Archive of Our Own

“Zoey, I told you. I’ll be fine.”

Mira has spent the last two, going three, hours moping around in her apartment, wrapped up in three incredibly heavy and incredibly thick blankets, cold and miserable and, based on the last time she looked at herself in the mirror, looking like she’s on the verge of death—but she’s fine, swear to god. Zoey’s just being dramatic again.

And Zoey, being Zoey, is not listening to her again because she says, “You know you don’t have to spend your heats alone, right?”

“Yes,” Mira sighs, trying not to sound too annoyed. “I know—but I want to. It’s just… easier this way.”

They’ve had this conversation before. More than once, if her memory serves her right. Normally she would hate having to repeat herself to anyone, but Zoey is her best friend so she isn’t just anyone, and getting mad at Zoey is like getting mad at a puppy, which would suck and would make Mira feel like a horrible piece of shit, and so therefore, it’s impossible.

“Alright,” Zoey says in the end, long-suffering. Mira is just glad she’s finally dropping this… for now. Knowing Zoey, she’s got another earful saved for her for later, probably. “Just call or text me if you need anything, okay?”

“I know,” Mira replies, softer this time. “Thanks, Zo.”

“Love you!”

“Yeah, love you too.”

Mira heaves another sigh as she hangs up then tosses her phone aside. A shiver runs through her, and she pulls the blankets, all three of them, tighter around her body.

The truth is, it’s not so much that it’s easier spending her heats alone than it is the fact that she’s just gotten used to dealing with them by herself.

Mira had her first heat when she was fourteen. She spent it locked inside her room, alone and confused and honestly kind of scared by everything she was feeling, how everything felt like too much and yet, somewhere deep inside her, she knew, not enough at all. She didn’t know exactly what was missing back then, or what it was that her body seemed to be screaming for, but she knew from the sickly, shivering haze of neediness and the persistent ache she felt not only between her legs and in the pit of her stomach but somewhere deep, deep, deep inside her that something was missing. She felt desperate for it, whatever that thing was that she just knew, like she knew the sky was blue and that water was wet and that one plus one is two, would make her feel so much better. Would make this ache, this pain, go away.

She knows better now, of course, and ever since then she’s found her own ways to deal with her heats—with that ache—by herself. Ever since then, that’s just how it’s always been, and Mira has no plans of switching things up any time soon.

Technically, Zoey is right that she doesn’t have to spend her heats alone. That’s what dating apps are for, and besides that, they’ve got services for that now, for those who don’t want to go through the humiliation and hassle of swiping through profiles just for one half-decent alpha to help you get through the next two, three days. The only catch, of course, is that these services are quite expensive, even more so if you do a rush order, so to speak—not that money has ever been a problem for Mira. If anything, it’s always been the least of her problems. If she wanted to, she could call up any of the agencies—because that’s what they call themselves, even if Mira can think of a few other less dignified, less savory terms that would better suit their line of business—and get herself an alpha exactly to her taste right now, from their height to their eye color and down to, hell, maybe even the exact measurements of their cock if she’s being especially particular (and especially generous with her money), but one, Mira just finds that entire thing kind of really gross, and two, she just—doesn’t want to.

Her body might want an alpha to submit to, and her body might want an alpha to touch her and soothe her and just fuck all of the relief it’s craving for into her, but she doesn’t want any of that. She doesn’t want anyone, alpha or not, to see her like this.

And maybe that’s the real reason she chooses to spend her heats by herself.

Mira hates feeling so… weak. So feeble. So needy. She hates it so much that she almost can’t stand the thought of having an alpha around to make her come so hard over and over and over that she can’t see or walk straight after just because that would mean having someone see her like this.

So, no. It’s not exactly easier, dealing with her heats by herself, and it’s hardly satisfying having to rely on her fingers and vibrator and her (very expensive) collection of dildos to get by on, but Mira is used to it, and Mira is nothing if not stubborn.

It’s an hour later when Mira’s heat hits her in earnest.

Her nausea fades into something sharper, heavier—needier—pressing down on her until she can barely breathe or keep still. Her body feels both too hot and too empty all at once, and the blankets that comforted her earlier are starting to suffocate her. She throws them off, panting, and then shoves her shorts and panties off too, mortified at how wet she is, her thighs slick and dripping with her arousal. It’s humiliating having her body betray her like this, and how she’s wet enough to soak through the sheets, but she doesn’t have the time to linger too long on her humiliation because she’s overcome by the need to come, and to come now, and the next second she’s shoving a hand down between her legs and tumbles swiftly and clumsily to orgasm.

Mira spends what feels like an eternity in this endless, vicious cycle of rubbing her clit sore until she comes, sobbing into the crook of her arm for an alpha who isn’t there and who isn’t inside her, before she just starts moving her hand furiously again between her legs. When that’s not enough, she fumbles for her vibrator in her bedside drawer, pumps it all the way up to the highest intensity setting it’s capable of, until it feels like she’s got a jackhammer working against her clit and not a vibrator, and shoves that between her legs instead. The orgasms hit her harder and faster like that, in quick succession, and she screams through every single one, breathing out fuck, and please, even if there’s no one there for her to beg and whine for, but it just slips out of her like it’s nothing, almost like it’s natural, even, and she would feel more embarrassed and annoyed about that if her eyes weren’t rolling into the back of her skull right now from the orgasm that just hit her, the vibrator slipping and sliding between her soaking wet folds as she grinds against it, two fingers tucked inside her pussy.

She’s lost count of how many times she’s come already. Her thighs are trembling, and her clit is raw from overstimulation, but the ache is still there and somehow it’s even worse than before.

Desperate now, she reaches for her dildo—the biggest, thickest one she has, with the shape of a swollen knot at the base—and shoves it as deep up her pussy as it can go, and she’s slick and swollen and loose enough that it slides in so embarrassingly easy, until the knot catches and then pops past her entrance with a wet, obscene sound. Mira lets out a sound she’s really not proud of, back arching as she tucks the knot tight inside her, pushing and pushing until the pressure is so unbearable it’s almost perfect, and it’s only almost perfect because her body knows it’s only silicone and her body isn’t happy about that, almost seems to be fighting against it, even, but she just pushes past the dissatisfaction and squeezes down around the dildo, around the makeshift knot, body spasming. The stretch only makes her gush more. Every time she clenches, every time she grinds her hips down against it, she feels it hit that aching spot so deep inside her, and she comes again, messy and shuddering.

Mira comes, and comes, over and over until she’s actually crying into her pillows, but the ache won’t stop. No matter how many times she comes, no matter how many times she cries out, clenching around the knot and rubbing or pressing her vibrator against her clit, it’s just not enough. The relief is only ever temporary, and then she’s left trembling and wrung out on her soaked sheets, and still so unbearably empty.

She hates it—hates how weak it makes her, how the ache wrings actual tears out of her no matter how hard she tries to bite them back. She tells herself she’s stronger than this, that she doesn’t need anyone, but her body doesn’t listen. It never does, when she’s in heat.

She whimpers as she pulls the dildo out with a very loud and very, very wet squelch. Her vibrator had died on her almost twenty minutes ago, and her wrists hurt from all of the rubbing and fingering and awkward angles all in the name of barely-satisfying orgasms. She rolls over onto her back, away from the massive wet spot on her sheets, and stares up at the ceiling, chest heaving. She’s still so hot all over it almost feels like she’s down with fever, so hot she’s sure she might actually catch fire, but the burning in her core has mellowed out to something warmer, more molten. Something manageable and maybe even a little bit pleasant—at least for now. In an hour or two, her heat will hit fever pitch again, and then she’ll be mindless with need again.

Mira groans. She can barely feel her legs, but she drags herself out of bed to go to the bathroom, then when she walks back to her room she remembers to plug in her vibrator for later before she lets herself succumb to her drowsiness.

There’s a small pocket of time after Mira wakes up when she feels almost normal again, that time after countless unsatisfying orgasms when that needy, cock-hungry part of her heat-addled brain decides to show her and her body some mercy by shutting the fuck up long enough for her to drag herself into the kitchen, legs unsteady and sore and sticky with her dried slick, and she puts together the world’s saddest excuse for a sandwich: two cold, freezer-burned slices of bread she just can’t be bothered to toast with a generous amount of jam slathered between them. She doesn’t realize how hungry she is until she gets her first bite of it, and then she devours the rest in under a minute, just before her body starts to collapse under the weight of her body’s other hunger. The ache builds fast, sharp, impatient, until she’s gripping the edge of the counter just to breathe through it. By the time she stumbles back to her room, she’s already dripping down her thighs again.

The rest of the first day of her heat blurs in that same brutal cycle: her fingers or her vibrator insistent on her clit, the knotted dildo stretching her wide and deep whether she’s thrusting it into herself or bouncing on it, until her body’s convulsing through orgasm after orgasm that never leaves her as satisfied as she wishes she could be. After, she collapses into the mess of her sheets, shivering with the aftershocks of so many orgasms until the fire in her core cools to something bearable again, and then she either takes another quick nap or drags herself back into the kitchen to hydrate or force herself to choke down another bite of food before it all inevitably starts over again.

Each time feels worse than the last. She manages to wring climax out of climax out of her body until she’s shaking all over, her pussy sore and swollen from how many times she’s pushed the dildo all the way in, squeezing around the knot at the base until she’s sobbing, but none of it is ever enough to actually relieve her. It feels good for maybe all of ten seconds before she goes back to feeling so miserable that all she can do is reach for the dildo again desperately because it’s the closest she’s going to get to what her body really wants.

By nightfall, she’s wrung out and trembling, sticky with sweat and slick, her head spinning from dehydration. She squeezes around the knot as hard as she can, rubbing circles on her already numbing clit, until she comes with a broken cry against her pillows. She shakes through it, panting, then slumps bonelessly against her ruined sheets. This time, she doesn’t bother to pull the dildo out. She leaves it lodged inside her, letting herself—in a moment of fucked-out exhaustion, weakness—imagine an alpha, her alpha, tucked away like that inside her, filling her to the brim with their cock and their knot, making her forget what it ever felt like to be empty ever again.

Mira is somehow more frustrated with how comforting the fantasy is than she is with herself for having ever thought about it in the first place.

She buries her face in her pillow, the dildo and its knot shifting a little inside her with every little movement she makes, and reminds herself: she can handle it. She always does. She will, now—even if there will always be some small, traitorous part of her that wishes she didn’t have to.

The next morning, Mira wakes up to a wall of unread texts and a missed call from Zoey.

She’d been distantly aware of the incessant buzzing of her phone yesterday, but with how she was obviously preoccupied with far more pressing matters at the time, checking her phone had been the least of her priorities. Even now, she just squints at her notifications before she puts her phone back down on the bedside table and just rolls over in bed to try and squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep. That proves futile because in a matter of seconds she becomes aware of how gross her sheets are, and she’s naked as the day she was born—by the evening she’d stripped out of all of her clothes because she’d sweat through them already, and because her body was running so hot she thought her skin might actually melt off her bones if she had even so much as a t-shirt on, and there was the fact her breasts were so tender, her nipples hard as rocks and sensitive to even the slightest bit of friction, that made it uncomfortable for t-shirts at all—rolling in the mess she made like some dog playing in mud.

So: gross.

That’s the only reason Mira finally drags herself out of bed. She doesn’t check Zoey’s messages just yet, though. She changes the sheets first, wrinkling her nose as she balls up the soiled sheets and tosses them into the laundry, then she takes a quick shower. She doesn’t bother with clothes, not even underwear, this time. She just wraps herself up in a bathrobe then all but crawls her way back to her room after. She’s a little antsy, knowing that any second now it’s going to hit her again and she’ll have to go through the misery of making herself come over and over without bringing herself any actual relief, nothing real and satisfying and long-lasting, but for now she just cherishes the moment of calm before the storm.

She scrolls through Zoey’s messages as she towels her hair dry. There’s the are you okay’s and let me know if you need anything’s and just checking in (again)’s that she expected from Zoey, a whole lot of them even though, as an omega herself, Zoey would know that, one, Mira is not okay and two, she wouldn’t have the time, patience, or attention to reply to any of these messages until maybe after her heat has subsided. Still, she appreciates Zoey checking in on her. She’s one of the only people who ever does, whether Mira is in heat or not. It’s not like the can really count on her family when it comes to stuff like this.

She’s about to put her phone away when she gets to Zoey’s last and most recent messages.

Zoey
hey just checking in again 💜
i know ur prob not up for talking rn and thats ok!!!!
but im just rly worried abt u 🥺!! and i cant Not do anything 🥺
sooooo im sending help over!!
dont be mad ok mwah love youuu 💜💜💜

Mira gives the string of messages another pass-through then checks the time stamp. She sent them a little over twenty minutes ago, while Mira was busy making her room less of a pigsty and herself more presentable, even if there’s no one here for her to be self-conscious with.

There’s something about that last message—the dont be mad ok, in particular—that she finds strange… but she decides to just shrug it off for now. Zoey just probably means she sent over a care package or something. She’s done that before. Nothing strange about that. And anyway, Mira just doesn’t have the patience or energy to be deciphering Zoey’s cryptic messages right now. She’ll deal with whatever it is Zoey sent her way when it gets here. She sends Zoey a quick one-two reply of okay thx and then love you too and just leaves it at that.

She shuffles into the kitchen, telling herself she should eat something while she’s still got the chance. She settles for cereal with a splash of milk, because it’s all she thinks she can actually stomach right now, and because it’s the one thing she tends to crave whenever she nears her heat. She doesn’t even particularly like cereal or anything, not the way Zoey does because she grew up in America, but she keeps a supply of it around for times like this.

She chews on the milk-soggy cereals mechanically, standing at the counter. She gets a few minutes of blessed silence and peace before she starts feeling it: the slow, creeping burn in her core that warns her she’d better get back to her room now before she starts making a mess of herself in her kitchen. Irritated, she shovels the rest of her cereal into her mouth then tips her head back to wash it all down with the milk it’d been sitting in. She’s about to turn and head back to her room, not really looking forward to having to hole herself up in there for the next two, three hours with nothing but her vibrator and dildo, which have both seen better days, to keep her even slightly sane until her heat abates again, but it’s the plan, the only one she’s got, and she’s made it this far in life with that and that alone, so she’s going to stick to it.

Except, right then, her buzzer goes off.

The sound cuts through the apartment, sharp and jarring. Mira freezes mid-step, pulse spiking with both panic and annoyance.

That’s when she remembers: Zoey’s care package.

Mira groans. She appreciates the gesture, she really does, but the last thing she needs right now is to drag herself to her door in nothing but her bathrobe, the smell of her heat clinging onto her like really rancid perfume, to sign for whatever it is Zoey’s had sent over this time. Her body is already starting to shake with need, and it feels like someone’s turned the heat up inside her because even the bathrobe is starting to feel stifling.

She stands there in the middle of her kitchen for a second, weighing whether to just ignore it for now. But then the buzzer rings again, and this time Mira decides she might as well get this over with so she can lock herself up in her room already and just deal with this. She secures the bathrobe, which she’d been letting hang loosely around her frame, tighter around her body just so she doesn’t accidentally flash the delivery guy or something, to preserve some sense of dignity or something, then makes her way to her door.

Except when she yanks it open, it isn’t a delivery guy waiting for her.

“Hey,” Rumi greets awkwardly.

Mira blinks stupidly at Rumi.

She can count on one hand the number of times she’s been alone with Zoey’s new-ish girlfriend. Which is to say: it’s not something that happens very often. She’s ‘new-ish’ because Zoey’s been dating for her almost three months at this point and she’s been fooling around with her for a bit longer than that, and Mira knows it’s getting serious because Zoey’s been dragging her along to all the parties and dinners she and Mira get invited to by their other friends. Really, Mira’s happy for her best friend. Rumi’s everything Zoey likes in a girl—ridiculously attractive but still a dork, which makes her far more charming than if she were just ridiculously attractive—and Mira can’t claim to be close to her or anything, but from all of the times they’ve hung out, sober and drunk, she can say with certainty that Rumi’s a good one.

Still, that doesn’t explain what Rumi is doing here now.

Suddenly, Mira becomes all too aware of how naked she is underneath her bathrobe. She was somehow more prepared for some random delivery guy, who may or may not be a creep, to see her like this, than she was for her best friend’s girlfriend.

Her best friend’s girlfriend—who is an alpha.

She can see from the way Rumi is shifting awkwardly and even a little uncomfortably that she can smell it on Mira. Her heat, her desperation. The hours and hours she spent yesterday fucking herself on her fingers on and that piece of silicone that could never come close to an actual alpha’s cock, an actual alpha like the one standing right in front of her now, trying her hardest to avoid looking her dead in the eye or avoid letting her eyes linger too long at the dip of Mira’s bathrobe where Mira’s cleavage is peeking out, an actual alpha—

Fuck. Fuck, no. NO.

She’s not—no. No, absolutely not.

This is her best friend’s girlfriend, and as far as she knows Rumi hasn’t marked or claimed Zoey—Zoey would have blown up her phone with message after message with disgusting detail if she had—but still.

Mira tells herself it’s not that she wants Rumi specifically. She is, as established, ridiculously attractive, yes, like seriously, it’s almost unfair how attractive she is, but it’s not her that her body seems to be wanting to reach for right now. It’s just—it’s proximity. Proximity to any alpha at all. Literally any other alpha could walk up to her right now and she’d want to throw herself at them too.

It’s a humiliating thing to think about, let alone admit, but it does calm her down a little.

“S-Sorry about that,” Mira murmurs, trying to laugh it off. “It’s just… you know.”

Rumi laughs too, around that half-wince, half-smile she’s been wearing on her face. “It’s fine.” A beat. “I understand.”

There’s another beat of unbearable silence between them. Mira hopes Rumi doesn’t pick up on the way she has to squeeze her thighs together to just soothe the persistent, yelling ache between her legs that’s only gotten worse since Rumi showed up at her door and interrupted her from actually getting to deal with said ache. She presses them tighter together, not just to soothe that ache but to stop herself from shifting closer too—from leaning into the warmth of the alpha standing in her doorway.

That is a thought she swiftly sweeps under the rug.

“So, um. I guess Zoey sent you…?”

Rumi nods. She’s still mostly avoiding Mira’s gaze.

Mira nods too, breathing in then out. Her exhale comes out shakier than she’d like. “Alright,” she tells Rumi, “I’ll just—you can hand it over and I’ll let Zoey know I got the care package, and I’m sorry, seriously, that she sent you all the way here just to—”

That’s when Mira finally notices that Rumi isn’t carrying anything at all with her.

Mira looks around looking for a care package or just anything at all, feeling like she’s lost her mind when she finds nothing. Nothing. She starts to wonder if maybe Rumi’s just fucking with her, if she’s holding it behind her back or something, but then their eyes meet and for the first time since she opened the door to find Rumi standing on the other side of it, Rumi looks anything but awkward for once. No, this time, she looks back at Mira with this almost gravely and alarmingly serious look on her face, undercut only by the fact she’s blushing so hard too that her entire face looks like a stoplight.

She doesn’t say anything as the realization hits Mira like a freight train:

There is no care package because Rumi is the care package.

Mira stumbles backwards into her apartment and slams the door in Rumi’s face.

She presses her back against the door, chest heaving and head spinning. Her heart’s pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears, and her whole body feels like it’s gone molten. She’s trembling, and not just from humiliation—though that’s there too, sharp and stinging—but from the sheer force of her heat pressing in on her, which has only gotten worse since the moment she cracked the door open to find Rumi standing there.

Her thighs are slick, embarrassingly so, wetness gathering and sliding down in sticky trails between her legs. Not that she’s been dry at all since her heat started, but this is—worse. She’s swollen, tender, aching, her body screaming for something it knows is standing just outside her apartment. The smell of alpha, of Rumi, still lingers in the air, ghosting across her skin, and she hates how her body is reacting to it. Hates how much more unbearable everything feels after only a few seconds near Rumi.

Her stomach twists. Fuck. Fuck. She cannot believe Zoey would even think of something like this.

When Zoey said she was ‘sending help over’, Mira thought she meant packets of her favorite instant ramyeon, the kind that’s too spicy for literally anyone else but her to like, and maybe some electrolyte sticks and some packs of instant porridge for when her stomach is too unsettled for anything else, along with a cooling patch or two and some Ibuprofen to help with the aches. She expected the usual kind of care package Zoey would send her when she knows she’s too stubborn to ask for help or to be looked after but desperately needs it anyway.

Mira didn’t think Zoey meant she was sending her girlfriend over to fuck her until she finally stops dripping like a broken faucet with all of her unsatisfied need.

She shoves herself off the door, stumbling a little as her knees almost buckle underneath her, then storms back toward the kitchen where she remembers leaving her phone. The ache between her legs is loud, nearly deafening, and every step makes her feel more swollen, more wet, more desperate for the relief on the other side of her door, still standing there like some dejected puppy, and Mira only knows she’s there because she can still smell her there. But she keeps moving, away from Rumi, from whatever the hell it is Zoey’s convinced herself is a brilliant idea, and she snatches her phone off the counter with shaking hands.

The line barely rings once before Zoey picks up.

“I asked you to not be mad,” is what Zoey says in greeting, and all Mira can do is groan, “Zoey.”

“I’m just trying to help!”

“Help?” Mira echoes, incredulous. She’s distantly aware of how shrill her own voice has gotten. She must sound hysterical right now. “You want to help by sending your girlfriend to—do you even hear yourself right now?”

“She’s good, Mira.”

“What?”

“Rumi, she’s—she’s good, I swear! You’re in good hands. She’ll take care of you.”

“That’s not—Zoey, Zoey,” Mira grumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I swear to god, that is not the problem here! That is not my problem. I don’t care if she’s—good, or whatever. You don’t just send your girlfriend to fuck your best friend!”

Zoey goes quiet for a second. Then, with a sigh like even she has to admit maybe that is a little weird, she tells Mira, “Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. You can tell Rumi to leave right now and she’ll leave. But if you do want to… then I don’t see why not. And honestly, at least I know I can trust her with you—and I trust you too. Seriously, dude. It’s chill.”

Mira’s eye twitches.

“It is not chill!”

She hangs up and all but tosses her phone across the room.

Mira drags herself back to the door. She feels more and more nauseous with every step that brings her closer to it, to Rumi, whose scent is still so thick in the air, so heavy and potent, that it honestly kind of makes Mira feel like vomiting. She presses her wrist to her mouth, swallowing down bile, because the sheer strength of it feels like it’s burning through her chest. It’s overwhelming, and it’s just too much all at once.

Her hands shake as she flings the door open. Rumi is still standing there, just like Mira knew she would be and god, fuck, now that they’re face to face again, mere inches away from each other, Rumi’s pheromones press down on her almost oppressively, until she’s shivering from it. She blinks through the haze of her heat, the need that’s starting to melt dangerously into lust, and just looks at Rumi again. Rumi, who’s just standing there, still standing there, head ducked and shoulders hunched, and—Mira notices, her heart lurching violently in her chest—with both her hands are at her crotch like she’s trying to hide something. It takes Mira a full second to realize what, exactly, Rumi is hiding.

She sees the hard line of it, the tent straining against the fabric of her sweats, stretched taut in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Mira’s throat goes dry at the sight of it.

“I—I’m sorry,” Rumi blurts, voice cracking as she takes a half-step back. Her hands twitch uselessly at her crotch, like she can somehow will the erection away. “It’s just—”

The rest of what she was going to say dies in her mouth, but she doesn’t need to say any of it because they both already know anyway. They both know exactly why her body is reacting this way.

Shame sears through Mira’s chest. It was one thing having her best friend’s girlfriend, her best friend’s alpha, for all intents and purposes, at her door. It’s another to see the proof, plain as day and hard as a rock, that the alpha in Rumi is responding to Mira, to this needy, desperate omega’s body calling out for the one thing that it can’t stop begging for. It’s like their bodies are in conversation without them, betraying them both.

“I’m sorry,” Rumi says again, blushing even harder now, avoiding Mira’s gaze even harder now, “I-I can leave, if you want. It’s just, Zoey asked me to and—I just thought, well, maybe I could help, but—if you don’t want to, seriously, I-I can just—”

Mira doesn’t know what it is, but something possesses her and makes her grab Rumi by a handful of her hoodie and pull her inside her apartment. That same thing makes her cage Rumi against the door as soon as it slams shut behind them, towering over her. It isn’t until Rumi lets out a groan, almost like she can’t help herself, when Mira mindlessly rolls her hips against Rumi’s cock straining against the confines of all of the horrible, uncomfortable, oppressive layers of clothes between them, head tipping back against the door with a soft thunk, that Mira realizes what she’s done.

She pulls away with a mortified squeak. “Sorry, I—fuck, I didn’t mean to—” But then Rumi’s eyes flutter open again and holy fucking god, her eyes are all pupil now, wide and dark with the very same lust burning through Mira’s core, spreading even into her lungs. That’s when she allows herself to look down just once, just a glance, and—fuck—Rumi is hard. So hard. She felt it already earlier when they were pressed up against each other, but it’s something else to get an eyeful of the massive erection trapped in her sweats.

And all of this is because of her. For her.

Mira is suddenly hit with this overwhelming need to put her mouth on Rumi’s dick and suck on it until she cries. Honest to fucking god, she feels like she might actually die if her mouth isn’t stuffed full of Rumi now.

It makes her want to scream.

“Why did you even agree to this anyway?” Mira squawks at Rumi, which snaps her back to her senses—for now. She at least remembers to look embarrassed. “Do you just do everything Zoey tells you?”

Rumi blinks at her, surprised by the question, then answers, “Yes…?”, voice lilting like she isn’t sure if that’s the right thing to say or if it’s only going to make this already terribly awkward situation so much worse, but still very much meaning it anyway.

Great. Now Mira really sees why Zoey likes Rumi so much. She’s a fucking lapdog. She almost asks Rumi if she’s sure she’s an alpha because there’s really nothing about her that screams alpha capable of taking charge right now. She only stops herself because she’s as much Zoey’s victim as Mira is, and the last thing she wants is to hurt her feelings or whatever. She’s a bitch in heat, not an asshole.

Rumi shifts her weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. She looks like she’s trying to figure out if tugging it down over her crotch will be enough to hide her indignity, as if that even counts for anything now that Mira’s gotten an eyeful of it. “We… don’t have to do anything,” she says again in a murmur, “If you don’t want to, then I’ll go—right now. Just say the word and I’m out of here.”

Mira makes a soft, helpless noise in the back of her throat.

“Don’t want to?” Mira echoes back at her, hysterical, before she shouts, “Of course I WANT TO! Do you have any idea how—how fucking unbearable this is?” Her face is wet before she even realizes she’s actually crying, fucking hell. She’s crying out of sheer frustration. “I-I can’t stand it anymore.”

Rumi blinks, startled, her hands stilling where they’d been fidgeting. For a moment, she just stands there and stares at Mira, wide-eyed, and then her expression softens. Without hesitation and without any of her earlier shyness or uncertainty, she tells Mira, “Then let me help you.” Gentle, steady, and so heartbreakingly kind that something inside Mira just shatters.

With a broken whimper, Mira surges forward, grabs Rumi by the front of her hoodie, and pulls her into a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. Rumi reaches up to tangle her fingers in Mira’s hair, and she tilts her head to soften the angle of the kiss just a little, but Mira isn’t having any of it. Without pulling away for air, she shoves Rumi back against the door, pinning her there with her hips, and kisses her like she’s actually trying to eat her alive, her teeth catching on Rumi’s bottom lip hard enough that she starts to taste a bit of Rumi’s blood in her mouth. She knows she should probably stop and ask Rumi if she’s okay, or if she’s just into that at all, but instead she drags her teeth along Rumi’s already bruised lip before she bites down again, more insistently this time. Rumi gasps and moans into the wet heat of Mira’s mouth, and Mira takes the opening to shove her tongue in like she’s trying to lick every last bit of taste, spit and blood and all, out of her mouth.

There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s messy and wild and hungry, the way Mira claws at the fabric of Rumi’s hoodie like she still can’t get close enough. Rumi’s hands twitch uselessly at her sides before finally settling on Mira’s hips, like she’s caught between wanting to hold Mira still so she can finally breathe and wanting to pull her closer, hold her tighter, as she starts grinding against Mira, who swallows down every soft grunt she lets out as she chases for more friction and more pressure against her cock. Then she hooks a thigh over Rumi’s hip and starts rutting against her too, hitching herself higher so she’s grinding down directly on the thick, hard line of Rumi’s cock desperately, as if she can actually wring relief out of nothing but friction alone. Her bathrobe gapes wider with every desperate roll of her hips against Rumi’s, slipping open around her thighs and waist until Rumi gets an eyeful of how naked she is underneath, her slick skin dragging shamelessly against the rough fabric of Rumi’s sweats.

Mira swears she could come like this. The friction on her clit, fabric scraping almost violently against raw, sensitive skin, is almost so sharp it starts bordering on painful, but Mira keeps moving her hips anyway like it’ll be enough to finally scratch the itch underneath her skin and finally soothe the screaming, agonizing ache that’s been driving her mad. But every time she rolls her hips down against Rumi, she’s reminded that it’s not enough—it never will be, not until she gets Rumi’s cock inside her, until Rumi comes inside her, fills her, makes her whole again, and the harder she grinds against Rumi the more desperate she gets for that, to be whole again. She can smell Rumi’s arousal now, thick and dizzying, flooding her lungs until she’s lightheaded, and all it does is make her rut harder, whining into Rumi’s mouth. It’s unbearable, the way her omega instincts keep clawing at her to take more, to be filled, to finally give her body what it’s begging for—but all she can do is rut against Rumi’s cock.

They’re still devouring each other’s mouths, still rutting against each other like a pair of desperate teenagers, when Rumi suddenly pulls away. Mira whines in complaint, her mouth chasing after Rumi’s, needy, so fucking needy, but that quickly turns into a startled yelp when Rumi reaches up with both hands, seizes the lapels of her bathrobe, and practically rips it wide open until Mira’s swollen, tender breasts spill out.

“Fuck, Mira,” Rumi groans, and it’s obscene, the way Rumi is staring at her tits. It’s then that Mira starts to think that maybe she was a little hasty in thinking Rumi’s not much of alpha because she’s definitely looking at Mira like she’s nothing but a slab of meat for her to enjoy now.

Her gaze is hot and hungry, like she wants to just tear into Mira—and Mira wishes that didn’t turn her on as much as it does. Not satisfied with just looking at them, though, Rumi takes Mira’s tits in her hands and squeezes them, making Mira mewl helplessly and shamelessly like the desperate little bitch in heat that she is right now. Mira arches into her touch and ruts harder against the thick bulge of Rumi’s cock.

Rumi must sense that she’s close, because she actually stops groping her tits to wrap one arm around her waist, bracing her other hand under Mira’s lifted thigh, and wordlessly flips their positions so it’s Mira with her back pressed against the door now. She starts to ask, “What are you—,” but cuts herself off with a surprised moan when Rumi slips her other hand down between their bodies and then, finally, thank god, between Mira’s legs.

Just the first brush of Rumi’s fingers against her clit is enough to make Mira’s knees buckle. Rumi picks up on this, of course, and begins to dutifully lavish attention to her there. She circles and plays with Mira’s clit patiently—too patiently, actually, like they’ve got all the time in the world but they don’t, not to Mira anyway, who feels like she’ll die if Rumi doesn’t actually do something to her already. She wants to say fuck you and just fuck me already you useless fucking alpha, oh my god, but all that comes out is a wordless, wanton moan. It still gets her point across well enough, though, because Rumi presses in further now, teasing Mira’s slit and dragging her fingers through Mira’s wetness before she finally slides two fingers deep into her, resting the heel of her palm against Mira’s clit.

“God,” Rumi murmurs against her throat as she works her open with her fingers, “you’re so wet.”

Mira’s about to say, No shit, Sherlock, she feels like she’s got a category 5 typhoon between her fucking legs with how wet she is, but then Rumi curls her fingers just right and Mira’s mouth falls open in another moan, one even louder and more pathetic than the last. She rolls her hips down against Rumi’s hand, gasping and whining as Rumi pumps her fingers inside Mira, stroking deep and bringing her thumb around to rub against her clit. Her hips buck at that, and she holds onto Rumi tighter, burying her face in the crook of Rumi’s neck where her scent is most potent. It’s both comforting and maddening, like someone’s turned the dial up inside her and switched off her brain so all that’s left of her is the raw, animal need to come.

​​“I’ve got you,” Rumi murmurs against her ear, her fingers moving in time with the frantic rocking of Mira’s hips. “Breathe, Mira. That’s it.”

Mira can’t help the way she sobs out, please, over and over, and more, Rumi—fuck, I need more, trembling against Rumi’s body as Rumi brings her closer and closer to the edge, that familiar pressure building behind her eyes, and that familiar heat building up from a low simmer into a roar in the pit of her stomach. “Please,” she gasps, squeezing down around Rumi’s fingers, thinking it’s not enough, she needs something bigger, thicker, needs Rumi’s cock and her knot, fuck, fuck, fuck, “please, I-I’m close,” but—

Rumi kisses her so softly that it hurts and murmurs, “Okay, baby,” as she finally fucks Mira, moving her fingers, her hand, faster, harder, viciously, and Mira wants to sob out, No, no, no, no, she doesn’t want to come like this, she wants to come on Rumi’s cock, wants to be wrecked with it, filled with it, but then her whole body seizes and she falls apart with a loud, broken cry anyway, soaking Rumi’s hand as she spasms and convulses around her fingers still lodged knuckle-deep inside her. Her mind is screaming that it’s wrong, that it’s not enough, that it’s not Rumi’s cock inside her, it’s not her cock she’s squeezing down around, but her body doesn’t seem to give a shit, like it’s already decided that it’s going to drag her under whether Mira wants it or not.

“I’ve got you,” Rumi promises again as Mira shudders through the tail-end of her orgasm and then finally sags into Rumi’s arms. “I’ve got you,” comes Rumi’s voice again, soft and comforting in her ears, just loud enough to be heard over the drumming of her own heart, “that’s it, baby, just breathe.”

Mira breathes in raggedly, and with every inhale, Rumi’s scent floods her, but it’s softened into something warm and cozy, wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. Her lungs stop burning and the ache between her legs and somewhere else much deeper inside her, at the very core of her, dulls to a low thrum. It’s instinct more than choice when she nuzzles her face deeper into Rumi’s neck, chasing that soothing wash of pheromones and letting it sink into her bones until she feels almost… safe.

For a while, there’s only the sound of their breathing, harsh and uneven, filling the narrow space between them. Mira’s leaning back heavily against the door, her legs trembling so bad she’s not sure she’d be upright without Rumi to hold her upright. It’s all fuzz and static between her ears for a while that she doesn’t even notice the way Rumi’s… petting her as she comes down from her orgasm and back into herself, not until Rumi absentmindedly brushes her thumb over the jut of her hipbone. It makes Mira shiver. That’s what finally drags her eyes back up to Rumi’s face.

Her pupils are still blown wide, and her chest rises and falls with every drag of her breath. She’s still hard as a rock too, obviously, and the air is thick with her pheromones, sharper now, heavier, heady with the unmistakable tang of her arousal. It clings to Mira’s tongue, coats her lungs, makes her body twitch with needy aftershocks she thought she’d already burned through.

But when Rumi finally speaks, it comes out small, almost shy.

“You okay?” she asks, like Mira didn’t just scream herself raw on her fingers two minutes ago. “How’re you feeling?”

It does something to Mira’s insides, something strange and confusing and maybe even a little wonderful, having this alpha be so persistently gentle with her, pushing back against her instincts telling her she doesn’t need to be so patient or so nice to Mira just so she can have her way with her. That she can exert her dominance with a shower of pheromones and demand Mira to submit and Mira will, deep in the throes of her heat as she is—but she doesn’t.

When Mira finally unsticks her jaw to speak, the thing that comes out is: “‘Baby’?”

Rumi blinks at her, surprised, then stammers, “O-oh! I, uh—well, it’s just… with Zoey—b-but if you don’t, um, like it or if you’re not comfortable with it then… I’m sorry.”

“Hm,” Mira rumbles. She should probably be more annoyed or grossed out or something about her best friend’s girlfriend calling her ‘baby’ and then acting like a bumbling idiot about it after, but… She doesn’t hate it, surprisingly. She doesn’t know if she should be concerned about that or not.

“I’m feeling better,” she says, finally answering Rumi’s question, “but…” She reaches down to hook her fingers under the waistband of Rumi’s sweats, giving it a quick tug before she lets it snap back against Rumi’s skin with a soft smack. Rumi winces, and Mira feels a kind of mean delight curling in her chest… which means her body’s already revving up for round two. “You know I'm going to need more than just your fingers, don’t you?”

Rumi laughs in a way that sounds more terrified than amused, or even aroused.

“Well,” she says, swallowing hard as her eyes flicker down to Mira’s bare tits, and then even further down to the glistening wetness between her thighs, before she brings them back up to Mira’s face, “I did offer to help.”

There it is again, that weird tug at her heart. Mira pushes it aside for now and just tuts at Rumi like she’s just such a nuisance, but she isn’t, really. Can’t be, when the tension between them is already crackling hot again, the air around them electric with it, thick enough to choke on. But she grabs at Rumi’s hoodie again and tugs her towards her just to tell her, “Bedroom—now,” and gives her a light shove back, just enough to make her stumble a step, wide-eyed and disbelieving, like she can’t believe Mira’s bossing her around too, but then she scrambles after her anyway when Mira walks right past her towards her room without another word.

Mira’s glad she doesn’t actually have to tell Rumi to strip, at least. She gets right to it as soon as they step into Mira’s room, pausing only to glance at the vibrator Mira left charging on her bedside table and the dildo she’d left on her bed, both mercifully spared from another two or three hours of pleasuring Mira now that she’s got an actual alpha to keep her full and busy. Mira shrugs her bathrobe off unceremoniously, letting it fall to the ground and pool at her feet. When she turns around, Rumi’s already shoved her sweats down her legs, nudging it aside with her foot. She’s down to nothing but her boxers now, the fabric of it stained dark with precum, and she’s about to take those off too when Mira blurts out, “No.”

Rumi freezes, hands twitching around the waistband of her boxers. She looks up at Mira, confused and a little scared, even—which is kind of stupid, really, because what even is there to be afraid of, it’s just her dick and she’s already mostly naked anyway, but it also might just be the way Mira’s looking at her right now. She doesn’t know how she’s looking at her, but whatever it is, it seems to make Rumi nervous.

Mira clears her throat, blushing despite herself. “N-no, I just… I mean, uh…” she starts, then, more irritated, snaps, “Just—god, come here.”

Rumi doesn’t say anything. She just nods then quietly makes her way to Mira’s side.

She’s close enough now that Mira can feel the heat rolling off her skin, and for a moment, all Mira can do is just… look. Mira is aware of how naked she is herself, every bit as bare and exposed as Rumi, and that usually isn’t the sort of thing that she feels self-conscious about—she’s hot and she knows it—but with Rumi, and under these circumstances, it just feels… different. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but it feels different in the way it prickles along her skin, this strange flicker of vulnerability that makes her want to cover up even if that goes against the whole point of this.

So she lets her eyes wander instead, skimming over every plane and curve of Rumi’s body, from the swells of her breasts to the taut lines of muscle in her arms, the slope of her shoulders, the firm cut of her waist. Before today, she never had any reason or even desire to imagine what her best friend’s girlfriend would look like naked, but… She’s impressed, damn it. Rumi is fit, stupidly fit, her body every bit as gorgeous as that face of hers. Her throat bobs as she lets her gaze drop lower and lower still, inevitably locking on Rumi’s stiff member, still trapped behind all that damp cotton.

Mira knows that she could have Rumi inside her now, if she really wanted to. And she does want that, she wants it terribly—but then she remembers that thought that crossed her mind earlier, when she got her first glimpse at Rumi’s arousal. Want ripples through her body so sharply she tenses up. She wants, no, needs to feel the weight of Rumi’s cock in her mouth. She needs to, even if her body will hate her for delaying what it’s needed so badly all this time—even if her mouth isn’t exactly where Rumi should be right now if she’s going to try to fuck some sense back into Mira.

Her voice comes out rougher than she intends when she finally says, “Sit down.”

Rumi, the fucking idiot, looks back at her like she just spoke another language entirely.

Groaning, Mira takes matters into her own hands and pushes Rumi down onto the edge of her bed herself. Then, she drops to her knees between Rumi’s legs, shouldering them further apart to make more space for herself. It isn’t until she’s eye-level with Rumi’s crotch that Mira starts spiraling again over the fact that she’s really, actually doing this with her best friend’s girlfriend. Her best friend’s girlfriend, who finger-fucked her against her front door just a few minutes ago. Her best friend’s girlfriend, who’s looking down at her now like she’s trying so hard not to actually beg her to just take her dick out already and do something about it.

Her best friend’s girlfriend, who, if Mira changed her mind and told her she didn’t want to do this after all, thank you very much, please leave, actually would leave and would probably even apologize to her on the way out.

But Mira doesn’t do that. She doesn’t get up and throw her robe back on, panicked. Doesn’t tell Rumi she’s changed her mind, or that she just can’t get over how weird this entire set-up is, with them going from just barely really knowing each other to spending the next forty-eight hours of Mira’s heat together, fucking each other.

What she does instead is take in a deep breath and then, finally, dip her fingers past the waistband of Rumi’s boxers and peel it down until Rumi’s cock springs free, and Mira thinks, fuck her life, actually.

Because now Rumi’s dick is out, and not once in her life did she imagine she’d ever think to describe any dick at all as pretty, but it’s the first and only thing that comes to mind now as she takes in Rumi’s. It’s a good length, good girth too, even though prior to today Mira never thought herself to be particular about that sort of stuff, straining and arched slightly back towards her stomach. Precum wells at the tip, and it takes everything in Mira to stop herself from just licking it all up. That’s for later. Now—now, Mira just stares, mouth watering at how pretty it is.

Is this just how it’s going to be with Rumi? Is everything about her just—pretty? Mira may never find the answers to those questions, but what she does know is her mouth aches with how badly she wants to get her mouth on Rumi’s cock. She doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to suck on anything so badly in her entire life, in or out of heat. It’s just not fair.

Rumi clears her throat awkwardly. When Mira (regretfully) tears her eyes away from Rumi’s cock to look up at Rumi’s face instead, she finds her pouting a little, self-conscious and maybe even a little defensive when she mumbles, “What?”

Mira is struck by the absurdity of it all. She wants to tell Rumi she’s insane for thinking her dick is anything but satisfactory because it’s honest to god the prettiest dick she’s ever seen—and, soon, in a few short seconds, it’s going to be the prettiest dick she’s ever sucked too.

She doesn’t actually warn Rumi about that, of course. She just leans forward, then, with one of her hands now wrapped loosely around the base, licks up the underside of Rumi’s cock until she gets her mouth on the swollen head. She seals her lips around it and moans at the first taste of precum, and just that alone is enough to make Rumi groan like a woman being tortured. Mira holds her down against the mattress with one hand and frees up her other hand, the one that was wrapped around Rumi’s cock, to guide Rumi’s hand into her hair as she hollows her cheeks around her and sinks down farther. She takes as much of Rumi into her mouth as she can, until she feels the tip of Rumi’s erection nudging the back of her throat. But still, that isn't enough, so Mira keeps going, until she's gagging on Rumi's cock, nose buried in the thatch of hair around it, making a low and desperate noise in the back of her throat. Spit leaks from the corners of her mouth, and her jaw is already protesting—she might have taken Rumi into her mouth with little to no hesitation, but it’s actually been a while since she last sucked anyone off—but she doesn’t care. She just swallows neatly around Rumi, thinking about how unfair it is that Rumi’s the perfect mouthful too, and then she moans around her length when Rumi tugs hard at her hair, hips snapping up into the wet heat of her mouth, as she says, voice rough, “Fuck, Mira, your mouth.”

Mira’s eyelids droop, suddenly heavy.

She could honestly just stay like this forever, slack-jawed and slobbering all over Rumi’s cock. She knows it’s probably just her heat speaking for her, but this is… oddly relaxing. It’s degrading, and it’s filthy, but it’s also the closest thing to relief she’s felt in hours. So, she just stays there like that for a long, long moment, breathing around Rumi, relishing the weight and taste of her in her mouth. She can feel how Rumi’s entire body is tense with anticipation, or maybe tense with how hard she’s trying to hold herself back from just fucking Mira’s mouth instead of waiting for her to move.

Mira decides to reward her patience—or her obedience, is more like it, which is an incredibly intoxicating and heady thought on its own: her obedient little alpha—by sliding her mouth up to the tip and sucking hard on the head. Rumi lets out this groaning wheeze, hips rising off the mattress again. Mira curls her arms around Rumi’s thighs and drags her back down. Holds her there as she starts sucking her off in earnest, mouth sinking down on Rumi’s cock like she’s starved for it. And she is—has been, since she first got a glimpse of it, still trapped in her sweats and aching to be inside Mira instead. She sucks her off like she’s actually trying to suck Rumi’s soul out through her dick, messy and wet and relentless, and all Rumi can do is sit there and let Mira take, take, and take, moaning and whining with her head thrown back, hand fisted in Mira’s hair like she’s holding on for dear life. It sends pleasant shivers down Mira’s spine, settling low and heavy between her legs; she keeps one hand on Rumi and slips the other one down between her legs, working her fingers against her clit fast and hard and rough.

“Mira,” Rumi groans, pressing forward just a little, just barely a thrust into Mira’s mouth, like she’s asking Mira’s permission to fuck her face. Mira knows she should probably hate that more than she does, how Rumi doing the bare minimum by just asking is really fucking doing it for her, but she answers by moaning around Rumi’s cock. This look like, oh, thank god, flickers over Rumi’s face before she finally draws out just a little and pushes back in again.

It starts off slow, careful, like Rumi’s giving Mira time to catch up with her rhythm, but all it does is make Mira impatient. She digs her nails into Rumi’s skin admonishingly, as if to tell her stop fucking around, and Rumi hisses in discomfort but obeys all the same. She sinks both her hands into Mira’s hair to hold her still as she finally fucks her face, grunting out praises of you look so good like this and fuck, baby, like she really can’t help but call Mira baby. Mira knows she should hate that more than she does too, but nothing else matters now, nothing but the way Rumi’s hips surge forward as she thrusts wildly into Mira’s mouth, gasping out a litany of Mira Mira Mira like this is seriously the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and Mira doesn’t think her name’s ever sounded so good. She tries to relax as much as she can, tries her best to just breathe through it, as Rumi forces her cock past the tight opening of Mira’s throat, bruising her lips, over and over. Honestly, though, with the state she’s in, she probably wouldn’t mind choking on Rumi’s cock.

She feels it before Rumi even chokes out, “M-Mira, baby, I’m—ngh, close.” The way Rumi’s cock pulses on her tongue, the way her thrusts have turned erratic, like she’s frantically trying to shove her cock as deep down Mira’s throat as humanly possible. The way, when Mira looks up at her through her lashes, she looks like she’s honest to god about to cry from how badly she wants to come in Mira’s mouth.

It’s tempting, as much as Mira hates to admit that it is, and as much as she hates that she wants Rumi to come in her mouth too, wants to taste her, swallow her down—but her body doesn’t let her finish that thought. A shiver rips through her spine, and her cunt clenches hard, sharp and demanding, like it’s rejecting the very idea of Mira wasting Rumi’s cum on her mouth. Of being left empty when all of that could be and should be going inside her, filling her, instead. Not on her tongue, or down her throat, but inside her.

Mira is suddenly so mindless with the need to have Rumi inside her that she pulls off of her cock with a very loud and very wet slurp, spit dribbling down the corners of her mouth to her chin. Rumi whines, “Mira,” sounding like it physically hurts her to not have Mira’s mouth wrapped around her cock anymore. Mira pays it no mind, though, and just barks, “Up,” at her, and it takes Rumi a second that feels like an eternity to figure out Mira means move up the bed, and then she’s scrambling to crawl up the mattress. She perches herself against the headboard and barely gets a word in before Mira practically pounces at her, pushing up onto the bed herself like a woman on a mission, and that mission is to milk Rumi’s cock dry.

She swings a leg over Rumi, straddling her hips. Rumi reaches for her hips and starts to say, “Mira—,” choking out a moan when Mira grabs her dick and takes the head inside her. She knows she’s wet enough to just take Rumi in one fell swoop, but she decides against rushing through it for the sake of comfort and so she can enjoy taking Rumi inch by inch, thighs shaking from the effort of taking it slow and holding her most animal urges at bay, even when all she wants—all her body has been dying for—is to be speared open and to finally, finally be full.

With the way Rumi is breathing hard, you’d think she was the one taking cock right now, but there’s something kind of flattering about it too, knowing that Mira just feels that good to her. Mira braces her hands on Rumi’s chest and presses her flat, then Rumi makes a punched-out sound as Mira sinks down onto the last inch of her cock until she’s seated, trembling and—god, fuck—whimpering on Rumi’s lap. “Mira,” Rumi says again, wheezing out her name like all the air’s been sucked out of her lungs, then she pulls Mira close to just… hold her as she squeezes her eyes shut against the great swell of feeling inside her.

All she can do for a long, long moment is sit there, impaled on Rumi’s cock, which sounds a lot less pleasant than it actually feels. It’s plenty pleasant, the best thing she’s felt in her entire life, maybe, or maybe that’s just her heat speaking for her, exaggerating just how good it feels to have an alpha’s cock inside her at long last. It definitely feels different from all of the other times she’s had someone inside her when she wasn’t in heat. Everything is just heightened now, more intense. Mira can feel Rumi’s heartbeat pulsing in her cock, slick and hot and alive inside her, and it just feels divine. It feels right the way she can never quite get any of her dildos, as well-crafted as they are, to feel right.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, somewhere in the periphery, she thinks: Zoey’s one lucky girl.

Rumi’s hips buck up involuntarily when Mira suddenly clenches down hard around her, gasping like she’s being strangled from the inside. She bites out, “Mira,” and then cries out when Mira lifts her hips up a little, not lifting off her lap entirely just yet, before she slams back down against her. She holds onto Mira tighter, squeezing her ass. “Mira,” she begs, “god, please.”

Mira lifts up again, relishing every second of it, the drag of Rumi’s cock inside her like her body doesn’t want to let go, or even like it’s trying to mold itself around the shape of Rumi even as she rises up and up and then sinks back down. She does it again, and again, picking up the pace until she’s bouncing almost violently on Rumi’s cock, her thighs and the entire fucking bed shaking from the sheer force of how hard she’s slamming back down against her. Rumi’s still got her hands on Mira’s hips, but she doesn’t actually do anything with them. She doesn’t do anything at all, just lies there and takes it, letting Mira use her cock for all it’s worth, moaning like she’s the one in heat.

The noises Mira is making aren’t any more dignified. In between her demands of more, more, MORE, and harder, damn it, need it harder, come on, even if she’s left Rumi no room to actually answer those demands herself and is instead just taking what she wants from her, she lets out these low, guttural cries that sound more animal than human, which seems appropriate given how Mira feels more animal than human right now, riding Rumi like a beast that’s been let loose and is now finally free to feast. To devour.

Mira snaps her hips viciously down against Rumi’s lap, squeezing tightly around her every time she bottoms out inside her. She milks desperate, filthy whines of please, Mira—please, please, out of Rumi, and Mira just feels fucking high on it. Her body is starting to scream in protest at all of the exertion, but Mira pushes past the discomfort and the burn in not just her thighs but every single muscle in her body too and goes harder, faster, until her vision starts to swim and she starts to feel that familiar heat-pressure building up low in her gut, her body going tingly with it.

Rumi is a mess underneath her, babbling incoherently. “M-Mira, please,” she gasps out as Mira slams back down against her and then swivels her hips on her cock, grinding her clit down against Rumi, “oh, god, oh fuck—I can’t, please, I—I need to—”

It’s like a switch has been flipped in Mira’s brain because what spills out of her mouth this time isn’t rough or demanding at all but a breathless, trembling whimper instead, pathetic and submissive—the sound of an omega coming undone at the thought of her alpha filling her.

“Fuck me,” she sobs out, then more insistently, like there’s a part of her—the real her, she’d like to think, that just had to take a backseat to the omega in her, to the heat clouding her senses—that wants to maintain some semblance of dignity and control even when she’s begging, “Fuck me, Rumi.”

Rumi groans, and Mira is about to snap at her again when she suddenly rolls them over, still buried inside her. Mira lands on her back with a soft oof, but before she can wrap her legs around Rumi’s hips, Rumi grabs her by hers and hauls her into her thrust. Mira screams, and then all she can do is uselessly and helplessly claw at the sheets as Rumi starts really laying into her like the alpha in her has finally taken over.

There’s a mix of desperation and brutality to the way she’s driving her cock into Mira, pulling out with almost no resistance before she fucks back into her so hard Mira is seeing stars. She grunts with every thrust, her entire body flushed and sweat-slick from effort, and this time it’s Mira who just lays back and takes it like the good, submissive omega that she should be. She cries out every time Rumi slams back into her, moans, “Fuck, baby,” too far gone to care that she’s calling Rumi that now too, “s-so good—ngh! Don’t stop, oh god, don’t stop,” clenching down around the drag of Rumi’s cock inside her as she shamelessly begs, “Come in me,” over and over, come in me come in me come in me—

“God, Mira,” Rumi groans, the first real thing she’s said since she started plowing into her like she’s got something to prove, “you can’t just—ah, fuck, do you even hear yourself right now?”

Mira doesn’t know if her mind is playing tricks on her or if she’s picking up on just the slightest edge in Rumi’s voice. She doesn’t even feel like she’s just fucking her anymore, but claiming her, like this isn’t the careful or considerate or soft Rumi but the part of her that’s pure alpha instinct. It’s not mean or cruel exactly, and maybe she really is just incredulous hearing Mira—who’s so far done nothing but boss and shove her around—beg for her to breed her, but there’s an unmistakable sharpness to it.

“Rumi,” Mira whines, and Rumi lets herself get crushed in Mira’s arms, panting into her mouth as she rocks into her with desperate thrusts. This time, Mira gets her legs around Rumi too, keeping Rumi right where she wants her. She presses their foreheads together so she can watch Rumi come apart.

“That’s it,” Mira murmurs against Rumi’s mouth, keening at another hard thrust, “hah, come on, Rumi.”

“Please, Mira,” Rumi groans, hips already stuttering, “I’m gonna—oh god, fuck—”

“Yeah, come on, Rumi, give it to me.” Mira squeezes down tighter around her, goading her. “Come in me, fill me, please, please—”

Rumi gives one last, big shove of her hips as she drives into Mira so hard she sends the headboard slamming against the wall and, finally, comes with Mira’s legs wrapped around her. She cries out, broken, almost like it hurts, and Mira feels the hot splurge of her cum inside her. Her hands crush down on Mira’s hips as she tries to push all of it deeper into Mira, as deep as Mira can possibly take her, cock pulsing and twitching as she spends herself completely inside her. It’s that flood of warmth inside Mira that triggers her orgasm.

She comes clenching down on Rumi’s cock like a vice, milking a groan and another spurt of cum out of her. She sobs from how good it feels, better than anything she’s ever felt in her entire life, maybe, wet gushing down her already messy, ruined thighs. She wants to say something, anything at all, but all she can get herself to actually do is whimper helplessly as she full-body shudders through orgasm. She’s still spasming helplessly on Rumi’s cock, like her pussy’s refusing to let her go, clenching and unclenching with every aftershock until it feels less like she’s coming with Rumi than being wrung out by her.

As wrecked as Rumi is herself, she takes it upon herself to pet Mira’s sides soothingly, murmuring praises of, “You did so well,” and reminds her to, “Just breathe, baby,” until Mira finally goes boneless underneath her.

Neither of them move or say a word for a while. Mira clings onto Rumi, fluttering and pulsing around her still-hard cock inside her. She buries her face in Rumi’s neck again, breathing her in until her own heartbeat steadies and she feels mostly human again.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” Rumi says. Mira tries to say, fine, but all that comes out is an exhausted grunt. Rumi plants a soft kiss on her lips then slowly, carefully, draws her hips back, until her cock slides out of Mira’s ruined cunt with an obscenely wet pop.

Mira whines at the sudden emptiness… and then shivers as Rumi’s cum starts to ooze out of her in thick, sticky globs, pooling under her ass. She thinks about how, somewhat understandably, the mess they’d end up making on her sheets had been the least of her concerns when she dragged Rumi here, but now she can’t help but be mortified by it. At how much of it there is, seeping out of her steadily. But then she catches the look on Rumi’s face as she watches Mira leak her, and catches the way that makes her cock jolt like it’s been electrocuted. She looks just as conflicted as she is painfully turned on by the fact she came inside her girlfriend’s best friend.

Their eyes meet across the plane of Mira’s body, and without looking away, Mira reaches down between her legs, slicking her fingers with Rumi’s cum, and pushes it all back inside her. She can’t help the way her back arches off the mattress as she pumps her fingers languidly, sighing as that warmth spreads through her again. Rumi sucks in a sharp breath, her hips giving a helpless little jerk like she can feel it too.

“Mira,” she groans, and her dick twitches again as Mira pulls her fingers out with a sloppy squelch.

Mira turns over so she’s on her hands and knees. She looks back over her shoulder, impatient, expectant. She hopes Rumi is too dense to realize that she’s blushing from the humiliation of presenting herself to Rumi like this, offering her already thoroughly wrecked pussy for her to use again (and again, and again), and that she’s too distracted by the mess she made inside Mira, still trickling down her thighs now, to tell it apart from the flush of sex already painting her skin.

“Come on,” she grumbles at Rumi, “you know that’s not going to be enough—for either of us.”

Rumi looks embarrassed now too, hearing that, but she leans closer to Mira all the same. Mira can feel the swollen, insistent heat of Rumi’s cock against the back of her thigh, and that alone feels so good that it’s enough to override all of Mira’s humiliation at being so desperate to be fucked and filled again that she’d beg like a whore for it if she had to. Luckily, Zoey’s sent a rather easy alpha her way, so Mira doesn’t actually have to do any begging at all (at least, not yet—what comes out of her mouth later when she’s got Rumi back inside her is a different story). She only has to spread her legs wider and lift her hips a little higher to beckon Rumi back inside her: Rumi holds Mira by the hip again as she pushes back into her, sighing as she bottoms out.

Mira moans like it’s been ages since she last had Rumi inside her, which is—humiliating, this entire thing is just so humiliating, but everything goes fuzzy between her ears again once Rumi starts thrusting into her, her hands steady on Mira’s hips.

Rumi rocks into her, slow and unhurried, and there’s still so much of her cum inside Mira and now she’s back inside her too that Mira feels so full already—but she’s moving too fucking slow, like she’s trying to make love to Mira when all Mira wants is to be fucked. Frustrated, she squeezes down tight around Rumi and whines, “Move,” at her even as she starts slamming back into Rumi with everything she’s got anyway, too impatient to wait for her to do as she’s told. She feels Rumi’s grip on her hips falter just a little bit as she fucks herself on her cock, gone feral with her need for more, more, MORE. “Come on,” she grunts, clenching down around Rumi so hard that Rumi almost doubles over, “fuck me, fuck me—”, voice breaking into a sob.

With a groan, Rumi starts fucking Mira the way she wants again—hard and filthy, and merciless in how she drives her cock so deep into her that Mira can feel it all the way in the back of her throat, and Mira moans out, “Yes,” as that feeling of fullness radiates throughout her entire body and just overwhelms her, consumes her, “yes, yes, yes,” and then she’s fucking back onto Rumi again, meeting her thrust for thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air around them. “God, Rumi, yes. Just like that, ngh—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

Rumi makes this small, helpless noise, something caught halfway between a whimper and a gasp. Even through the daze of her heat, Mira can’t help but think she almost sounds like a puppy, pathetic and, honestly, a little cute, which is the last thing she thought she would actually like in an alpha.

She doesn’t get to dwell on that mid-fuck epiphany for too long, though, because Rumi suddenly pushes her all the way down until she’s flat on her stomach, using one hand to press the side of Mira’s face into the pillow underneath her head while pinning her down with the other. Mira moans uselessly and helplessly as Rumi fucks her into the sheets like she’s hell-bent on making her come again.

She shifts under Rumi’s weight, hips tilting up almost on instinct, just enough to have Rumi’s cock dragging against that spot that makes all the nerve endings inside her light up with every thrust, grinding it mercilessly, and her whole body jolts like she’s being shocked each time she’s driven down into the sheets.

Mira knows what she’s doing, arching herself up like that, the same way she knows it’s pathetic to give in to it, but she can’t bring herself to care, not when it feels so fucking good. The pressure doesn’t let up, not once, the angle locking her into a rhythm that’s all friction and no reprieve. It makes her teeth clench down against the spit-damp pillowcase.

“Yeah? You like that?” Rumi asks softly, breathlessly, not once letting up on the pace or relentlessness of her thrusts. There’s something about that—the sharp contrast between how Rumi is fucking her and how Rumi seems to genuinely be invested in learning her: all the ways to make her feel good, all the ways she likes it, her body, inside-out—that really, really fucking does it for Mira. She can’t help the way she tightens up at that, or the way her cunt yields to Rumi, letting her move deeper, harder.

“Are you close, Mira?” Rumi asks, and god, she sounds so fucking gone that it makes Mira clamp down hard around her again, muffling her moan into her pillow, “Yeah?” She drops her face between Mira’s shoulder blades, pressing kisses against her overheated skin and along the ridges of her spine as she rolls her hips steadily against her. “You can do it again, can’t you? Come for me again, baby, I can feel it—I know you can. I’ve got you, Mira, just let go.”

Mira tumbles over the edge screaming. Her whole body seizes underneath Rumi, her cunt fluttering desperately around Rumi’s cock as she fucks her through the aftershocks of her orgasm, until Mira's sobbing again. It hits Rumi fast this time too, like the dam’s been broken and now there’s nothing to stop her or hold her back from pumping Mira full of her over and over now like the dutiful alpha that she’s expected to be. She drops her face to Mira’s neck with a helpless whine, teeth grazing her sweat-slick skin as her thrusts turn sharp and desperate, and for a second Mira’s panic cuts through the haze of her heat and arousal—Rumi is an alpha but she’s not Mira’s alpha, she can’t be—but Rumi doesn’t actually bite down on her, just presses her mouth there like it’s going to be enough to keep the urge to at bay, and then she’s spilling into Mira all over again.

They pause for only a second to catch their breaths before Rumi starts moving against her again. She’s still hard inside Mira, and Mira still needs more. It’s a good thing, then, that every orgasm they’ve wrung out of each other has made the climb back up so much easier and so much quicker now. She supposes that’s the one thing she finds kind of convenient about this entire ordeal: there’s no sluggish recovery, no fumbling to get back into rhythm again—just raw, desperate momentum.

It’s the best part of this entire ordeal. There’s nothing like the feeling of Rumi’s hands pressing down on her hips as she fucks her through the mattress, and neither of them are even really talking anymore, just moaning wordlessly into each other’s mouths as they bring each other over the edge again—and again, and again, over and over, relentlessly, dizzily, and Mira whines as Rumi shoots load after load into her, so much of it that she feels it starting to leak out around the seal of her cock as Rumi continues to thrust into her. Between the mess inside her and Rumi’s cock, Mira doesn’t think she’s ever felt so full in her entire life.

Somewhere in the haze, Mira knows it should be humiliating how quick she is to take it again, to beg for it again, but the need drowns out everything else. And, if anything, the shame might even actually make it better. It makes it so much hotter for Mira, and makes her crave it—makes her crave Rumi—even more.

But still, still, it isn’t enough. It’s not. She needs more. She needs—

Mira doesn’t even realize at first. Her brain is still scrambled up so bad by all of the orgasms Rumi’s wrung out of her and all of the cum she’s wrung out of Rumi that she doesn’t immediately pick up on the fact that there’s almost something wrong to how Rumi is fucking her now. She’s still going hard at it, still pounding into Mira with the kind of steady, athletic relentlessness she honestly didn’t think Rumi was capable of, with or without her alpha instincts kicking her body into overdrive, but it’s—different now. Less deep, she realizes, like there’s something there that’s physically stopping her from pushing all the way in.

Her breath hitches.

The fuzziness she’s been drowning in gives way to clarity again, throwing everything back into sharp relief. Rumi’s cock is swelling inside her, thickening at the base, stopping her short.

Her knot.

If Mira had been happy to just lie there and let Rumi have her way with her, now she comes alive again. Now, she pushes back against Rumi insistently, reaching behind her to grab Rumi’s thigh, trying to pull her even closer, even deeper, until Rumi’s knot pops right into her. “Come on,” she whines when Rumi resists, slowing her hips. Mira is aware of how she sounds like she’s throwing a tantrum right now and still, she doesn’t care. “Knot me, Rumi,” she begs instead, trying to push back against her again, so frustrated now that she has the one thing she needs the most within her reach, and still, still, she’s being deprived of it, “come on, please. Knot me, Rumi. Need it, need you.”

Under normal circumstances, Mira would hate herself for this. For admitting she needs anybody. For admitting there are some things she just can’t do for herself, no matter how hard she tries to convince herself otherwise—but these aren’t exactly very normal circumstances, are they? And it’s not like she’s entirely herself right now anyway, never is when she’s in heat, so maybe she can get away with it this time. Maybe she can allow herself this one moment of weakness.

“I know,” Rumi grits out, still resisting Mira’s every effort to just pull Rumi all the way into her where she needs her most. “I know, Mira, but—not like this,” and Mira sobs at the sudden emptiness, body clenching down around nothing, as Rumi pulls out.

The loss feels like a slap, so sharp it jolts her out of the haze for a second, only to leave her spiraling back into it harder. Anger prickles at the edges of her shame. She knows it’s irrational, and she knows it’s ridiculous, but her heat is eating her alive and driving her mad with need, and all she can think is that Rumi is being unfair, being cruel, even if she hasn’t been anything but considerate to Mira since they fell into bed with each other, but none of that matters because her body won’t listen to reason, all it cares about is that Rumi is keeping her from the one thing that can finally give it relief. It makes Mira want to scream at Rumi, makes her glare over her shoulder like she’s actually going to pick a fight with her, she doesn’t care that she’s still dripping her—

But then Rumi looks back at her like she’s terrified Mira might actually bite her or something, and not in the fun, sexy way. She holds her hands up, eyes wide, and stumbles over her words as she blurts out, “I-I swear, Mira, I do want to, um—do it too, but…” She shifts awkwardly. “I-It’s just that it might not be very comfortable for you if I knot you while you’re face-down like this. We’ll… be stuck together for a while, and I don’t want you to be, like, pinned or anything, and just—I-I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. So… please? Just give me a second, okay? Let’s just find a better position for you and then—” Her voice softens, but there’s a kind of shy insistence beneath it. “Then I’ll give you what you need. I promise.”

Suddenly Mira feels bad for wanting to yell at Rumi. “Okay,” she mumbles sullenly, and somehow Rumi smiling at her like it doesn’t bother her at all that she almost got yelled at only makes Mira feel worse. This is, without a doubt, the most inconvenient part about her heat. Her emotions are just completely haywire, all out of sorts.

They wordlessly rearrange themselves in bed. Mira ends up lying on her side, with Rumi curled around her back. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels the head of Rumi’s cock nudging at her entrance, and then she lets it out as a grateful sigh when Rumi pushes into her again. Rumi reaches around to slip her hand between Mira’s legs, keeping her fingers firm against Mira’s clit as she starts move against her again.

She fucks into Mira slow and steady, and maybe earlier Mira would have complained about that, demanded her to fuck her harder, but right now she can’t really find it in herself to care so much, like it’s enough now for her to know she will get what she wants so it doesn’t matter so much anymore how she gets there. She just reaches one hand back to curl around Rumi’s neck, pulling her closer, and she turns her head to catch Rumi’s mouth in a brief, wet kiss.

Rumi swallows down the gasp Mira lets out when she pulls back just far enough to drive her cock right back in hard and as deep as it can possibly go with her knot in the way. Her rocking turns into thrusting, like she’s the one impatient now to knot Mira, and Mira rolls her hips back to meet her every thrust. Rumi mouths along the crook of Mira’s neck the entire time, giving her just the faintest bit of teeth again but never tipping over into actually biting down on her. The omega in Mira is at war with the still lucid, still sensible part of her that knows it would be a disaster if Rumi actually did mark her—but it’s easy to push that thought aside as Rumi rubs and flicks at her clit in time with her thrusts, whimpering into Mira’s ear every time she pushes in as far as she can go and gets just the faintest tease of pressure against her knot.

“You feel so good,” she slurs out against Mira’s ear, whimpering again as she pushes in.

“Rumi,” Mira moans, squeezing down around her, “please, I’m—I’m so close.”

“I know,” Rumi answers, brushing her lips against Mira’s pulse. She moves the hand she had between Mira’s legs to the swell of her hip then says, “I’m going to put it in now, okay?”

Mira inhales sharply, then nods eagerly, frantically. “Yes,” she sobs, “please, please.”

Rumi gives her another kiss, then she thrusts into her a few more times before, finally, Mira feels Rumi’s knot pressing past her entrance, until it’s settled in against the most tender parts of her. The feeling of it is unlike anything else, just amazing beyond imagination, and beyond words too that all Mira can do is sob before she makes a sound like she’s dying and comes. Behind her, Rumi groans as she spills into her again, sounding every bit as wrecked and grateful and relieved as Mira feels right now, crushing Mira in her arms as she comes for what feels like minutes, just an endless, overwhelming stream flooding inside Mira. They shake and whimper through their orgasms together, and then, finally, they settle.

Mira’s body is trembling from head to toe, twitching with the aftershocks, but for the first time since her heat started she finally feels nice and loose again—the irony of which is not lost on her, given how Rumi’s knot keeps her stuffed so full she almost can’t breathe around it, but all that really matters is that Mira feels nice again. The frantic desperation that’s been eating her alive ebbs away all at once, leaving her body slack and pliant against the sheets, her head lolling bonelessly against the pillow. She feels nice and feels good for once instead of feverish with need, satisfied instead of strung-out, now that the edge has finally been taken off.

She lets herself just float in that hazy bliss, eyes fluttering shut. It isn’t long before her mind starts to wander, though, and they lead her back to Zoey. She wonders, distantly, if Zoey likes it like this too. If she likes getting knotted in this position, and that’s why Rumi guided her into it so carefully, made sure Mira was comfortable before she gave her what she needed most. It’s definitely weird, thinking about her best friend’s preferences in bed while she’s in bed with her best friend’s girlfriend but—whatever. For now, anyway.

She’s pulled out of her reverie by a brush of lips against the back of her neck.

“How are you feeling?” Rumi asks.

“Better,” Mira answers almost instantly, and her embarrassment is quick to catch up to her.

Rumi just hums, drowsy. “Still comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Mira shifts in Rumi’s arms, careful not to jolt the knot inside her. “Hey, um… Thank you.”

Rumi hums again, sounding both pleased and like she’s only another second away from passing out, so Mira decides to just leave it at that and let her get some rest.

Her entire body is heavy with her own exhaustion too. The heat that had been burning her alive earlier is a low, steady warmth now, something she can sink into without the fear of being swallowed whole by it anymore. She lets her eyes flutter shut again, the steady thrum of Rumi’s heartbeat at her back lulling her further under, her knot an uncomfortable but still oddly reassuring weight inside her. She breathes out a sigh, settled, and—for the first time in the long, long hours of her heat—safe. Then she drifts off to sleep too.

Mira wakes up some time later in the afternoon alone in bed.

It takes her a second to even realize she’s awake, blinking groggily against the sunlight spilling through the curtains, her body still heavy and sore in that way that only makes her want to sink back into the sheets. But the space beside her is empty now. She’s empty now, reflexively clenching down around nothing but the memory of Rumi’s cock and her knot.

Her stomach churns. Panic rises up fast inside her. It’s irrational the way she knows most of the things she’s been feeling since her heated started are irrational, but she can’t help it. She’s still in heat, and her body still remembers how it felt to finally be full, tethered and just—not alone, like she is now, again. And then she’s spiraling before she can stop herself.

Did Rumi just leave her, after knotting her? Why would she? And if she did leave, how long has she been gone? How long has she left Mira there, lying in a pool of her own slick and all of the cum Rumi left inside her as the only proof she was here?

She sits up, heart pounding loudly in her ears. She forces herself out of bed, her entire sore, aching body protesting even the slightest bit of movement, and snatches her bathrobe from the floor. She throws it on haphazardly, not bothering to close it all the way, and trudges out of her room, bracing a hand against the wall to keep herself from stumbling onto her face.

Relief hits Mira like a punch to the face when she finds Rumi rummaging through her cupboards in the kitchen. She’s dressed in her hoodie and sweats again, but judging from the outline of her dick straining faintly against the front, not all the way hard again just yet but definitely not soft, she doesn’t seem to be wearing any underwear underneath. The sight makes heat curl low in her belly all over again, and then Mira chastises herself for panicking about Rumi being gone only to stare at her dick first thing as soon as she finds her.

Sensing, or maybe smelling, her presence, Rumi turns towards her. “You’re up,” she says, then with a sheepish smile, adds, “I, uh… hope you don’t mind that I’m looking through your stuff. It’s just, I woke up a few minutes ago and thought we could both use something to eat, and I remember Zoey telling me you really like this one brand of instant ramyeon, but…” She plucks one of the packets of instant ramyeon from the cupboard and holds it up. “She said you like it spicy, but I didn’t realize she meant this spicy.”

“It’s not that spicy,” Mira finds herself answering back defensively. “Anyway, there’s some bread in the fridge if you don’t want the ramyeon.”

Rumi blinks at her, then huffs out a laugh. “Thanks, but I meant… Well, I was thinking more about you, actually.”

There’s a part of Mira that wants to argue that she can handle her spice perfectly fine, thank you very much, but then she thinks a little more about it and decides that maybe Rumi is right. Maybe her stomach can’t really do extra spicy right now, and honestly, the thought of making out with her again with extra-spicy ramyeon breath makes her self-conscious enough to not want to touch the stuff. Rumi probably wouldn’t mind, but still.

In the end, they eat jam-filled toasted bread together in silence.

It’s a little absurd, how only a few hours ago she’d been screaming herself hoarse on Rumi’s cock, clawing at the sheets like she was going to actually die if Rumi didn’t come in her and knot her, and now here they are, standing in the middle of her kitchen together like none of it ever happened. If her throat weren’t scraped raw, she might have actually laughed about that. As it stands, all she can do is take another bite of her sad excuse of a sandwich and chug down another mouthful of water, all while trying her hardest not to sneak another glance at Rumi’s crotch again.

God. Somehow Mira feels more pathetic now than she did when she was actually begging for Rumi’s cock earlier.

“Mira,” Rumi says, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

Mira freezes mid-chew, then slowly nods her head.

Rumi looks relieved for all of two seconds before she goes back to fidgeting awkwardly. “So, uh, you don’t actually have to answer if you don’t want to, but… Zoey told me you always spend your heats alone, and I—I-I guess I just wanted to know why you do it.”

Mira chews on her food slowly, narrowing her eyes at Rumi. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Rumi rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. She’s actually blushing when she answers, “It’s just… you’re cool, and you’re obviously beautiful, and you could get any alpha you want, and—” She shakes her head so hard Mira worries she might actually knock something loose up in there. “Sorry. Nevermind. It was stupid of me to ask anyway.”

Mira doesn’t say anything at first. Or it’s more like she can’t, because her mind has latched a little too hard onto Rumi calling her obviously beautiful, and it’s knee-jerk, how giddy she feels over it, even if she also hates that she feels giddy at all. She knows she’s attractive, has had plenty of people, many of whom she’s taken to bed, tell her she is, so it makes no sense for her to suddenly start giggling like a schoolgirl over Rumi stating the obvious to her.

And maybe it’s just all the great, almost profound orgasms from earlier loosening her lips now, but she finds herself saying, “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t do that stuff.” She pauses, chewing on her lip almost self-consciously, and goes on, “I-It’s just… I’ve never really been good at relationships, I guess. They’re kind of… hard for me. Sex is one thing, but anything beyond that”—anything more vulnerable than that, she thinks but doesn’t say—“is just kind of impossible for me.”

She’s had plenty of sex, and she’s never been shy about taking someone to bed when she wants to, but that’s… different. Sex is just bodies, friction, release. She can keep control there, keep the upper hand. But her heats are something else entirely. They strip her down, leave her raw and desperate in ways she can’t stand to show anyone. She hates how needy she gets, how she clings, how she wants, and the truth of it is that she just hasn’t found anyone she feels that she can trust with that part of herself.

The only person who’s ever come close is—Rumi.

Rumi, who says nothing now, still, but her silence speaks volumes for her anyway. Somehow, Mira can tell that Rumi’s already figured out how to read between the lines and dig up what Mira has left unspoken. She doesn’t know if she should feel relieved or disquieted by that, but decides that maybe she can just file that away for some other time.

“You know,” she says in the end, compelled by something that exists entirely beyond logic and reason, “I’ve always thought that my ideal girlfriend would be someone like Zoey.”

Maybe it’s a little weird to say that to her best friend’s girlfriend, but then again, what even counts as weird anymore between them when they spent the last few hours tangled in the sheets together? Rumi literally knotted her, and that’s as intimate as two people can possibly get. And anyway, Mira does mean it. She’s never gotten serious with anyone the way Zoey is serious with Rumi, but if she were to, then she hopes it’s someone like Zoey… or, maybe, even someone like Rumi, who just feels like a natural, honestly wonderful extension of Zoey at this point.

Thankfully, Rumi doesn’t seem to find the confession weird or intrusive at all because she just smiles warmly at Mira and says, “Yeah, Zoey’s great.”

Mira finds herself smiling too.

They clear away their plates and glasses in silence, Mira rinsing hers out at the sink while Rumi wipes crumbs off the counter, and for a moment it almost feels normal—domestic, even. But then it hits her: the unmistakable rush of slick between her legs, hot and insistent, and the dull throb low in her belly that’s been simmering quietly all this time suddenly roaring back to life. She stiffens, fingers curling tight around the edge of the counter as her breath hitches.

Rumi notices instantly, of course. Mira can feel the shift in her presence before she even turns to look at her, the way her scent sharpens and thickens in the air as Rumi’s own body starts to respond to Mira. Rumi swallows hard, fidgeting a little as she wipes her palms down her sweats, and then says, haltingly, “Um—do you… do you want to go back to your room now, or—”

Now would be a good time for them to slink back to her room, but Mira steps forward instead and gently presses Rumi back against the counter. Then, she drops to her knees in front of Rumi, bathrobe falling open around her shoulders.

Mira pulls down Rumi’s sweats and is happy to confirm she’s totally naked underneath after all, just like Mira thought she might be. She tugs Rumi back to full hardness—which really doesn’t take too long or even too much effort, given how she was halfway there already—and then leans in to suck on the head of her cock, lapping at the thin lacy threads of precum weeping out of it with a low, hungry moan. Rumi brings her hand to Mira’s hair, and Mira moans around her again, pleased, but when she looks up at Rumi, she finds her watching her with this odd look on her face.

“What is it?” Mira asks as she pulls away, a thin line of spit connecting her mouth to Rumi’s cock.

Rumi reaches down with her other hand to wipe Mira’s spit away with her thumb, then, pursing her lips, mumbles, “I don’t know. I-I guess I was just thinking about how you were, you know… staring earlier.”

There’s a part of Mira that wants to break Rumi’s brain a little by telling her I wanted to suck your cock so bad, I could feel myself go stupid with it or something else along the lines of that, something just as absurdly and cartoonishly crude, but she finds that she’s not really in the mood to poke fun at her right now. So, instead, she just candidly says, “You have a nice dick, that’s all.”

Rumi blinks down at her, surprised by the honesty, then she gets this goofy, giddy look on her face that makes Mira actually roll her eyes at her. God, she thinks fondly, just as her mouth descends on Rumi’s nice dick again, what an idiot.

It isn’t long, though, before she drags her mouth back up to the tip, sucks on it, then pulls away with a wet pop to ask Rumi, “Do you want to come on my tits?”

“W-what?” Rumi squawks.

Mira smirks up at her. “Come on. You were staring too, and the way you were grabbing at them earlier tells me you really like them.”

Rumi looks mortified. She looks like she wants the ground to open up underneath her and just swallow her whole, save her from the misery of her embarrassment, but then her dick gives an interested twitch at the offer, and eventually Rumi relents too and just nods back meekly at Mira.

“Good,” Mira says, smiling up at her, then she sucks her off again.

She’s single-minded, almost ruthless in the way she goes at it, all heat and hunger and no hesitation. It’s less about savoring and more about devouring, the kind of determined rhythm that makes Rumi’s knees buckle and has her hands scrabbling for purchase against the edge of the counter. She waits for the tell-tale signs that Rumi’s about to come before she pulls off of her again, chest heaving, then she grabs her breasts and squeezes them together as Rumi jerks herself off punishingly hard and then comes with a low, rough groan, striping Mira’s chest with rope after rope of cum. She sags back against the counter as she catches her breath, and when she looks down at Mira again, it’s like she’s trying to commit every obscene detail of this into memory, something to file away in her spank bank.

Mira’s about to tease her by saying you can even take a picture, if you want, but then Rumi suddenly pulls her back up to her feet, turns her around and cages her against the edge of the counter, then she hikes up Mira’s bathrobe until it’s pooling around her waist and then—“Ah,” Mira keens as Rumi pushes into her with one hard shove of her hips. She’s still loose from the relentless, nearly endless dicking she took earlier, and she’s still wet as all hell, so Rumi slides right in without resistance. Rumi wastes no time in fucking her either, pounding her ruthlessly and efficiently into her first of many orgasms for the afternoon. Mira cries out as she comes, and then that swiftly turns into a surprised yelp when Rumi reaches around to grab both her tits in her hands, squeezing and getting the mess she made all over them all over her own fingers, hauling Mira back into her next thrust as she spills inside her again.

Mira feels the sticky, wet mess of Rumi’s cum dripping down her thighs as she pulls out, and there’s a small part of her that hopes she doesn’t get it on the floor because she doesn’t want to have to clean that up later, but then she turns around and reels Rumi in for a kiss, and everything in her brain just goes blissfully silent again. She’s glad she didn’t have the extra spicy ramyeon after all.

It’s a blur of what little clothes they have on getting torn off on the way back to the bedroom. They stumble into her bed together, mouths locked against each other the entire time like they can’t stand to be apart, not even for a second. Mira ends up on her back with her knees pressed into her chest, and it’s already a little difficult breathing folded in half like this, but Rumi knocks the rest of the air out of Mira’s lungs when she sinks down and into her again, her hands firm against the backs of Mira’s knees.

There’s a moment where they just stay like that, totally still, breathing heavy. Mira’s already so fucking gone on it, just being manhandled like this, being made to take Rumi’s cock like this—and then their eyes meet. There’s a question in Rumi’s gaze, something searching, like she’s still waiting for Mira to say yes, to give her that last bit of permission as if she hasn’t already fucked her within an inch of her life. Still, Mira nods, quick and desperate, and Rumi leans down as far as the position they’re in allows her, brushing her lips clumsily against Mira’s in something that’s almost a kiss, then she draws back, pulls nearly all the way out, before she slams back into Mira so hard that she screams, hands scrambling for purchase on Rumi’s shoulders.

They spend the next day and a half fucking all day and through the night, letting themselves get swept up in that endless feedback loop of raw, unfiltered intensity. Rumi comes in Mira every single time, comes in her over and over, until her knot starts to swell at the base of her cock again for her to fill Mira with again, and then she holds her close after, whispering sweet nothings and encouragements of you did so well and that’s it, baby, into her ear. Mira shudders happily in her arms, as full as she could ever hope to be, before sleep pulls her under again. They steal time in between to eat or shower, and at some point Rumi decides to forgo clothes entirely too, but they always have sex again before long.

The next time she wakes up from another one of their post-fuck naps, she just knows it’s finally over. That feverish feeling that’s been burning underneath her skin is gone, and her scent isn’t so sharp or so noxiously potent anymore. The ache that had been eating her alive is quiet now too, finally. For one disbelieving second she braces for that restless hunger to spark up again—but it doesn’t.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Mira feels like she can breathe again.

Rumi is still asleep, her arm slung over Mira’s waist. Mira just takes her in for a second, the rise and fall of her breathing, the disheveled state of her hair, the little bites and bruises littered all over her skin. Little souvenirs from Mira. Something tender unfurls in her chest as she watches Rumi sleep, only to be undercut by the reminder that this was always meant to be temporary, and that it was always meant to come to an end, sooner or later.

She never usually feels so wistful when it comes to her more casual sexual encounters, but obviously, there’s nothing casual about this. She wonders what ‘normal’ is supposed to look like for them—all three of them, not just her and Rumi—now that she knows what Rumi sounds like when she’s close, or when Mira works her over just right with her mouth or her hands, or both, and now that she knows how it feels to have her inside her, and how her body feels next to her in bed. It had been easy to stop seeing Rumi as her best friend’s girlfriend while they were in the throes of mindless, relentless fucking, but now that even that’s come to an end, it’s all she can think about again.

Just then, Rumi starts to stir. She lifts her head up and blinks groggily at Mira, who greets her with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rumi croaks back at her, rubbing at her eyes. She pauses, turning back to Mira for a second, then that same understanding flickers over her face. “Are you…”

Mira nods.

“That’s good,” Rumi says, relieved but still so very awkward.

Neither of them say anything for a while. Then, clearing her throat, Mira asks, “Are you hungry? I could order some food, if you want.”

Rumi’s stomach growls in response for her. She looks away, embarrassed, before they both fall into a fit of laughter.

Mira orders the food—some fried chicken, or maybe a whole lot of it, because it just feels right to gorge herself on that right now after all of the near non-stop sex she’s been having—and they take turns showering. Mira throws on her favorite oversized sweater and pajamas and then changes the sheets while Rumi is still in the bathroom. She uses up an entire can of air spray too in her attempt to mask the now near-toxic smell of sweat and sex clinging to the air. It’s never usually this intense, but then again, she never usually has someone fucking her into the sheets for, like, forty-eight hours straight, so.

The food arrives just as Rumi steps out of the bathroom. It takes her a while to join Mira, because her hair is ridiculously long and takes just as ridiculously long to braid, and at the peak of their heat-fueled fucking she stopped bothering to tie it altogether, but she does so now with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. Mira leaves her be, deciding maybe it’s good for them to have some distance between them again, and gets started on her fried chicken.

Rumi joins her a few minutes later. She’s dressed in her hoodie and sweats again, looking the exact way she did when she first showed up on Mira’s doorstep. Her face lights up at the sight of the fried chicken, but all that delight isn’t enough to get her to actually talk either, so they just eat together in mostly companionable silence.

Mira sneaks glances at Rumi from time to time, thinking about how jarring it is seeing her like this again. So… normal, like the past two and a half days never transpired between them. Except Mira knows better, of course. She knows that they might not say anything now, but they’re both thinking about it, and they’ll both still be thinking about it, long after Rumi leaves.

That comes too, eventually.

After they clean up the dishes and Mira sets aside some fried chicken for later, she sees Rumi off at her door. They hover there awkwardly, Rumi fiddling with the edges of her hoodie. Neither of them still know what to say now that the haze has lifted and the whole world feels so startlingly normal again.

Rumi tries, though. “Uh… thanks for the food,” she says sheepishly.

“Yeah,” Mira answers, huffing out a weak laugh, “sure. Anytime.”

Another awkward pause follows. Rumi shifts her weight from one foot to the other, glances briefly at Mira, then at the floor. “I guess I should… go.”

Mira nods, throat tight. “Yeah. Okay.”

But just as Rumi turns to leave, Mira blurts out, “Wait,” before she can stop herself.

Rumi turns around again, brows furrowed, and Mira steps forward to tug her back by the sleeve of her hoodie, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against her lips. She doesn’t know if she’s even allowed that now, outside the confines of her heat, but she felt compelled to do it all the same. The same way she feels compelled now to tell Rumi, “Thank you,” not quite able to meet her eyes.

Rumi blinks at her, stunned, then a soft, kind smile spreads over her face.

“Anytime,” she echoes back at Mira gently.

Then, she’s gone.

Mira stands there for a while, eyes glued to Rumi’s back as she disappears down the hallway, then she heaves a sigh and hauls herself back inside her apartment.

She drags herself back to her room, where she flops down face-first into her bed. She breathes in the smell of fresh, clean sheets, burying her face into her pillow. She’s sore as all hell, and it’s a miracle she can even still walk at all with the dicking she just got. She decides maybe the best way to spend the rest of her day is like this, curled up in bed, catching up on all of the sleep she didn’t get in the throes of her heat.

But not even twenty minutes later, her phone starts to ring. She ignores it at first, but then whoever is calling her is clearly not going to take no for an answer, so with a groan and without lifting her head up from her pillow, she reaches out and blindly gropes for her phone on the bedside table. She tilts her head ever so slightly just so she can read the caller ID—and then groans again.

She brings the phone to her ear and grumbles, “What.”

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Zoey says, her voice so squeaky and so loud that Mira has to pull the phone away from her ear for a second.

“Of course I am,” she says, exasperated, cheeks burning up at whatever it is Zoey’s insinuating. And anyway—did Rumi actually report back to Zoey or something? Is she just that much of a lapdog? “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Zoey just barrels on, unfazed by Mira’s grumpiness. “So, how are you? You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mira answers, clipped, then she adds in a more surly tone, “but I’m tired, and I would really like to get some rest right now.”

“I understand,” Zoey replies, and it’s easy to imagine her nodding sagely as she says that. Mira would like for this to be the end of their conversation, but she isn’t so lucky like that, because Zoey then goes on to say, “But it helped, didn’t it?”

What does Zoey even expect her to say? ‘Yes, it helped, and your girlfriend is really good in bed, just like you said she would be. You go, girl’?

In the end, she doesn’t say anything at all, which only seems to bode worse for her because Zoey takes that as an invitation to keep talking.

“She came through for you, didn’t she? You don’t have to say it out loud, but… I can tell. You sound better. Lighter.”

Mira just groans into her pillow, dragging it over her head like that’ll smother the conversation out of existence.

And Zoey just laughs softly, unbothered. “Either way—I’m glad. You deserve that kind of care too, Mira,” she says so earnestly it almost makes Mira uncomfortable, that knee-jerk reflex of wanting to reject any softness kicking in, even if it’s coming from Zoey. There’s a beat, then she adds, voice warm but teasing, “And anyway… what’s mine is yours.”

Mira almost has a heart attack hearing that. “Oh my god,” she grumbles at Zoey, “shut up.”

Zoey just laughs again, and despite everything, Mira can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips. All of her teasing and probing and generally just this entire awkward situation she’s put all of them in aside, Mira is happy to hear Zoey’s voice. It always grounds her.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Zoey says eventually, “but trust that I will be checking in on you again later.”

Mira rolls her eyes, and then scoffs when Zoey tells her, “Hey, I felt that!”

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmurs.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I know.”

“Alright. Go get some rest now.”

Before Zoey hangs up, Mira mumbles, “Hey, Zo.” There’s a pause on the other end. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Zoey replies, a big, bright smile in her voice, then she ends the call.

Mira sets her phone aside then turns her face back into her pillow, trying to hide the big smile on her own face even if there’s no one there to catch her.