fic rec fic rec!
Have you read this funny, sweet and hot fic by @honestground ?
you should!
something to take the edge off - honestground - KPop Demon Hunters (2025) [Archive of Our Own]
[i started writing a lil follow-up to this fic ages ago and will probably never finish it SO considering i haven't put out anything in a hot minute... here's that]
By the time Rumi wakes up the next morning, the number of orgasms she’s had in her lifetime has climbed from zero to six.
At least she thinks it’s six. Things got a bit hazy there towards the end. Rumi has a vague recollection of Mira casually asking Oh, you want to taste yourself? and putting her fingers in Rumi’s mouth and her body had just... reacted in a way she didn’t know was even possible. So. Maybe six and a half? A good result for a couple of hours, in any case. At least she thinks so. Rumi really has no frame of reference for any of this.
“Good morning,” Mira says.
Rumi turns over a little to face her properly. Rumi has seen Mira in all manner of looks; stage makeup, editorial makeup, red carpet makeup, the war paint she applies before hunts for fun and dramatic effect, but she thinks she likes Mira best just like this, all soft and bare and tousled from sleep and—well, everything else.
Mira asks, “How are you feeling?”
Rumi shifts her hips experimentally. “Kind of… sore, honestly.”
“Yeah?” Mira’s brow creases in concern. Beneath the blankets, she reaches out to touch Rumi’s stomach, who flinches a little, ticklish, before leaning into it. “Core or pelvic floor?”
“Both, I guess? It’s fine,” Rumi reassures. “I’m not complaining. You guys gave me a workout, that’s all.”
“You’re welcome,” Zoey murmurs sleepily from behind her. She shuffles closer, burying her face between Rumi’s shoulderblades and sighing deeply. “Last night was amazing.”
It had been amazing. A highlight reel automatically plays out in Rumi’s head; Zoey and Mira taking their time with her body, tracing all of her patterns reverently with their mouths; Zoey on top of her, sweet sounds spilling from her lips as Rumi memorised the dips and curves of her under her hands; Mira pressed up against her back, skin softer than Rumi could ever have imagined, as she patiently worked between Rumi’s legs with her fingers; Zoey and Mira playing rock-paper-scissors to determine who gets to show Rumi how to do the thing and Zoey ultimately winning, but Mira directing them anyway—showing Rumi how to get on top of Zoey, how to arrange their legs and tilt their hips, how to bring their bodies together in a slow, delicious grind. An additional five—and a half?—glorious, earth-shattering orgasms.
And kisses. So many kisses. She’s pleased to realise that she’s completely lost count of how many times she’s been kissed.
Presently, Mira looks like she wants to kiss her again. Her expression is soft, unguarded, impossibly fond, eyes studying Rumi’s whole face but always coming back to her mouth. Thinking back, it’s jarring to realise just how many times she’s seen Mira look at her like this. She’s never known what to do with it until now.
Rumi closes the distance between them, shifting across the pillow to bring their lips together. Mira hums contentedly, immediately sliding her hand into Rumi’s hair to deepen it. It’s different, less tentative than the first one, and less charged than the others from last night—it’s just warm and easy, slow and lingering, Rumi sighing softly into Mira’s mouth and feeling Mira smile against her lips.
Behind Rumi, Zoey grumbles, “I can hear you kissing.”
Mira breaks the kiss with an eyeroll, allowing her hand to slip from Rumi’s hair. “Wake up properly and you’ll get your own.”
Zoey perks upright immediately, but Rumi is already turning over to face her. Zoey is soft and pink and just as perfect as Mira when she leans in and kisses Rumi, just as slow, just as easy, drawing it out long enough that it leaves Rumi melting. When Mira sits up and leans in, Zoey moves to her in the same breath, and then Rumi can only watch, transfixed by their faces as their lips brush gently at first, then come together more deeply, a renewed warmth washing over her.
When they notice her staring, they break apart to kiss her too—at the same time again, pressing their lips to the very corners of her mouth. It would be chaste if it weren’t for the way it leaves her completely flustered. As they sink down into the mattress again, Zoey curled up against her side, Mira tracing the patterns on her right palm with her fingers, Rumi thinks she might be glowing.
But a thought still niggles at her, so Rumi breaks the silence. “Sorry, I—I have to ask. You two… how long?”
Mira pauses to consider. “A couple of years. On and off.”
“Mostly off,” Zoey clarifies. “Didn’t feel right, with you not knowing.”
Years. Rumi frowns up at the ceiling. “How did I not know? How did I miss it?”
“We were discreet,” Mira says. “And you had other things on your mind, allegedly.”
Right. Rumi certainly had her own secrets. She can’t begrudge them this one. “So, like.” She doesn’t know how to ask this. “With… me. How long?”
Mira doesn’t hesitate this time. “Always.”
Zoey nods. “There was never a time we didn’t want you, Rumi.”
“Oh.” Warmth floods Rumi’s body again, patterns flaring briefly at the intensity of it. “Okay. That’s… wow. Okay.”
Zoey gives her a reassuring squeeze, and Mira pulls Rumi’s hand to her mouth to kiss her knuckles. For a while they don’t speak, just letting the reality of morning, of this newness, settle around them.
“So… what is this, now?” Rumi asks eventually. “What are we?”
“Best friends?” Zoey offers. “Partners? Lovers?”
“Ugh,” Mira says, making a face. “We’re not that old.”
Zoey ignores her, giving Rumi another squeeze. “What do you want to be?”
“I don’t know,” Rumi says. “Just… yours, I guess.”
She hears simultaneous hitches of breath on either side of her.
“That’s… yeah,” Mira says, voice sounding rather thick. “I think that can be arranged.”
Zoey giggles and squeezes Rumi extra tight. “Aw, you made Mira cry.”
Mira grumbles and wipes her eyes. “Can we stop talking before I end up in a diabetic coma?”
“Actually, I have a very important question,” Zoey says, cheek still smushed against Rumi’s shoulder. “Why’d you go to Mira first last night?”
“Um.” Rumi can’t help cracking a smile, recalling her slightly manic thought process. “Honestly, her bedroom was closest.”
Zoey lets out an anguished noooooo while Mira barks out a wet laugh and says, “Hey, I’ll take it.”
“So unfair,” Zoey groans. “Who’s the architect who designed this place, I just wanna talk—”
“You would’ve totally fumbled if she’d showed up in your room,” Mira says. “Don’t even pretend you’d have been cool about it.”
Zoey bristles. “So that’s why you acted all nonchalant and laid on your back the whole time?”
“I was trying to come across as nonthreatening,” Mira replies. When she sees the incredulous looks on Rumi and Zoey’s faces, she reddens. “Shut up.”
They laugh quietly together, comfortable and warm beneath the blankets. Mira goes back to tracing Rumi’s patterns. Zoey is deviously silent until she says, “Well, I could eat.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mira releases Rumi’s hand so she can sit up properly, the sheets pooling around her hips as she raises her arms in a stretch. Rumi tries not to stare at Mira’s very long, very bare torso, then realises she’s probably allowed to do that now, and feels a little overwhelmed with the knowledge. “I’ll get breakfast started.”
“That’s not what I meant, actually.” Zoey shifts, then, climbing on top of Rumi, slotting easily between her thighs until they’re pressed pelvis-to-pelvis. She kisses Rumi on the tip of her nose. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Rumi says automatically, then flushes when she feels Zoey’s hands crawling up to her breasts. “Oh, you meant—oh.”
“We’ve got shit to do today,” Mira grouches, but when Zoey ducks her head, leisurely taking one of Rumi’s nipples into her mouth, and Rumi makes a truly pathetic sound, she seems to reconsider. “Fine,” she says, and settles onto her side to watch Zoey traverse her way down Rumi’s body with kisses. “But no fingers, she’s still sore. And make it fast.”
“Yes, chef,” Zoey says brightly. She shifts lower, settling onto her stomach between Rumi’s spread legs, and kisses the inside of her thigh with something like finality, like a promise. Her voice is muffled when she speaks next. “Breakfast of champions, am I right?”
Mira heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I hate it when you talk.”
By the time they stumble into the kitchen, flushed and giggling and clutching each other, all wearing Mira’s clothes, Rumi’s lifetime orgasm count has reached seven—and a half.
