No Vote at all is a Vote for Fascism

mira knows she has a history of having a bad temper, but she’s spend decades working on it by now, and generally would consider herself a calm person nowadays.

but this? this is sacred territory for her, and her wife KNOWS it. so mira loses her temper a bit.

she storms over to the elevator and presses the button for the floor where they’re in home recording studio is located, knowing zoey will likely be there.

she’s right. zoey is there, and so is rumi. the two of them are laughing about something. usually the sound brightens her day. right now, it only irritates her further. was rumi involved, too?

she opens the door to the studio, and her wives look up, their smiles widening when they see her. “hey, babe!” rumi says. “w-”

“seriously, zo?” mira cuts her off. their smiles drop, and instinct almost makes her retract her anger to chase them back.

zoey blinks in confusion, her brows furrowed. “what did i do?”

“you were fucking with my speaker, when you know im trying to work on choreograph for our song!” mira crosses her arms.

zoey recoils and gasps, offended by the accusation. “excuse me?”

rumi looks between them in surprise. she, too, knows how important it is for mira not to be messed with while she’s working on choreography. “when was this?”

“just now!”

zoey’s eyes squint in outraged disbelief. “why the hell would i mess with you when you’re working?”

“i don’t know.” mira glares at her. “i wouldn’t mess with you when you were working.”

“i wouldn’t mess with you, either! we’ve been working together for 20 years! i know how important this is to you!”

“mira,” rumi cuts in, staring at mira sternly, “i’ve been with zoey in here for an hour. if this actually just happened, then i know for a fact it wasn’t her.”

mira hesitates. her anger sizzles into something more confused. “then who-“

“IT WAS ME!”

the three of them jump in surprise and turn towards the door.

there, standing in the doorway, is their eldest daughter aeri. her face is alight with guilt and panic. “im sorry, eomma! it was me! just please stop fighting!”

mira’s heart stutters at that. guilt strikes her in the stomach, not just because she’d made her daughter so panicked, but also because she’d accused her wife of something she hadn’t done.

rumi, evidently, decides to take the reins on this situation, sensing the apology that needs to happen now. “aeri, you know how important your eomma’s choreography time is. now, come on, you and i will talk about your punishment upstairs.” she walks forward and places a hand on their daughter’s shoulder, guiding her out of the room. on the way out, she glances behind her, and shoots mira a pointed look.

she doesn’t have to be a mindreader to know what it means.

mira’s shoulders slump and she turns around. zoey has pulled her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them. she’s pouting angrily, her head tilted towards the wall and away from mira.

mira walks over to her, and settles behind her on the couch. she presses her face to her wife’s back, and kisses a spot that she knows, underneath all of her clothes, has a freckle. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have accused you of messing with me like that.”

zoey deflates a bit. “‘s okay.” she shrugs.

it makes her heart clench painfully. she hates when zoey diminishes her own hurt like this. “it’s not okay. i know you know how important this is. it was really shitty of me to just immediately jump to conclusions that it would be you.”

zoey sniffs. “it was, yeah, but to be fair,” she lifts her head and turns it to face mira, “it’s not that different from the prank i sometimes pull with your speaker when you’re cooking, and it’s not like you knew our 8 year old knew how to use a bluetooth speaker.”

“still.” mira kisses her back again. “you didn’t deserve that.”

“no, i didn’t,” zoey huffs, lifting an eyebrow. “and how do you plan to make it up to me?”

that tone…

mira straightens up. it’s an invitation. in an instant, she’s on the floor in front of zoey on her knees. “anything. i’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

zoey uncurls her legs, spreading them apart for mira to fit between. she scrutinizes her. “anything?”

mira nods frantically. “anything.”

zoey reaches out and brushes her hand against her cheek. mira leans into it. the maknae runs her palm along her face, and then down her throat. her thumb rubs the middle of her throat.

it’s a silent question.

mira bites her lips and nods minutely.

zoey smirks. “go get your collar, puppy. you can make it up to me by being a good girl for me for however long i decide to use you for.”

mira scrambles to her feet. she doesn’t say anything. already her headspace has shifted. it’s not all the way there yet, not without her collar, but it’s still insane how quickly zoey can get her into subspace with just the tone of his voice and a few words.

on her way out, zoey calls out to her. “mira!”

mira stops and turns to look at her questioningly. zoey has settled back on the couch, her arms draped across the back of it cockily. “make sure rumi doesn’t see you while you’re up there.” she readjusts herself. “wouldn’t be very good of you to get caught while you’re up there. especially if she sees you with the collar.”

even this far away, she can see the challenge lighting up her eyes.

mira nods. zoey taps her own lips as a signal, and she responds, “yes, ma’am.”

“good girl.” zoey points at the door with her chin. “go on, now.”

mira obeys.

It’s not necessarily something she asked for, although she’s never discouraged their messages. Hell, better it be from them than her actual parents. The updates range from being about things like her mother getting promoted, to her father breaking a bone (which always succeeded in giving Zoey a sick sense of satisfaction, given the arm and tooth and rib he’d broken of hers when she was still too small to ride a bike), to her mother having another baby, and to her father getting divorced with his second wife (once a cheater, always a cheater, she supposed). They were always formatted the same:“Hey, just so you know, *insert event related to her parents here*. Hope you’re doing well!”

She never responded to these messages.

Before the Idol Awards, she would hide in her room for the rest of the day, refusing to come out even when Rumi and Mira would beg for her to do so. The thought of being seen, of being perceived, was too painful. If they opened her door (because she hated locking doors. They’d never protected her from him, only ever made him more angry. Only ever made him break it down and threaten her with further harm.), she’d cover herself with her blanket. If they tried to pull it off of her, she would clutch it tighter.

They usually would sigh sadly and give her a comforting touch through the blanket, before leaving after that. Sometimes, Mira would try to push further (it made sense, now, why Rumi never did; after all, she wasn’t letting them in, so why should Zoey let her in?), but even she understood when Zoey had enough of her nudging.

She never felt more worthless than when she had to think about her parents. She couldn’t stand the idea of the two most important people in her life seeing her and thinking she was.

Now, though, things were different. Their communication skills, as a collective, had improved immensely since those days. Rumi and Zoey actually talked about the things that made them feel bad, while Mira knew their limits and the hurt her often brutal honesty caused them more.

So, instead of hiding from her girlfriends, Zoey would go straight to them. If they weren’t together, she’d ask whoever she found first to call the other to them. She’d hold out her arms, hug them tightly, push them back until they were sitting on something, and scramble onto their laps.

And then she would ask them a series of questions.

“Do you want me?”

“Do you think I’m worthless?”

“Do you love me?”

“Do you think I’ve ruined your lives?”

“Do you need me?”

She wouldn’t look them in the eye as she did so. Maybe someday she’d get to a point where she could do it, but for now, it was too hard to so. She would simply sit there, waiting for a response from them, before moving on to the next question.

The first time she’d done this, it had startled them so bad they’d tried to pull away, which had caused her to panic and clutch them closer. “Don’t,” she’d gasped, “Don’t go. Please.”

They’d stayed.

She could feel the way each further question unsettled them, however. Questions of how she could ever doubt these things of them were quickly followed by firm reassurances.

Overtime, though, they’d grown used to the unpleasant questions, although they were noticeably never comfortable with them. They eventually developed a series of responses to her questions that they would recite each time, with some variations here and there, some examples of when they wanted her, moments when she made them love her more, times when they needed her, the different ways she’d made their lives better, all recent, all fresh. It made their love feel safe, but ever-changing in its beauty. Always genuine.

Often, she’d claw at their clothing afterwards, desperate for the intimacy of their bare skin against hers. Sometimes, she would begin to grope them, indicating her need for further validation from sex. Most of the time, she wouldn’t. Their skin against hers would be all she needed.

Either ways, the three of them would lie together afterwards, and she’d say one last thing to them.

“Stay. Please.”

It wasn’t a question. But they always had the same answer.