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Rumi is supposed to know restraint.
She hunts demons. She is a world renowned idol. She has trained her body and mind to obey her every will, to stay sharp, to stay distant, to never let desire dull her edge.
And then there’s (Y/n).
(Y/n), who is standing in the kitchen, in nothing more than sweatpants and a tanktop—broad shoulders flexing slightly as she reaches into the top cabinet.
Rumi is sitting at the counter, pretending—badly—to be scrolling on her phone.
But her eyes aren’t on her phone.
They’re on those goddam tattoos.
Black ink spills across (Y/n)’s skin. Heavy lines, deliberate shapes, bold strokes that wrap around muscle and bone. A thick band circles her forearm, broken by angular symbols Rumi doesn't recognize. Another piece climbs up her shoulder, disappearing beneath her collarbone.
Rumi’s throat is dry.
She’s seen demon sigils carved into flesh. She’s seen cursed markings burned into skin until they’d screamed.
But (Y/n)’s tattoos are different.
Because she’d chosen them.
“Babydollll, are you staring again?” (Y/n) asks, her voice calm and amused.
Rumi doesn't reply. She never answers that one.
“You’ve got a new one,” Rumi says instead, slipping off her stool and stepping closer.
(Y/n) glances down at her right arm—where a new piece marked her skin. It was from one of her favorite video games, and she’s always felt a connection to Ellie William’s tattoo, and how it represented transformation and endurance and renewal. “This one? Got it about two months ago.”
Because of Rumi’s insane touring schedule with Mira and Zoey as Hunt/x, this was the first the two had seen each other in about four months.
Rumi reaches out before she can stop herself. Her fingers hover for half a second—she’d always hesitate, always ask permission with her body, even if she didn’t use words—and then (Y/n) nods, barely perceptible.
Rumi’s fingertips press to warm skin. She traces the ink slowly, following the curve of muscle beneath. The way the tattoo wrapped around her forearm, rather than just sitting flat makes something twist pleasantly in Rumi’s chest.
“I love your tattoos,” Rumi murmurs. “They’re just . . . you.”
(Y/n) smiles, soft and fond, “You’re the only person who talks about them like this.”
Rumi hums, “That’s because no one else can look at them properly.” Her thumb brushes over a thick line, then pauses. She leans closer, eyes narrowed in focus. “I like how you don’t hide them,” she says.
(Y/n) snorts. “I spent way too much on these not to show them off.”
The joke makes Rumi giggle. She studies (Y/n), built like she belongs in a fight—solid, powerful, broad-shouldered. Rumi loves that.
She presses her forehead briefly to (Y/n)’s shoulder—she smelled like her soap.
. . .
They’re all gathered in the living room later. Mira and Zoey are tangled up together on the couch, Zoey’s legs draped lazily over Mira’s lap, fingers idly tracing circles against her thigh.
Rumi is on her back, her hoodie tossed aside. Her patterns are glowing faintly.
“Okay,” (Y/n) breaks the silence. “I really have to know—did these hurt?”
Rumi blinks. “Hurt?”
(Y/n) gestures at the glowing lines curling along Rumi’s arms. “You’re tattoos. They’re sick as hell.”
Rumi’s heart stutters.
“They’re not—” She stops herself. She swallows thickly. “. . . No, they didn’t hurt. Not really.”
(Y/n) hums, clearly unconvinced. She shifts closer, her shadow falling over Rumi’s body, warm and solid.
“They're sick as hell,” (Y/n) sounds genuinely awed. “I’ve never seen ink like that before. They almost look alive.”
They are alive, Rumi thinks.
(Y/n)’s fingers hover, respectful—even in her curiosity. “Can I touch?”
Rumi nods before she can think any better of it.
The moment (Y/n)’s fingers make contact, her patterns react.
Light flares softly beneath Rumi’s skin. She inhales sharply.
(Y/n) notices immediately. “Shit—fuck—I’m sorry!”
“No,” Rumi says quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
(Y/n) looks panicked for a second.
“I promise, it’s okay,” Rumi says.
. . .
Later, it’s just the two of them in their room. (Y/n) is lying on the bed, shirtless—Rumi liked to look at (Y/n)’s tattoos.
“I like this one,” Rumi murmurs, tracing up the trunk of the cherry blossom tree tattooed up her back.
(Y/n) smiles, turning her head and looking up at Rumi. “I like yours,” (Y/n) returns.
Rumi’s patterns glow faintly beneath her skin. She folds her arms over her ribs without thinking.
“Ru,” (Y/n) sits up, pulling on a t-shirt and then sitting in front of Rumi. She reaches out her hands, and takes Rumi’s.
“I was born with them,” Rumi says finally, averting her gaze from (Y/n)’s. “Huntr/x exists to protect humanity from humans and from Gwi-Ma and his demons. Demons have always haunted our world, stealing souls and channeling strength back to their king, Gwi-Ma. Every generation, a trio of hunters is chosen to protect our world. My mother was a hunter.” She chances a glance at (Y/n). “She fell in love with a demon. I am half demon.” She studies (Y/n)’s expression.
(Y/n) meets her gaze, steady. “That doesn’t change the fact that I like them. That I love you.” She shifts closer to Rumi. “Half demon or not,” (Y/n) continues, “you’re the one who makes sure all the doors are locked every night. You’re the one who makes sure Mira eats on her bad days. You’re the one who plays games with Zoey when she’s lonely.” Rumi’s eyes sting. She leans forward, pressing a kiss to Rumi’s forehead. She leans back, looking into Rumi’s eyes. She reaches up a hand to wipe the tear from Rumi’s cheek. “I hope it’s okay to say, but I think they’re beautiful.”
Rumi laughs waterily. “Yes, that’s okay to say. I spent so long being ashamed of them, but ever since the Idol Awards, I’ve been so comfortable with them.” Her gaze drops briefly. “I sometimes still get scared, though, of how people’ll react.“
“You’ll never have to worry about that with me,” (Y/n) says, smiling warmly at her. “I love them. And I love you.”
Word Count: 1039 words