Chapter Text
Morning creeps quietly over the academy.
A fine mist clings to the courtyard outside, blurring the spires and gardens into a wash of silver and green. Rain patters faintly against the windowpanes, soft and steady — almost comforting.
Rumi stirs sometime past dawn. Her body protests the movement, shoulders aching from where she’s slept curled tight. She blinks blearily at the pale light filtering through the curtains.
Zoey’s room is silent next door. Mira’s door is shut. The dorm, for once, feels still.
It’s Sunday. No classes. No alarms. Just rain, the hum of the wards in the walls, and the faint pulse of quiet magic lingering through the air.
Rumi stretches, vertebrae cracking in a neat rhythm, and pads out into the hallway. The floor is cold under her bare feet, her hair falling loose down her back as she yawns and turns toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, she stops.
The dorm smells wrong.
Not bad — not like blood or rot — but thick. Sweet and sharp at the same time, like flowers that have been doused in juice. It’s heavy, clinging to the back of her throat, and her fangs ache faintly from the taste of it.
She wrinkles her nose. The scent seems to hum under her skin, stirring something primal, restless.
It’s not familiar.
“Probably Mira’s new incense,” she mutters under her breath, trying to shake it off.
The kitchen is quiet when she steps inside. Pale light spills through the window, catching on the rain that blurs the world beyond. Rumi moves automatically — kettle, toast, eggs — the repetitive rhythm calming her nerves, grounding her.
By the time her breakfast is ready, the dorm is still silent.
She sits at the small table, chin resting in her palm, and watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. The courtyard below is almost empty — a few students hurry along the paths, umbrellas bobbing like dark mushrooms.
She picks at her toast absently. Every breath she takes fills her lungs with that scent again — that heavy, sweet, cloying thing that feels alive.
Then she hears a door open down the hall. Bare feet scuff softly against the floor.
Mira appears, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, her hair a mess around her shoulders. She grunts a quiet “Morning,” before collapsing onto the couch with a groan.
“Barely,” Rumi says.
Mira groans louder, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. My head feels like it’s full of bees.”
“Storm pressure,” Rumi suggests, sipping her coffee.
Mira just hums. Then she sniffs the air — once, twice — and grimaces. “What the hell is that smell?”
Rumi’s head lifts. “You smell it too?”
“Yeah,” Mira says, sitting up. “It’s everywhere. Did you spill perfume or something?”
Rumi shakes her head. “No. It was here when I woke up. I thought it was you.”
“Me?” Mira scoffs, rubbing her face. “Please. Why would I need perfume? I smell amazing naturally.”
Rumi snorts softly — but the sound dies quickly.
Because the smell is stronger now. It feels like it’s pressing in from the walls, thickening with every breath. Her fangs pulse faintly, her gums aching.
Something about it makes her uneasy.
Then — a sound.
So soft she almost misses it.
A whine.
Quiet. Drawn out. Almost human, but too raw, too broken to be speech.
Rumi freezes. Her ears twitch toward the sound.
Mira’s head lifts instantly, all traces of exhaustion gone.
“…Did you hear that?” Rumi asks, voice low.
Mira doesn’t answer. She’s already standing.
Another whine — longer this time. A tremor beneath the sound, like pain barely restrained.
Zoey’s room.
Rumi’s chair scrapes as she stands. “Zoey?” she calls, voice tight.
No answer. Just another small, pained sound.
Mira moves, quick and sharp. She stops in front of Zoey’s door and inhales slowly through her nose.
And freezes.
Her body locks up, eyes widening, shoulders stiff. Her pupils blow wide — swallowing the colour until her eyes are slick, black pools. Thin veins creep from the corners, branching down her cheeks.
Rumi’s stomach drops.
“Mira?”
Mira’s breathing quickens, shallow and sharp. Her hands tremble slightly where they hover near the doorframe.
Rumi steps closer. “What’s going on?”
Mira turns, slow and unsteady, her face pale and drawn. “We need to leave,” she says hoarsely. “Now.”
“What?”
“Rumi, listen to me.” Her voice cracks, thick with something that sounds a lot like panic. “We need to clear out. For a few days.”
Rumi stares at her. “Why? What’s wrong—”
A sharp whine cuts through the air again. Louder. Rougher.
Both of them go still.
Mira’s fangs slide down fully, her black eyes darting toward the door. She’s breathing fast, twitchy, fighting herself.
Rumi can taste it now — beneath that strange sweetness. Something feral. Sweet. Pulsing.
“Is that her?” Rumi whispers.
Mira’s voice is low, trembling. “Yes,” She swallows, chest rising and falling too quickly. “I can’t handle this.”
Rumi feels her stomach twist. “You think she’s hurt?”
“Not exactly.” Mira shakes her head, harshly. “You don’t recognise that scent?”
Rumi’s eyes flick toward the door. “It’s like Zoey, but it’s not?”
“Yes,” Mira says sharply. “What else?”
“It’s… strong, kind of… enticing.”
“Rumi surely you know what’s happening right now,” Mira growls.
“NO Mira, just tell me!”
“Oh for fuck sake Rumi you need to take a god dam anatomy class one these days, fuck,” Mira pants pacing around the room.
“Mira! Calm down, what is going on?” Rumi pleads.
“She’s in heat!”
Rumi stops breathing. What. The. Fuck.
“Heat?” Rumi squeaks out.
“Yes Rumi, werewolf cycles, we told you about this,” Mira sighs, “There are three types, Alphas, Omegas, and Beta’s.”
“I – oh, and Zoey’s an omega, I remember that,” Rumi mumbles, feeling a blush creep up her neck, “But why does that matter?”
“Gods kill me now,” Mira huffs, “Alphas are the dominant ones, they smell sharps, like citrus and metals.”
Rumi instantly thinks of Jinu. How his scent assaults her senses every time he’s near her.
“Omegas are the counter parts, they are submissive. They smell sweet, like sugar and essential oils,” Mira rubs her face, “Then there are beta’s, they usually have a less intense smell. Usually masked, more in control of their emotions than the other two.”
“Wait, so – Zoey – she always smells so sweet… she’s an omega, but why does she smell different now?” Rumi clarifies.
“Rumi,” Mira hisses, “Omega’s go through heat cycles, where they get…emotional.”
It’s in the air — a hum that vibrates just beneath hearing. Every breath feels too thick. Every heartbeat too loud.
Another sound comes from the room. A whimper, cracked and raw.
Rumi steps forward, but Mira catches her arm.
“Don’t,” she snaps. “If she’s in heat, she needs something we can’t give her.”
“She’s alone,” Rumi says, her voice hardening.
“And if you go in there, you better be ready for a very close relationship with her.”
Rumi hesitates. The air feels electric, heavy.
Another pained sound echoes through the door, breaking off into silence.
“What do you mean Mira?” Rumi feels like crying, “She’s alone, and it sounds like it hurts!”
“It does Rumi!” Mira starts panting again, “Heats do hurt, her body wants to breed, it’s like a human menstrual cycle. If you go in there, she will do one of two things. She will either attack you, seeing you as a threat to her weakened state… or she’ll jump you.”
“Jump?!”
“Fuck you! Rumi! She will want you to fuck her senseless, that’s what omegas need when they are in heat!”
“Don’t yell at me!” Rumi snaps, “I’m just – I don’t know – confused? Gods I didn’t know!”
Mira presses a trembling hand against her forehead, fangs clenched. “Shit.”
“You’re reacting to it too,” Rumi says quietly, “Why?”
“Yes,” Mira grits out. “The scent. Her blood. It smells so… ugh god. I need to leave.”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I haven’t felt something like this since the mountain hunts.”
Rumi’s heart hammers. “What? You can’t leave! Mira!”
Mira looks up, veins still dark beneath her eyes. “I’m sorry Rumi, I’m not strong enough for this. Wolf blood – in heat – an omega? Even thousand year old vampires would struggle to resist that…”
“Oh Mira…”
“Take care of her however you want Rumi, but I can’t I’m so sorry – tell her I’m sorry,” Mira says before vanishing out the door at the speed of light.
Rumi stands in the middle of the living room, her pulse loud in her ears. She can still smell it. That strange, heady sweetness clinging to the air, worming under her skin like static. It’s stronger now that Mira’s gone—no one left to cut through the thickness of it.
Zoey whines again. It’s quiet at first, muffled through the door, but it shreds something in Rumi’s chest. She paces, hands twitching, claws flexing in and out of her palms. The sound comes again—sharper, desperate—and Rumi swears softly to herself.
“What the hell is happening…” she mutters, dragging her hands through her hair. “I wish I could just—understand.”
She glances toward the door, the sound pulling at her like a thread, but she doesn’t move closer. She doesn’t trust herself to. Whatever this scent is, it’s doing something strange to her—stirring instincts she doesn’t want to think about.
Rumi sighs, turning away—only for the shelf in her room to rattle.
She jumps, spinning around just in time to see one of the books tremble free and launch across the room. It hits her shoulder with a soft thud before clattering to the ground.
“…Seriously?”
She bends down, picking it up. The title gleams faintly in the low light.
Werewolf Presentation – First Edition.
Rumi blinks, glancing up at the now-still shelf. “Uh… thanks, I guess?” she mutters, half to the air, half to whatever force just lobbed it at her.
She settles onto the couch, legs crossed, and flips open the book. The pages are old—yellowed, corners curled—but the handwriting inside is neat and clinical. It reads like something out of a medical journal.
Werewolf physiology differs from that of other shapeshifting species due to their cyclical reproductive drives…
Rumi frowns, skimming further. Her eyes catch on a word repeated over and over in bold ink:
Omega.
The next paragraph makes her freeze.
Omegas are the most empathetic and emotionally resonant of werewolves. Their cycles—commonly referred to as “heat periods”—occur sporadically depending on the wolf, often triggered by hormonal imbalance, stress, or prolonged emotional suppression. During this time, their scent glands overproduce pheromones to attract potential mates. These pheromones can elicit a range of instinctual responses in nearby supernatural beings, regardless of species.
Rumi leans back, her stomach twisting.
“Oh,” she breathes.
She stares at the page, the words blurring slightly as her brain scrambles to piece them together.
Zoey’s strange clinginess the past few days.
Her fatigue.
The smell.
The way she’d pressed into Rumi’s side like her skin was too hot, too tight.
Rumi’s throat feels dry. She flips the page.
During heat, an Omega may experience intense physical discomfort, fever-like symptoms, and heightened emotional sensitivity. Solitude is recommended unless bonded partners or compatible packmates are present.
Rumi exhales shakily. “Ok but how do I help her?”
She looks toward the wall separating her from Zoey’s room, listening. The soft, ragged noises haven’t stopped—small whimpers and the occasional low, frustrated growl. Each sound seems to hook into her nerves, tugging hard.
Rumi presses her palms to her eyes, trying to steady herself. She’s not supposed to be reacting like this. She doesn’t even know what this feeling is.
She glances back at the book.
Non-werewolf beings exposed to Omega pheromones may experience agitation, restlessness, or protective impulses. Infernal entities are particularly sensitive, given their predatory empathy and energy resonance. Extended exposure is not recommended without preparation.
Rumi lets out a humourless laugh. “Great. So I’m both the worst and most qualified person to deal with this.”
The book continues in detached, almost sterile detail. Descriptions of temperature changes, of pheromone signatures, of ancient pack rituals meant to keep the community balanced. But what catches Rumi’s attention most is the section at the bottom of the page.
An Omega in heat is vulnerable. Left unattended, they risk dehydration, fever, or loss of control. The safest course is to ensure they remain hydrated, calm, and sated until the cycle ends. Most last between two and seven days, depending on the wolf.
“Two to seven days?” Rumi whispers, horrified. “She’s going to feel like this for days?”
The thought makes something heavy settle in her chest. She glances toward Zoey’s room again. The whines have quieted into small, uneven breaths—almost like she’s trying to muffle them.
Rumi swallows hard. “You poor thing…”
Comforting an Omega in heat: Often when an unmated Omega goes into heat, they will seek an Alpha or Beta to tend to them both emotionally and sexually. However, depending on the wolfs sexual orientation and preferences, they may choose another Omega to care for them. This can be done in various ways. Herbal teas can relax the muscles (See page 232 for recipes), while physical comfort, scent marking and sexual intercourse are the fastest ways to tend to an Omega in heat.
She shuts the book, the soft thunk sounding too loud in the quiet dorm.
“Oh…,” Rumi hums, eyes wide, “Gods what the fuck?”
For a while, she just sits there. Listening. Thinking. The rain outside patters steadily against the window, the smell of earthy dirt mixing with that thick, sweet scent that clings to everything now.
Eventually, she stands and paces around the living room. The air feels warmer, heavier. Her claws flex automatically, like her body’s trying to ground itself.
Zoey’s door creaks as she moves closer. The sound inside changes immediately—a low, pleading whine that makes Rumi’s heart twist. She knows going in will be a mistake. She knows that what Zoey needs to beyond their still rather new friendship. Yet, what she hears next shatters all resolve.
“Rumi –,” Echoes through the door, in a pathetic sounding whimper.
It’s like ice water being poured over her head, and being lit on fire at the same time. Because the book said Zoey would be delirious, confused, scared. Yet somehow she was able to remember Rumi, her name, her connection. It makes Rumi pause, her eyes burning holes into the wood of the door. She shouldn’t do this. But Zoey was calling to her – and her instincts scream at her to go.
She hesitates briefly, one hand on the doorknob. Every instinct she has is screaming at her to open it—to go in, to make sure Zoey’s okay—but the rational part of her knows that might make things worse.
Still… she can’t just do nothing. Fuck. It’s Zoey. Sweet gentle Zoey, who brings her muffins between classes and never remembers a pen. Zoey who has made a habit of touching her every five seconds. Zoey who puts her head in Rumi’s lap the second they sit on the couch now. Zoey who defended Rumi on day one when she pissed off a vampire.
Rumi presses her forehead against the door, closing her eyes. “You’re okay,” she murmurs softly. “You’re gonna be okay, Zo.”
There’s a pause. Then, muffled through the wood, the faintest sound of Zoey’s voice—hoarse, barely there.
“Rumi…?”
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t answer, afraid that even speaking might make things spiral. But she stays there, her head against the door, listening until the silence returns.
After a while, she forces herself to step back. Her hands are shaking. She needs to focus.
The sound of Zoey’s ragged breathing is unmistakable now—uneven, strained, punctuated by low, pained whines that twist something deep in Rumi. She knocks once, softly. No answer. The smell in the air grows heavier, sweet and strange, making her throat ache.
“Zoey?” she calls, voice barely above a whisper. Nothing but another soft cry in response. That’s enough. Rumi pushes the door open.
The room is dim, curtains drawn, sheets tangled in chaos. Zoey lies curled up on the bed, her skin flushed, hair plastered to her face with sweat. She trembles, a pillow wedged between her legs and her hands clutching her own jumper.
Rumi freezes. Every instinct in her screams to move closer and protect this girl with her whole being. The scent in the air coils through her lungs, thick and magnetic, and she grits her teeth as her fangs slip free on reflex. She forces herself to breathe slow. Control. She has to stay in control.
“Hey,” she murmurs, crossing the room carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “Zoey, it’s me.”
Zoey’s eyes flicker open for a second—glassy, unfocused—and she mumbles something incoherent before turning her face into the pillow again. Rumi’s heart twists. She grabs a cup from the desk, fills it with water from the bathroom sink, and kneels beside the bed.
“Come on sweetie,” she says softly, coaxing Zoey upright enough to drink. “You need water.”
Zoey obeys weakly, taking a few trembling sips before sagging back down, her hand catching Rumi’s wrist like she doesn’t want her to go. Rumi freezes again, caught between discomfort and instinctive protectiveness.
“Easy Zo,” Rumi breathes, trying to calm them both. “You’re burning up.”
The energy in the room hums against her skin, making her feel like her own magic might tear free if she isn’t careful. She smooths Zoey’s hair back from her forehead, fingers shaking slightly. The contact sends a ripple through her—warm, grounding, but charged with something she doesn’t understand.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna be fine.”
“Rumi?” Zoey whines, her face scrunching up.
“Yeah honey?”
“Please…” Zoey whimpers, her lower lip trembling.
“I’m a little out of my depth here Zo,” Rumi says, “I’m gunna need you to tell me what will help.”
“Rumi, Rumi… Rumi,” Zoey mumbles again and again, like a prayer.
Rumi notices Zoey smelling the air, likely her, so she scoots closer to the bed, tilting her head without knowing why her body decides to.
“I can leave if you –,”
“No!” Zoey snaps, her eyes flying open and her hands clawing at Rumi shirt.
“Ok, ok, ok, not leaving, sorry,” Rumi mumbles, letting Zoey pull her closer.
“Please – Rumi – C’mere,” Zoey basically moans, her eyes hooded.
The sound sends a wave of heat through Rumi’s body. One she hasn’t felt before. Like longing. She’s felt attraction before – and sure, she finds Zoey attractive, who wouldn’t? Zoey’s gorgeous. But this feels a lot more intense than it should. Rumi tells herself it’s the effect of the pheromones…
Rumi moves closer, scooting onto the bed beside Zoey who has her hands clawing at the t-shirt on her body like it’s the last thing keeping her sane.
“Breathe Zo, I’m not going anywhere,” Rumi coo’s, taking Zoey’s fisted hands and unwrapping them from the clothing.
“You – you’ll stay?” Zoey mumbles out, her eyes refusing to meet Rumi’s.
“Yeah Zo, of course, I hate seeing you in pain,” Rumi smiles, “You’re too sweet to leave alone.”
That does something. And Rumi wishes she could write notes about each reaction, fascinated by the changes in body language and scent.
Zoey’s eyes snap up so fast Rumi physically flinches. Her pupils are blown, her forehead is plastered in sweat, and her breathing has halted all together.
“Y – you – Ru – Rumi,” Zoey shudders, “Stay?”
“Yes sweet girl,” Rumi affirms, “I’ll stay. If you want me to.”
Zoey nods fast enough to give herself a concussion, and her pheromones push out that sickly sweet melon scent so firmly Rumi almost chokes.
The verbal acknowledgement that Rumi is agreeing to stay, to help her through this, must set off other instincts in Zoey. Because she starts moving. She scrambles off the bed quickly, all sweaty limbs and shaky hands.
“Zo where are you going?” Rumi asks quietly, feeling the need to whisper.
Zoey starts mumbling again. Nothing that makes sense. So Rumi just watches. Watches the tornado rip around Zoey’s already messy room.
She starts grabbing items of clothes, blankets, pillows, anything soft she can get her hands on. She piles them on the queen size bed, forgetting them as soon as they are deposited and going to find more. Rumi tries to start folding them, like maybe a clean room will help ease Zoey’s pain. But the second she starts to move things around, Zoey is back in front of her with a soft growl and snatching the items away from her.
She starts piling them then – or more like shoving. She wedges pillows and shirts, and jumpers and blankets, all around the edges of the bed. Rumi sits still in the center of the bed, simply tilting her head to watch Zoey work. When she finally climbs back onto the bed, there are small walls of tightly woven fabrics all around the edges of the bed. Like a flimsy wall of protection.
“You ok now Zo?” Rumi hums, watching the satisfied look on Zoey’s face light up when their eyes meet.
“Nest,” Is all Zoey manages to get out with her breath still so uneven, head tilting to as if asking Rumi about the weather.
“Nest?” Rumi hums, the book didn’t mention a nest.
“S’Good?” Zoey says, the low panting in her breathing accelerating as she wrings her hands In her lap.
“Oh!” Rumi realises, “Yes sweetie, the nest in perfect.”
Zoey made the nest for her. Of course she did. They learnt this. All breeding or cycling creatures tend to nest in their own way to provide for their mates. A way of showing they are capable. Insulting a creatures nest is possibly the fastest way to die no matter the species.
“Yeah?” Zoey perks up, her eyes shining with tears.
“Yeah sweetie, very solid. I love it.” Rumi smiles.
Zoey giggles, her legs twitch, she shuffles slightly. Like she isn’t comfortable but doesn’t have the ability to move.
“Zo sweetie,” Rumi sighs, “I know your head is a little unclear right now, but I want to help you.”
“Help me?” Zoey echoes, eyes unfocused again.
“Yes Zoey,” Rumi moves to sit fully back against the headboard, “Whatever you need sweet girl, I’m right here.”
Zoeys eyes follow her movements, the first clear look she has had since Rumi stepped into the room.
“Y’Sure?” Zoey grunts, her hands balling into fists.
“I’m sure,” Rumi confirms, not fully believing the words herself.
Zoey launches forward the second the words leave her mouth. Her body flies across the space between them, landing firmly in Rumi’s lap. Her thighs straddle her hips, her hand ball into fist on Rumi’s shoulders and face is pressed firmly into the crook of Rumi’s neck.
She breathes in, sharply, and Rumi can’t stop her hands from flying up to grip Zoey’s hips. The sound she makes on contact is feral. A growl so deep Rumi feels it in her bones. Rumi tips her head back, letting it hit the headboard with a soft thud. And Zoey takes that as an invitation, her lips skimming over the soft skin of Rumi’s neck like a whisper in the night.
It feels good. So painfully good that Rumi is almost consumed by it. The sensation of Zoey’s lips ghosting over her skin is like a wild fire destroying a landscape. She breathes deeply, taking in Rumi’s scent like she might be able to drink it, it doesn’t seem to relax her much. It almost seems to have the opposite effect, with Zoey clinging to her harder, and her hips pressing down into Rumi’s lap. It feels deliciously good, enough so that Rumi finds herself sinking her fangs into her own lip to bring herself back to the present and not in the disgusting fantasies running through her head.
But she isn’t here to feel good, she’s here to take care of Zoey. So with a grunt, Rumi pulls her head forward and holds Zoey close.
“What do you need Zo?” Rumi mumbles against Zoey’s ear, earning a needy whine.
“Hot,” Zoey whines into her neck, her hips starting to move in small circles against Rumi’s lap.
“You’re hot?” Rumi confirms, her hands moving to Zoey’s forehead to confirm the girl Is burning up. The book had said to avoid that, keep her cool.
“S’Too much,” Zoey whimpers, her hands clutching Rumi’s shoulder tighter.
“Ok – ok let’s cool you off then,” Rumi moves, gripping the hem of Zoey’s hood gently, letting her decide if this is ok.
She doesn’t have to wait for a verbal answer. Zoey moves off Rumi’s lap, standing on the bed to rip the jumper off and over her head, followed by her shorts in one swift movement. It leaves her barely clad – a pair of plain black boy-shorts and a loose over sized t-shirt the only things covering her now.
Rumi scoots forward, taking Zoey’s hand with gentle care and helping her sit back on the bed.
“Better?” Rumi checks.
Zoey nods, eyes focusing on Rumi again before she crawls towards her. It should look predatory. The way Rumi can notice a flicker of dark green pupils when the light hit Zoey’s brown eyes just right should scare her. The way her muscles coil and relax with each movement should indicate Rumi is in some form of danger. Yet all Rumi can think about is how pretty the girl looks.
She let’s Zoey push her down flat on the bed. Her head landing on a pillow, and Zoey’s body pressing down on top of her. She feels Zoey position herself over one of her thighs. She feels her blistering heat. Her trembling body. The wetness coating her thighs as she settles over Rumi. But all she does is bring her hands up slowly, to take Zoey’s face in her hands. Forcing her to look her in the eye.
“Rumi?” Zoey whimpers, her breath ragged and desperate.
“Whatever you need Zo,” Rumi confirms, sensing Zoey needs to hear it again.
Zoey moans. Loudly. Her head falling forward and into the space of Rumi’s neck from before. Like she’s drawn there. Rumi remembers their lecturer saying the neck is where their pheromones are the strongest, and the book said pheromones help omega’s. so, Rumi doesn’t push her away. Instead she focuses on Zoey’s body. She’s moving now – her hip are – jutting back and forth, but hovering over Rumi’s thigh instead of pressing down. Like the movement itself is enough. Rumi knows it can’t be based on the pathetic little moans vibrating against her neck.
With slow, deliberate hands, Rumi takes Zoey’s hip in a firm hold. And pulls her down to settle on the bare skin of her thigh.
Zoey moans louder, her body shaking as her hips falter in their movements, before doubling down. Her hands shift restlessly. One holding Rumi’s shirt like it owes her money, the other moving up to thread into Rumi’s braid. It feels heavenly. Like Zoey could ask her for anything right now and Rumi would kill every man that stood in her way of achieving said request.
It feels so dangerous.
But Zoey is always too sweet. Even like this. As she grinds down against Rumi’s thigh to get herself off.
“S’this okay?” Zoey moans into Rumi ear.
It’s soft enough to elicit a shiver, but the words feel filthy.
“Yeah sweetie,” Rumi whispers back, “Show me what you need.”
That obviously works better for Zoey, words taking up too much energy, and actions being simpler.
She removes the hands clawing at Rumi’s shoulder and scalp, grabbing Rumi’s own hands, and places them under her shirt and on the bare skin of her waist. She doesn’t move them, just leaves them there. It obviously feels good, because her jaw drops open, and her eyes slam shut.
“Skin to skin contact,” Rumi murmurs, “Got it.”
Zoey falls forward again, her hips picking up their pace now that Rumi is holding her how she wants. Rumi let’s her hand roma slightly, sliding over Zoey’s bare back and pulling her closer to her body. The movement leaves their bodies completely connected, but somehow Zoey is still holding back. Like she doesn’t want to scare Rumi. That won’t help, Rumi knows it won’t.
She wracks her brain for ideas that aren’t over the line – too obscene. Eventually remembering their lesson on pheromones again. Most creatures that produce pheromones can control them to an extent. The lecturer had mentioned that some species can produce extra pheromones or shift the type they are producing. Rumi has never tried to do such a thing, not caring what she smells like. But the lecturer had mentioned how much of an effect it can have on omega’s.
She decides to try – as Zoey continue to ride her thigh so hard that Rumi can’t feel the boy-shorts anymore. Just hot, sticky slick.
She focuses on her instincts. The desires they are pushing on her. The feeling of coiled heat in her body that wants so desperately to be unleashed. She breathes deep, the scent of sickly sweet melon and jasmine assaulting her. She breathes out slowly, pushing what feels like herself out of her own body.
The rooms scent shifts. Zoey reacts instantly.
She cries out like a sob, as a shiver ripples through her body and her lips attach to Rumi’s neck. The sensation is too much and not enough all at once, with Rumi wishing she could commit the feeling to memory. Zoey’s lips move across her neck, over her scent glands, quickly and without purpose. Almost like she can’t focus long enough to decide if she wants to kiss the skin, suck it, or bite it. The movements quickly turn into a suckle, directly below Rumi’s scent gland, leaving Zoey’s nose directly over it.
When Rumi shuffles, her thigh lifting for a split second, Zoey moans around the skin of Rumi’s neck, before quickly detaching. Her jaw unhinges against Rumi’s neck, ready to bite down. But at the last second before impact, Zoey shift her mouth down, biting hard onto Rumi’s shoulder as she climaxes violently with a long, slow shudder. The pheromones continue to push her, hard enough that she spasm for a long time against Rumi’s thigh. Her mouth suckles softly at Rumi’s shoulder, soothing the sting Rumi hadn’t even noticed.
Rumi moves her hands. She begins trailing them softly over the skin of Zoey’s back, mapping the expanse of delicate porcelain like it’s a gift. She briefly thinks she’s overstepped. That Zoey didn’t want her to move her hands. Because Zoey shifts. But then she feels her tense again. Her thighs shaking and a restrained whimper tumbling from her lips. She came again. Just from Rumi running her hands over her skin. Holy fuck.
“Zoey? Sweetie?” Rumi checks in, “You ok?”
Zoey nods, letting her forehead fall against Rumi’s as tears form in her eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t cry sweetie, it’s ok,” Rumi begins to panic, her hands tightening subconsciously, pulling Zoey closer.
“M’sorry,” Zoey cries, her eyes squeezing shut to try – unsuccessfully – to stop the tears.
“Stop. Zo don’t apologise, this is natural,” Rumi assures her.
“No,” Zoey cries harder, “Shouldn’t be – you dn’t – I shouldn’t be –.”
“Ssh Zoey, stop over thinking it,” Rumi hums, “I want to be here, and it doesn’t have to change anything. Just let me help you, please?”
Zoey cries harder, and Rumi begins to shift them immediately. She pushes her body up with all her strength. Shuffling until her back is against the headboard and she can pull Zoey to cradle in her lap. The girl turns into a shuddering ball of worry. Her head tucked up underneath Rumi’s chin and her hands clutching Rumi’s shirt again.
“Try and get some sleep sweet girl, I’m right here,” Rumi hums, combing her hands through Zoey’s damp hair.
Zoey trembles in Rumi’s arms, shoulders tight and face buried against her. Rumi doesn’t think—she just holds her closer, murmuring soft nothings that fade into the quiet. And then it happens.
A low, steady sound vibrates from Rumi’s chest — deep and resonant, a soft vibration that thrums against Zoey’s ear. It slips out without thought, instinct rising from somewhere ancient and buried, something no textbook ever really talks about. The kind of sound that isn’t supposed to exist amongst demons in anything less than a miracle situation. A purr.
Demons don’t purr. Often.
Zoey freezes for a moment, startled — then exhales, the tension in her body melting as the sound washes over her. She burrows closer, eyes fluttering shut, her breathing syncing with the rhythm of Rumi’s chest.
It’s not something demons do. It’s not something she’s ever done. But it feels right — grounding, protective. The sound vibrates between them like a heartbeat, low and constant. Zoey’s tears slow, her fingers curling into Rumi’s shirt as she drifts toward calm.
Rumi only realises she hasn’t stopped when Zoey’s breathing evens out completely, a small, sleepy smile ghosting over her lips.
“Rumi,” Zoey whimpers again, her body relaxing slightly and allowing her to drift off to the sound of purring beneath her ear. Rumi hadn’t even realised she has started purring until Zoey nuzzled in closer to the vibration, like a heat seeking missile.
~~~
This continue for over 48 hours.
Zoey comes in and out of consciousness for two days.
When she’s lucid enough to form almost sentences, she’s horrified with herself.
She apologises again and again, telling Rumi she can leave if she wants to. Rumi refuses every time.
In those moments, Rumi works tirelessly.
She makes sure to keep Zoey hydrated. Fetching water when Zoey eventually relents and lets her leave the room.
She brings food, simple but heavy on carbs to keep Zoey nourished.
She even coaxes Zoey into a shower, long enough to soothe her aching muscles but not long enough to help her fully relax.
Then she’s out of it again. Mumbling. Sweating. Cursing under her breath when she loses control.
Rumi lets her do whatever she needs to. She lays comfortably every time Zoey climbs her body like a ladder and gets off against her. It should feel wrong, but the relief on Zoey’s face every single time is enough to make Rumi feel euphoric. Knowing she is able to provide for Zoey in these moments of need makes her feel wanted, seen.
She experiments with her pheromones each time this happens. Letting her stronger scent push out when Zoey’s whimpers get faster, and more breathless.
And when she’s coming down from her highs, legs shaking and tears in her eyes. Rumi pushes out the only calming scent she knows. Lavender. Strong. Thick. Curling around Zoey like a blanket.
Zoey mumbles how good It smells the first time she does it successfully – so she keeps doing it.
Rumi doesn’t comment each time Zoey scent marks her. The younger girl rubbing her cheeks and nose across Rumi’s scent glands like they belong to her. Rumi knows scent marking doesn’t last long, even if done with direct touch. And it seems to soothe Zoey in a way her roaming hands can’t.
She doesn’t comment. She simply exists.
She fetches water, food, changes of clothes. Whatever Zoey needs.
She whispers soft words of reassurance. Telling Zoey she’s ok, she’s safe, she’s not alone. It feels good. To be needed. To be appreciated. Every single time she does something to provide for Zoey, the little wolf looks at her like she hung the stars. It’s intoxicating.
When Zoey calls her name in that breathless way, her stomach dips every single time. But she pretends it isn’t a big deal. It’s just the pheromones.
And Zoey needs her. So she ignores her own body for two days. Her soul focused on Zoey, and Zoey alone.
~~~
The room feels like it’s exhaling for the first time in days when Rumi wakes. The heavy scent that had clung to the air has softened, fading into something faintly sweet and tired, like the rain outside after a storm. Rumi sits with her back against the headboard, Zoey curled in her lap like she was made to fit there. The sheets are tangled around them, the light from the overcast sky filtering through the curtains in slow-moving stripes despite the sound of rain still echoing off the windows.
Zoey’s breathing has steadied. The frantic rhythm from the past few days is gone, replaced with something soft and fragile. Her hair is a halo of curls against Rumi’s chest, sticking in places from sweat and tears. Every so often, she shudders faintly, some lingering tremor passing through her. Rumi keeps one hand tracing small circles along Zoey’s back, the other combing gently through her hair.
“It’s ok,” Rumi murmurs, her voice rough from not speaking for so long. “You’re okay Zo.”
Zoey hums, a tiny sound, more instinct than response. Her voice is hoarse when she mumbles, “You stayed…”
Rumi smiles faintly. “You asked me to.”
Zoey stirs, her fingers twitching against Rumi’s stomach like she’s trying to hold onto something even in half-sleep. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Rumi says softly. “But I wanted to.”
For a long while, that’s all there is — the sound of rain, the quiet breathing between them, the warmth of another person pressed close. Rumi doesn’t know what to do with the way it makes her chest ache. It’s not unpleasant, just strange. Comfort is not something she’s ever learned how to hold onto. It feels too soft, too gentle. Like if she thinks too hard about it, it’ll vanish.
Zoey murmurs again, shifting slightly. “You smell nice,” she says, voice slurred from exhaustion. “Like… lavender and smoke.”
Rumi blinks, thrown off. “That’s a weird combination.”
“’S nice,” Zoey mumbles, eyes still shut. “Warm.”
Rumi chuckles under her breath. “You’re still a little out of it I think.”
“Probably,” Zoey says, the corner of her mouth curling into a faint smile. “Still true, though.”
Rumi feels something tighten behind her ribs — something she doesn’t have a name for. She traces another line down Zoey’s back, gentle, grounding. “You should sleep.”
“I will.” Zoey tilts her head, cheek brushing Rumi’s collarbone. “You’re comfy.”
“Am I?” Rumi teases lightly, though her throat feels tight.
Zoey hums, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Gotta keep my tough-girl image.”
“I’ll keep your secret,” Rumi says softly, smiling to herself.
They lapse into silence again. Rumi can hear the steady rhythm of Zoey’s heart against her. It’s slow, solid, and for the first time in a long while, Rumi’s own heart seems to find a rhythm that matches it.
Rumi still doesn’t quite understand what happened— what Zoey went through, what it meant for her body or her mind — but she knows pain when she sees it. Knows what it’s like to feel caged inside your own skin. And she knows what it’s like to want someone to stay, even when you’re too afraid to ask.
“Thank you,” Zoey whispers suddenly, voice quiet but certain.
Rumi blinks, lowering her gaze to the top of Zoey’s head. “For what?”
“For not leaving.”
Rumi swallows, unsure how to respond to that. She feels Zoey’s hand shift, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of her shirt. The motion is small, almost unconscious, but it hits Rumi harder than it should. She brushes her thumb across Zoey’s shoulder, just once.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “You needed someone. That’s all.”
“I usually deal with heats alone,” Zoey admits, still not looking up. “I don’t usually like company.”
“You’re allowed to change Zo,” Rumi says, more sharply than she means to. When Zoey gives a tiny laugh against her, she softens again. “It’s not weak.”
“I feel like it,” Zoey murmurs.
“Yeah. I know that feeling.” Rumi exhales slowly. “But you’re still here, right? You made it through.”
That earns her a quiet nod. Zoey’s breathing evens out again, her body slowly relaxing until she’s limp against Rumi’s chest. Rumi can tell she’s fighting sleep — her eyelids flicker, her breathing hitching every few minutes — but she doesn’t push. She just holds her, stroking her hair, letting the world shrink down to the soft weight of another person trusting her completely.
After a while, Rumi starts humming. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it until Zoey shifts, murmuring, “That’s pretty…”
Rumi blinks, embarrassed. “Sorry. Old habit.”
“Don’t stop,” Zoey whispers. “It’s nice.”
So Rumi keeps humming — an old lullaby Celine used to hum when she thought Rumi was asleep. It feels strange to hum it now, in this quiet, half-lit room, for someone else. But Zoey’s breathing slows, her body sinking heavier into Rumi’s arms, and that makes it worth it.
Minutes slip into hours. The rain stops. The world outside goes quiet except for the occasional creak of the dorm building settling. Rumi doesn’t move. She doesn’t even realize how sore her back is from sitting upright so long. All she feels is Zoey’s warmth, the faint rise and fall of her chest, and the soft brush of curls against her chin.
When Zoey finally stirs again, it’s gradual — a sleepy murmur, a deep breath, a blink against the morning light that’s beginning to filter through the curtains. Her voice is raw when she mumbles, “Morning already?”
“Yeah,” Rumi says softly. “You’ve been out for a while.”
Zoey groans, rubbing her face against Rumi’s shirt like a cat. “You should’ve left.”
Rumi raises a brow. “You say that every time.”
“I mean it this time,” Zoey says, but there’s no heat in her words. “I probably drooled on you.”
“You did,” Rumi says, deadpan.
Zoey gasps softly, lifting her head enough to look at her. “Liar.”
Rumi smiles — a small, genuine thing. “Guess you’ll never know.”
Zoey’s face scrunches into mock offense, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she drops her head back down on Rumi’s shoulder, sighing. “You really stayed?”
“Yeah,” Rumi says simply. “I said you’d have to tell me to leave.”
Zoey smiles weakly. “I didn’t, huh?”
“Nope.”
For a moment, the air feels thick with something unspoken — not tension, not really, but something close. Zoey traces absent shapes along Rumi’s arm, eyes half-closed. Rumi doesn’t move, afraid the moment might shatter if she does. She’s not used to someone wanting her this close. Not used to being the safe place someone runs to.
Zoey murmurs, “I think the worst of it’s passed. I’ll just be tired now.”
Rumi nods. “Then rest.”
“You can go,” Zoey says again, quiet. “If you want.”
Rumi tilts her head, meeting her eyes. “You’ll have to tell me to, that was the deal.”
Zoey’s lips part — maybe to argue, maybe to say thank you again — but no words come. She just leans back into Rumi’s chest, pressing her forehead to the base of her throat, and whispers, “Stay.”
Rumi does.
She stays until Zoey’s breathing slows again, until the morning light shifts and softens. She stays because she wants to. Because the warmth feels good, grounding. Because Zoey’s trust feels like a fragile thing cupped between her hands, and she doesn’t want to break it.
Eventually, Zoey falls asleep again, her weight warm and solid. Rumi leans her head back against the wall, eyes half-closed, and lets herself drift for the first time in what feels like forever.
The last thing she hears before sleep pulls her under is the faint sound of Zoey’s heartbeat — steady, calm, alive — and for once, Rumi thinks that maybe she’s not meant to be alone after all.