a moment. But Celine had finally unlocked her cage, braided her hair, and given her attention after weeks of nothing. Rumi wasn't about to let that go even as her stomach churned and her heart was in her throat when the woman leaned in.

It was a press of lips against her own. Soft. Gentle. Barely moving. Tangible. All the things she craved, yet it burned.

It burned because Rumi wanted Celine to sound soft again, like the mothers praising their children after class. It burned because she wanted Celine to have the gentleness to give her maternal hugs and ticklish kisses to her forehead before bed. It burned because everything she yearned for, to be given another chance to have, was given to her twisted and wrong.

That didn't stop her from accepting it anyway. The hunger would eat her alive if she didn't. Fed something spoiled once more because there was nothing else to eat. And maybe, just maybe, this would be the last time she would be given something so rotten.

Oh, how naive it was to think Celine would change.

The scraps become more frequent, muzzle off like before, but smaller in size despite how much they made her stomach churn and patterns spread.

Killing a demon without a mark, Celine would leave her own. Right on her shoulder or low on her neckline where Rumi’s high collared shirts would cover. Prying eyes unwise.

Dancing until her legs gave out, Celine was there to hold Rumi up. Hands low on her back with the tips of her fingers barely dipping below her leggings’ waistband, tracing a pattern only she knew. No one around to tell her no.

Stressed over photoshoots and interviews, Celine sat her on her lap in the various greenrooms. Whispering what to do and say while rubbing circles on the sides of her ribs. A gentle knock on the door released Rumi from the scalding hold, throat bobbing with her swallow.

Rumi was unraveling at the seams, but she needed to eat. Even if the hope for the hearty slices of the past became something of a delusion.

Rumi was seventeen when Celine pulled the last of her frayed edges apart.

Teeth bit her lip, coaxing her mouth open to let Celine’s tongue in. Rumi let her mind wander to the choreography of the new dance she was learning when the muscle traced the inside of her cheek. Saliva dripped down her chin.

This was just routine. When the muzzle was unlocked and she was allowed to eat. Even though she craved something else entirely.

Celine would get handsy with her for a while and then Rumi would be free, carrying the love she craved in the tainted form of bruised lips and the taste of Celine’s wine on her tongue. Blackberry and plum this time. It was the least she could do. Celine wasn’t actually hurting her. Nothing physically painful anyway. Even though her skin crawled at her touch and she felt a pit grow in her stomach when a murmured “ Mi-yeong” reached her ears.

A kick there, a spin to a dip then. Breathe.

Wandering hands groped at her chest and waist, pressing her back harder against the chilled window of the living room. Celine’s mouth trailed down to suck a bruise on her neck. A practiced whine and shudder kept her in the clear.

One, two, three, and up. Hold the pose. Six, seven, eight. Release and repeat.

Hands underneath her shirt. Fingers unclasped her bra and palms pressed against her breast. A thumb and finger pinched and rolled pebbled skin—her cue to arch into the touch.

Pivot to the right. Don’t forget to sweep the leg. Crouch and pause. Look to the left and rise.

A knee knocked her legs apart while a hand trailed up her thigh, messing with the hem of her pants. Another slipped two fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue as she sucked. Eyes closed to keep the tears at bay.

Too fast there. Run it again. Correct it.

She guided Celine’s hand to the small of her back, humming around the woman’s digits and keeping her close. A safe distance. Controlling what she could. If only it weren't inevitable to be futile.

Arms high. Left to right. Right to left. Flick them up before a slow release. Down and freeze.

Both hands, one with glistening digits in the light, abruptly unbuttoned her pants and dipped down into them. Wet fingers underneath cotton, pressing on sensitive flesh.

Hold for three and then fold at four.

Rumi’s hand shot out and gripped Celine’s wrist. The routine broken. “W-what are you doing?”

A breathy laugh into a slurred response. “Don’t be like that, Mi-yeong. Let me take care of you, unnie.” Celine pressed her harder against the glass, attempting to move again. Rumi kept her grip, albeit shakily. Loose and losing without pushing back. “It's the least I could do after you've been working so hard.”

Rumi breathed through her nose. Her head rested against the woman’s shoulder as tears soaked the fabric. Lipstick stained her neck red. “Don’t d- do this, Celine. P- Please don't do this. I’ll- You'll regret it. I’ll question why I’d still crave it, this rotten scrap to eat, even if it hurts just to be able to soothe the ache for a while.”

Celine’s answer was to guide her wrists into one hand above her head as the other went further south. Tongue and teeth. Blood and slick. Pain overshadowing a forceful pleasure.

Reset. Evaluate. Adapt. Break. Find a new rhythm.

Rumi stopped hoping for Celine to change, to give her the love she craved, starved for—whimsical and sweet and soft and everlasting—when the tears wouldn't stop falling that night. Red water flowed down the shower drain. Body clean yet skin raw. Purple patterns spread slowly like an American’s prolonged drawl.

The only love she’d get from the woman was already chewed up and reused. Spit out into a nasty morsel that Rumi accepted to keep the everlasting hunger at bay.

It was enough. It had to be enough this time, right?

Celine gave Rumi her last stale crumb the night before Mira and Zoey moved into the compound a year after she first tasted blackberry and plum. Locking the muzzle tight in the morning and taking the key with her.

Rumi clawed at the wretched thing when Celine gave up the tenderness she longed for, would die for, so easily to Mira and Zoey.

Hugs that didn't linger, hands that held instead of wandering, praises that were filled with approval instead of a sickening dread.

And they took it. Right from underneath her dripping maw as if they couldn't see her starving for it, dying for a scrap to eat, behind a smile too wide and a voice far too loud. That mantra played on loop in her head every time the urge she wanted to say it, to snatch what they were given so easily away, reared its ugly head.

Because if she couldn't have it then why should they?

“Our faults and fears must never be seen,” Celine muttered over and over again, sober with something akin to sorrow or revulsion or dare she say guilt in her eyes as the woman applied concealer to Rumi’s collarbone and neck. Covering up patterns and bruises alike. Rumi pressed her legs together tight and kept an arm slung over her chest. Forcing herself to swallow what was left of the bitter mouthful fed to her hours before.
“Repeat it to me,” the woman said softly, examining her handywork. Chest swelled as if she was holding weights instead of air. It was heavy regardless.
Rumi replied instantly. The ache never fully subdued. “Our faults and fears must never be seen.” Celine‘s chest fell. She could almost hear the load of it all hit the floor.
The woman reached out before curling her fingers up and letting them fall to her side. “Go clean yourself up,” was all she said before she turned away. Celine could never look Rumi in the eye. Even after everything she’d given up for something so minuscule in return. “I… I need a moment.”
Rumi needed a lifetime’s worth, but she left anyway.

Was it to much to ask to be loved without a condition? To be given a meal instead of an empty plate.

The answer was almost a resounding yes. At every slam of Celine’s door when Rumi got too close she wanted to scream. When eyes stared above her head, looking Mira and Zoey in the eye, during group meetings, Rumi snarled behind the cage. At every scathing remark on just about anything she did had Rumi on her hands and knees, crawling with a gape in her torso while begging for anything to eat.

She’d take the nasty morsel even though she yearned for a hearty bite. The rotten scraps that left her sweaty and nauseous over the toilet, mouth open and ready to hurl again. The crumbs that left her patterns burning, lower region throbbing, skin rubbed raw underneath a soapy rag, just to lick it up.

But almost was just that, not quite a definitive answer; very near but not quite enough to be true. Because Mira and Zoey answered her silent call with a loud no in the form of their calm yet chaotic love. Picking the lock open and letting her feast on untainted pieces of devotion.

If Rumi ran out of her favorite snack, Zoey was already pressing a month's worth into her hands.

When Rumi felt under the weather, suddenly Mira was hacking up a fit while calling Celine.

At times when Rumi was slightly cold on the couch, warm arms were wrapped around her own while three pairs of legs got tangled below.

Hands, Mira’s, hugged her from behind as Zoey curled around her from the front. The mattress was soft beneath their bodies, the words shared between them were even softer. A giggle or gentle murmur occasionally broke the quiet. Their pajamas were slightly damp with sweat from the heat of their warmth.

She never asked outright. Never shared her grievances towards them. They didn't care. Giving without expecting anything in return. Forgiving without a reason.

Rumi cried tears of joy for the first time in over a decade the first time they told her that they loved her.

That aching pit, full and warm and soothed.

“Look at me. Why can't you look at me? Why couldn't you love me?” Rumi cried, patterns flaring, thoughts flying.

“I do!” was all Celine offered. Eyes to the ground. The sky. Anywhere but her.

”Not as the ghost of Ryu Mi-yeong. Not the idea of her. All of me! As the daughter she left behind for you to protect, and not as a replacement for you!” Rumi yelled, voice trailing off toward the end.

Why did you have to starve me of what I craved only to give me rotten pieces of it to eat?

Celine couldn't answer, pivoting the exchange to the honmon crumbling around them.

It was enough of an answer for her nonetheless. That didn't mean it hurt any less as she teleported away.

Muzzle broken and key down her own throat.

“Would we be your first kiss?” Mira murmured. Voice low and gentle as she leaned against her, pressing her back into Zoey.

The three of them were in the kitchen raiding the cupboards for sweets and snacks for movie night. A much needed staple to their routine after the Saja Boys and disaster at the Idol Awards. High-pitched giggles and snickers filled the room when Zoey somehow managed to wedge herself in a cabinet. Rumi and Mira had to pull her out when they realized she was stuck, and they’d landed in a tangle of limbs and hair on the floor.

Zoey ended up behind her, refusing to let Rumi go with a snort at the absurdity of it all, and Mira crawled up to straddle her lap, wheezing as she tried to calm down. Rumi wasn't fairing any better. Patterns pulsing wildly. Vibrant and bright as she held in a sneeze from laughing too hard. The two sets of perfume coating her skin weren't helping, but she didn't care.

If only this weren't the calm before the storm.

The first drop had dripped out from Mira’s mouth innocently enough when the three of them settled. Faces close and bodies warm, the air around them shared, crackling with energy. But it had Rumi wishing that she could say yes. Wishing she could say that it wasn't stolen from her. That she hadn't been coerced to give it up because of that insatiable hunger, slipping into the role she filled—the person she didn't want to replace—almost perfectly just to stop the gnawing ache any way she could.

“No… I’ve been kissed before,” she said, fists balling up Mira’s shirt. Frame trembling against Zoey’s solid one behind her. The storm was ready to break.

“Was it Jinu?” Zoey asked, her chin warm on her shoulder as ice ran up her spine. The droplets were falling. Heavy with gravity.

She could nod. Let the lie blanket the truth and keep the fragile peace. But they'd promised to stop lying to each other. Right after the battle when hands were held tight and relief rolled off them in waves. Zoey even made her pinky swear it. To stop guessing and assuming that the others would turn away at the slightest hardship. They were better than that. She was better than that.

Rumi trained her eyes to the floor. They should clean it more often. Patterns rippled and lit up the room in a deep blue. A dustball highlighted silver in the corner. “No, it wasn't him.”

Mira rested her head against her own, hands coming up to cradle her face. Guiding Rumi to look at her and speaking in a way that made her want to shatter. “Who was it?” Mira chuckled slightly. “We won't be mad at them. Just curious is all. Who wouldn't want to kiss you anyway?”

If only that were true.

Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth and her eyes watered. But she forced the name past her lips even as the syllables came out cracked. Broken. Just like her. “Ce- Celine.”

You could hear a pen drop at the silence that followed.

Mira stopped shaking in mirth, Zoey’s grip loosened from behind, and Rumi tried to reel in the tears already falling down her face.

No one moved. No one spoke. And that scared the shit out of her.

Rumi’s mouth opened before she could register the disbelief, shock, and slowly bubbling rage in Mira’s eyes and Zoey’s tears on her shoulder. “I- it was my fault. I- she was still grieving my mom, and I…”

Was dying for attention. Was starved of love. Was willing to take her mother's place to be given anything even if it slowly killed her on the inside.

“How old were you, Rumi,” Zoey squeezed her back against her chest suddenly. Like she could hold Rumi’s burdens for her if she tried. The question was a beacon of clarity through her haze. “How long ago did she start?”

“I needed that. Thank you,” Celine mumbled after pressing a kiss to her jaw. Squeezing her tighter against her taller frame. Lipstick stuck to the baby fat of her cheeks, nose, and forehead. Maternal affection if lips didn't linger and eyes didn't wander.
“You’re welcome,” Rumi giggled from the ticklish feeling of the wax, skin and patterns crawling uncomfortably like spiders on her chest.

“… she’s a girl born with talent. A bright future ahead of her,” one of Rumi’s dance instructors said to Celine.
“That’s great to hear.” The woman’s hand was low on her back, fingers digging into her hip as Rumi smiled through the pain. Soaking in the praise so rarely given to her. This was enough. “She only learned from the best. Came from the finest.”

“It'll feel nice. I promise,” Celine said, mouth hovering over the junction where Rumi’s shoulder met her neck, hands an iron grip on her arms. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I do, but-,” was all she could get out before lips wrapped around her skin and sucked hard. A sharp breath her only friend. Celine lied, but she wasn't going to correct her. Not when this was her meal for the day.

“You look more like her more every day,” Celine’s gaze traced her from head to toe, looking mildly annoyed at the patterns peaking out from under Rumi’s sleeve. The woman’s stare felt like knives in her skin. Leaving her defenseless in only her flesh. “Cover those up,” Celine said, letting her touch linger on her shoulder and a press of lips to her cheek in her wake as she passed. “Be good for me, yeah?”
Rumi tugged down her shirt. The kiss felt like a slap to the face; the comment the balm.

Rumi’s legs felt like jelly and her stomach burned as she pressed her face into a pillow, the fabric wet from her tears and sweat. Celine was panting into her ear from behind, fingers buried deep inside. Blackberry and plum lived on her tongue now.
“So beautiful, unnie. You can give me one more, yeah?”
Rumi only cried harder when Celine started to move again. She didn't know how to get her to stop without sacrificing that rotten morsel, and that scared her more than letting it happen.

A choked sob was her answer. She could better recount the times Celine did do anything to her than when she didn’t. She tried to say something, anything, but her lips refused to move other than to let out a sob.

Rumi’s answer seemed to be enough regardless. Zoey murmured sweet reassurances in her ear while Mira traced her cheeks. She’d try again when she could see, when the tears stopped falling and the storm passed.

Eventually, Rumi managed to tell them all of it, and within that week, paperwork to dissipate Huntr/x from Celine and transfer power over to Bobby was drafted along with a restraining order served to her that same month.

Celine didn’t even try to fight it. No questions of why this was happening or who was responsible were asked when page after page was read to her by Huntr/x’s representative. Only simple hums of acknowledgment and some queries for confirmation as the woman signed her signature on dotted lines. Already knowing that this was a mercy only Rumi could still give even after everything.

That couldn't be said to be the same for Zoey and Mira. Fists already pulled back as they entered Celine’s office minutes after the last bit of paperwork was signed and tucked into a briefcase. The shut and locked door muffling the cracking of bones and pained pleas. Apologies said far too late and hollow.

Rumi held and wrapped split knuckles that night. Letting two pairs of damaged hands hold and put her soul back together as she cried.

Missing pieces of herself finally finding themselves back to her.

Hunger, finally oh so graciously subdued.

Chapter Text

“Would we be your first kiss?”

“No… I’ve been kissed before.”

Would the world always be this cruel?

The dice was already pre-rolled at birth, only waiting for the conscious catch up to see where you landed. Could be wealthy and become an asshole trying to outshine the other or in poverty and lending your last nickel to the even poorer. Abused until your body was black and blue or your brain became so scarred that the trauma was all that was left of memories. A scam at conception. Variables never stable. An unwinnable scheme. Even the in-between was never a guarantee. Life was like a gift shrouded in so much wrapping paper that it was a battle to see the ugly core. Death was the candle on the cake promised to fade if blown on.

Rumi would've been fucked over regardless.

That was Mira’s opinion anyway. Forming in the fragile moments after the truth was spilled from a dripping maw.

The sound, tink, tink, tink, of glass hitting the marble floor echoed from the kitchen. An invitation, the bedroom door left open, for one to follow. A silent plea to not be left alone. To change the tainted memories anew. Mira would accept it every time, every night the sound stirred her from slumber. Every time a reminder they were two faces on the same coin with Zoey being the reeded edge.

“I… I know why I bought it,” Rumi murmured, the stem of an open bottle of malbec wine between her fingers. “I know why I drank it. But I don't know why I still miss any form of her even after everything.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Am I- am I sick for still wanting her love? Even though- even though it wasn't made for me? Even as the guilt eats me alive?”

Mira pressed closer. Arm pulling Rumi to have the woman’s head against her shoulder, her other hand wandering to the bottle. Blackberry and plum were the flavors when she took a sip. Stem still in hand as she took in the bitter drink. Two mouths full of the same taste. One clean and forgotten in swallow; the other stained, choking within.

“No,” Mira supplied after a long moment. Hand absently rubbing Rumi’s shoulder, tracing the flickering patterns to the inside of her wrist and back up again. Gentle. Firm. Grounding. “It doesn't, Rumi. That's-” another swig, it tasted of acid now, a faint reminder, “that's gonna be unfortunately normal. It's gonna be normal for a while. Trust me, I know.”

When it happened, the flicker of a lightbulb moment to finally achieve what she desired, Mira was still growing into her lanky limbs. Unstable and uncontrollable they were but not enough to deter her from throwing a punch at the first sign of someone’s face warping into a shrilling laugh. The girl was a year older and a head shorter, but her words—her words were mountains that Mira could only climb by brute forcing her way up. In this instance, a fist to a jaw, tooth flying out of its damaged home to the floor. The faculty were mortified, but Mira could only feel exhilarated. Exhilarated not from the adrenaline of the fight but from having the light on her, her ‘abeoji’s attention honed in on just her. Forced to turn on in the only way she knew how to get it to light up anymore. Brutal and loud.
He was inaudible to her, but his mouth moved, wide and animated. Yelling probably based on the dots of spit littering her cheeks. His anger at her rage the attention she craved even if it wasn't him reading her a bedtime story. Silly voices of knights and castles full of princesses only they could truly see.

‘Abeoji, have you noticed me yet? My pupils lack pity and there's blood on my body. Send me to the chair and let me feel your rage, any of your attention I crave.’

They were featureless. They were striking. They were small. They were large. They all had patterns, and Mira’s woldo would slice through them all. Her job, her calling, accomplished but she wasn't done. Not until the anger started, the yearning for her eomeoni’s eyes to look at her was sedated. Downcast and disappointed but there for once in her life. They never came, only the proud voices of her girls telling her how good she did. Eyes practically dripping tears of pride and laughter that should've been addictive coming from wide mouths. That didn’t stop the desire to hear someone tell her she did something terrible crawl over her skin like the patterns of the slaughtered.

‘Eomeoni, they're dead. My hands are dirty. Yell at me. Want me. Tell me no. Say that this isn't right for your little girl to do. Notice me, please.’

Soft and pliable, her girls were, for her in the dark. Sturdy and portly, for the stage and screams, in the light. The need to feel scathing words didn't exist here, only hot passion underneath blankets and heavy breathing. Clothes damp and clinging to skin because of one’s desire to be slow. Another’s hands only wandered to forearms and cheeks to comply. They sat perched on her lap, bothered and grinding against her thighs; the sight holy and only for her. Demons left alone for tonight.

‘Oppa… oppa, look at this version of me. When the warmth returns. When my song is pure and my voice doesn't drip with disdain and the urge to hurt another for attention doesn't linger. Look only when the sun and star smile at me like I’m their only moon. Scorching in the dark before morrow comes and demons learn to take flight.’

“It’s not the same but that feeling- that feeling I understand. It lingers even when you’re healing. I still am at least.”

Rumi didn't say anything in response, just tucking her knees to her chest and leaning further against her shoulder. Mira took another swig. They’d finish the bottle between them tonight.

It took two years, but the sound of glass and the taste of wine was replaced with Rumi’s soft whines and slick sweeter than any fruit fermented in a bottle dripping from her tongue.

Knuckles, open and raw, split further apart at each swing. Muscles burning and wrist threatening to crack with the force. Retract and extend. Like a robotic arm. Made to do one purpose for eternity. If this was hers, Mira would relish in the pain and gladly share it between her and the woman below. Contorted limbs and a shield of words that meant everything broken on the floor. The facade of being untouchable crumbled after decades of standing on toothpicks meant to be the support. How was a girl ever meant to hold such a weight? Demon in name, a damaged angel in definition. Retract and extend. Let the blood flow and tears spill. Mira would feel for them all. Another swing and the room howled. Retract and extend. Purpose not yet complete.

“Was it Jinu?”

“No, it wasn't him.”

The odds were stacked against Rumi from the beginning, huh?

Demon dad and hunter mom. Parental figure to predator. Destined to be forever split into two halves that fought before thinking, before accepting that maybe they could form a new whole instead of trying to conform and fit into something of the past. The quote about faults and fears a divider to further keep them apart.

Zoey would help her see, help her understand that the two halves could be one. Even if one was born to burn and the other was almost broken beyond repair. She would help glue the pieces back together. Transform something painful into something beautiful.

The hoodie was on the floor and the bathroom door was left cracked open again. It had been shut minutes before; Zoey didn't want to waste any more. Steam spread across the floor as she peeled off her shirt, discarding it in the warm fog as the sound of water hitting tile invited her in.

Two shoulders could bear the weight of what the reflection refused to hide better than one. Bare souls and bare skin. Both marked with scars that only certain eyes could see. Zoey was privileged to be one of the three.

“This was bound to happen eventually, but- but I’m glad it was you first,” Rumi tried to laugh, hiding the shake of her shoulders beyond a mockery of mirth. “Mira would've gone back for round two if she saw.”

Zoey hadn't meant to barge in. She thought Rumi was still out and hadn't heard the creak of the front door when she came back. All Zoey wanted was to find out who stole her sweatshirt, not Rumi standing in front of her vanity mirror. Torso bare to her hips and arms crossed over her chest. Eyes half-lidded, barely holding back tears, and gazing upon marks Zoey thought Celine would've never left. Unready for another set of eyes to see the tangible damage.

Bite marks made to hurt, nicks left to fester, scratches from nails meant to stain were everywhere crop tops could hide and shirts could easily conceal. All of them scarred over and meant to be hidden where the patterns couldn't reach. Zoey took it all in and could only feel that Mira would be right to go back for round two.

Zoey must've been silent for too long because the next thing Rumi said had her acting before she could blink.

“I’m… I’m sorry that I have more faults than I already have. I can cover up again, and you- you can forget that you saw,” Rumi waved to herself, cheeks wet, “all of this. Our faults and fears must never be seen, rig- right?”

Zoey didn't hesitate to pull off her shirt and walk closer, arms circling a trembling waist before she turned them both to the side.

Not American enough shrill voices would say in the classroom, in the hallways, on the ride home from school. Their remarks followed her. Sticking to her skin like the syrup finishing off a stack of pancakes. It didn't bother her that much at first. The voice in her head, kind, upbeat, and untainted, was louder. Words a shield to keep the hate out. Her journals of lines reinforcements if the first wall fell. She had eight filled to the brim at that point. They would be enough even if the press of a knife, teasing her to go all the way, said otherwise.

“Mom, I just don't feel good. Let me stay home again. My grades are fine, and- no the kids aren’t bothering me I just feel sick is all. I promise. I’ll go tomorrow this time. Let me stay in your arms today.”

Not Korean enough they would say whenever she spoke. Accent off, words too stiff and clunky like English despite practicing the language to sound less foreign on her tongue. The shoving came later. Locked locker doors her new friend, the teachers who let her out a close second, the bullies who stained her clothes brown and red dead last in her book. Thin lines started to show, a forgotten blade finally allowed to draw blood. Pain was at least consistent. Never trying too hard to fit in, only feeling what it was supposed to feel.

“I’m fine, dad. I just fell from my skateboard. No biggie! I promise I’m fine. I’m okay- yes I ate lunch. Why- why wouldn't I? I gotta go get cleaned up. Dinner smells great by the way! You can start without me. I might… I might be a while.”

New scars from demons helped her hide the old. Zoey hadn't felt the blade since Huntr/x debuted and it was easy to forget the marks when she had her girls. There was no room for doubt, no room for hate when she was enough for them. Warm bodies that supported and hands that held. Lips less of a tease and more of a quiet relief. Blotches and raised skin doted upon as if they were stars straight from the galaxy. They made her feel like something worth to be held, grounded in reality, but watching them made her weightless. Voice tight and thoughts flat as they squirmed on the bed with her laying down beside them, caressing their bodies with one hand while the other traveled down her own. Bliss in a bottle. Release lapping at the rim.

“I won’t ever fully understand. These aren't the same as yours, but I’ll help you feel that you can make something beautiful from the pain too,” Zoey murmured, eyes tracing the thin cuts that lined her shoulder in the reflection before gazing at the bite mark on Rumi’s shoulder. Two circumstances, two different pains, both still bearing the scars on their skin.

Rumi followed her gaze, squeezing Zoey’s hand and answering the silent question. “She went too far. Was trying something new and lost whatever control she had left when I wouldn't stop moving. When she didn't want to accept that it wasn’t going to happen in one- in one go. This,” Rumi traced the mark, fingers shaking and chest heaving, “hurt more than the stretch.”

Zoey waited, pressing closer and forcing the anger down. Rumi gave a small nod after a moment, and Zoey gently traced the scarred over ridges. Lips pressing together before they followed the digit, peppering Rumi’s shoulder with her tenderness. A broken beauty deserving of having her pieces held.

It took a year for her to see the rest, but she’d kissed them all. Praise a new constant on her lips as Rumi fell apart below her. Patterns pulsing in the dark and highlighting their scars with a new glow.

Words wouldn't waver. Words wouldn't wander. Not with her. Never with her. But now—now all Zoey could do was scream. Wretched and loud. Contained and quiet. Rattling like nails inside a falling can. Wince inducing, soul fueling, rage controlling. Let the lungs swell before bellowing. Stomp and swing. The tip of her boot cracked something. A cheekbone, a nose, she didn't care. Zoey drowned it out by the sound from her throat, surpassing language barriers and contorting into something anyone could understand. Saying all the things words could never convey. Pain and release. Breathe in and through. Let the lungs swell before bellowing. Stomp and swing. Let her cry smother the one beneath. Words wavering and wandering to allow her to scream for the girl who couldn't.

“Who was it? We won't be mad at them. Just curious is all. Who wouldn't want to kiss you anyway?”

“Ce- Celine.”

Breath in and through. Rumi wouldn't be sitting here without them. Without her girls, the couch cushions would swallow her whole and the walls would close in. Trapping her and forcing her to flee before the receptionist could call her name. The psychologist’s office was small, private, away from the prying eyes of fans. That didn't make her feel any less exposed, but the soft bumps against her shoulders and quiet whispers of animal facts helped shield her.

“Beautiful,” Mira murmured, caressing Rumi’s thighs and leaving chaste kisses on creamy skin. “So beautiful, Rumi.” A choked gasp passed her lips. Zoey’s mouth swallowed the desperate sound whole. Deserving to be held.

Rumi was up before the door opened, voice calling her back. Breathe in and through. Mira and Zoey squeezed her hands, encouraging smiles plastered on their faces, and for once, Rumi wanted to take. Leaning down, Rumi pressed her lips to Mira’s for a moment before doing the same to Zoey’s. Saying everything she felt and all they couldn't see into the kiss. Two sets of lips against her own. Soft. Gentle. Barely moving. Tangible. It wasn't her first like this, but it was the first that didn't burn.

Lips, Mira’s, quirked up in a smile after pulling back from pampering Rumi’s breast, body trembling from the attention. Nipples hard, wet from saliva, and areola marked in a red that would fade. Zoey’s fingers danced on her scars and patterns alike, up and down they went. From shaking shoulders to the curve of her hip, to between her thighs, she would grace them all, however many times it took Rumi to feel her and forget the tainted touch of decades worth of yesterdays. Lovely shades of orange and pink lit up the room. A blinding white followed soon after when two digits gently pushed inside.

They would wait for her to give them something more. Even after she passed the door’s threshold and stayed behind it for an hour they would wait. When she drank herself silly because of an unhealthy craving they would pull her back up. Even when her raised skin felt like bleeding wounds they would patch her up. They would wait for her, and that was enough for her to give them something in return.

Fingers, she didn't know whose anymore through her haze, pulled out, and Rumi let herself be held. Slick that didn't slowly turn red. Pleasure that never turned to pain. Skin that stayed smooth. Patterns that glowed instead of covering. It was everything to her as she closed her eyes and let gentle words wash over her. Content in the comfort Mira and Zoey so freely gave.

The dog, finally feeling safe enough to lick back.

Chapter Text

For the love of the Honmon, Rumi was such a try-hard. The girl was always at Celine’s beck and call even when the woman

Mira’s opinion on Rumi changed when she found her one night, a month after officially meeting, nursing a bottle of malbec wine. Head tilted back against the cabinet and legs stretched out in front of her, Rumi swirled the cruet in circles against the floor. Tink, tink, tink it went, and the sound of glass hitting the marble floor caused Mira’s eye to twitch.

“Hey, Rumi… are you, like, good?”

Dialogue bitch

“It's… I don't even like it.”

Mira made a ‘give me’ motion with her hand. The bottle’s stem was pressed into her fingers. Mira took a swig, swirling the liquid around in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. Blackberry and plum. Not a bad flavor, just bitter on the tongue.

Mira handed it back. The tink sounds resumed as she licked her lips before she spoke. “Then why are you guzzling it down like you're speedrunning a wine tasting contest?” Mira asked.

Rumi went quiet at that. Bottle stilling in her hand. The night, finally quiet. Two mouths full of the same flavor. One clean and forgotten in swallow; the other stained, choking within.

The silence stretched, looming over Mira as she waited. Skin twitching and fingers digging into her thighs when Rumi didn't blink for a while. (This wasn’t the same woman a far cry from the woman who tried so hard in the light)

Finally, in a voice so rough that Mira thought the woman had somehow screamed in the quiet, Rumi replied, “Because I don’t know how to ask for anything else that isn't,” Rumi took a long swig, tongue tracing her chin from where the liquid spilled out her lips as she gazed down at the bottle’s label, “let’s call it putrid… Yeah, putrid.”

Mira wanted to ask what she meant. The wine tasted fine, better than even some of her family’s collection, but Rumi gave her a small smile and a sideways glance. A hollow giggle in her next words. “Plus, it’s the only thing in here that’s managed to get me tipsy. Let the bad thoughts fade away and the good memories come in, y’know? I can pretend that maybe I’m good enough to take, to have, someone’s attention again. Good or bad.”

They, her parents, were inaudible, but their mouths moved, wide and animated. Yelling probably based on the dots of spit littering her cheeks. Mira didn't care, couldn't care less if they were like the blood from another girl that covered her knuckles. As long as she had their attention. Heart pounding not just from the adrenaline when a tooth flew out of that girl's mouth but from exhilaration she felt from having the light on her. Forced to turn on in the only way she knew how to get it to light up anymore. Brutal and loud.

The plastic chair, stiff and unmoving underneath her, was slightly stained with another girl’s blood dripping from her fingers. Her father was in front of her, finally looking at her after his attention had been on anyone but her as he yelled. “God, Mira, why can't you stay out of trouble?! A day without fighting, a day without you being sent home for knocking out a kid’s tooth! That’s all I ask of you, but you can't even do that right!” The words stung worse than the splits on her knuckles, caused her heart to beat harder against her ribs, but at least he saw her in a new light. Even if the light was harsh yet dim. Forced to turn on in the only way she knew how to get it to light up anymore. Brutal and loud.

Rumi’s words hit her harder than any remarks her parents could ever come up with. Mira understood far too well what she was talking about and suddenly Rumi was the same girl she was. Asking for attention, wanting love, even if it caused her invisible scar in the form of harsh words and even harsher stares.

Her eyes glassy and staring down the hall, yearning like a dog before she blinked them away.
but I haven’t had it in a while and I guess my body was… I don't know, craving it

The black sheep, finally able to shield someone with her wool.

The mim

The muzzled dog, finally able to eat a hearty meal.

God, that mask. It hung off Rumi’s face like shattered glass.

”I'm okay

Blood dripped down Rumi’s thigh. Leg slowly painted red.

“I'm okay.”

Skin open; flesh raw. The wound alive and a blooming flower.

“I’m okay, Zoey,”

Metal, still embedded, gleamed.

“I’m okay…” Rumi

“You’re not okay!” Zoey all but yelled. The room’s whispers quieted. Rumi’s mouth finally shut. Body still shaking, fingers still coated red.

Rumi stood in front of her vanity mirror. Torso bare to her hips and arms crossed over her chest. Eyes, halflidded, traced the softly pulsing lines marred on her skin, pausing only to look at their reflections in the mirror for a moment before looking away entirely.

Zoey’s fist pulled back and

Patterns lit up under her gentle touch, pulsing lovely shades of orange and pink. Rumi’s breath hitched while Zoey hummed, chin resting on her unnie’s shoulder while she drew stars on invisible (intangible; impalpable) scars. Up and down she went. From shaking shoulders to the small of her back, Zoey would grace them all, however many times it took Rumi to feel her and forget the tainted touch of

Celine looked shocked that Zoey had hit her first before anything else, looking at Mira with her good eye as if she could help. Not the pain overwhelmed anything else

Rumi was gorgeous, and Zoey could see the same sentiment shining in Mira’s eyes when she looked over Rumi’s shoulder at the taller woman. Lips quirked up in a smile after pulling back from pampering their trembling leader’s breast with attention. Nipples hard, wet from saliva, and areola marked in a red that would fade.

Unlike the blood on her shirt. Mira was just getting started too, and Celine had inadvertently soured her already rotten mood even further.

“Wow, you really can't take a punch,” Mira sneered, shaking her hand out and popping her knuckles, looking over to Celine on the floor. The woman cradled her jaw; blood dripped from her mouth while her eye swelled. Tongue and teeth red. “Rumi described you as this sacred deity, someone untouchable.” Mira grabbed the woman by the collar of her shirt and pulled her up from the floor. Mentor, meek and meager in her hands. “But here you are, reduced to this mess. God, you are so…

The anguished cry from Celine rang in Zoey’s ears, her own screaming back as she stomped down. Something broke, the pieces warranted to be scattered.

Trembling fingers anchored in her hair, nails digging into her scalp the faster Mira went. Wrist aching and arm burning. The slight ache worth the pleasure etched on Rumi’s face, moans spilling freely from her throat. Unfiltered. Unhindered. Unburdened.

Celine’s face was unrecognizable, Mira’s hands more so. Knuckles split open and raw and ready for more. The pain was an afterthought she didn't care to entertain. If she wasn't done, then neither was Celine.

”Fuck,” Zoey breathed when Rumi’s head lolled back against her shoulder, eyes rolled back and mouth hung open. The sight an addiction. “Come on, Rumi,” she pressed her hand to the woman’s abdomen as Mira sped up. Muscles flexing underneath shining skin. Patterns and sweat combined to make a warm glow. Climax at the cusp of release. “Come on, baby. You’re so close, aren't you? I can feel it.

Rumi babbled while Celine sputtered

Mira’s hand slowly pulled out, fingers dripping with her

blood. God, Mira forgot how much a person could bleed. Actual demons left less of a mess behind than the one on the floor.

Forever haunting the days after.

‘Oppa… oppa, look away from this version of me. Try again tomorrow when the warmth returns. When my song is pure and my voice doesn't drip with disdain and the urge to hurt another doesn't linger. Look only when the sun and star smile at me like I’m their only moon. Scorching in the dark before morrow comes and demons learn to take flight.’

“It’s not as strong as it was, you girls are more than enough for me, but when that anger festers, when that itch for a fight becomes unbearable, I yearn for them to yell, to belittle me because that was the only time their eyes were on me. It was all I could ever get from them. It's not the same but that feeling- that feeling I understand. It lingers even when you’re healing. I still am at least.”

It was familiar. Not in the way as if she experienced the same events but in a way that it was like some sort of manipulated deja vu. If she Zoey had

Hands and teeth
Hunger and pain

“Are you sure?” Mira asked, fingers twitching at the hem of Rumi’s shirt. Zoey at her back with hers hooked in her belt loops; digits pulling and pressing, full of energy.