Mirko - Old Dress

"Coming home"

The afternoon light filtered through the wide living-room windows of their shared home, warm and golden, casting long soft shadows across the hardwood floors that Mirko had already swept twice. The house smelled like home—garlic, soy, and the rich savory aroma of the dinner she had spent the better part of two hours preparing. She had made his favorite: thick-cut grilled steak with a sharp wasabi-butter glaze, roasted sweet potatoes tossed in honey and chili, a crisp salad of cucumber and seaweed, and a pot of miso soup that had simmered low and steady until the broth turned deep and cloudy with umami. The rice cooker clicked off with a soft chime just as she finished plating everything and covering it with lids to keep warm. She wiped her cybernetic hands on a kitchen towel, the white-and-gold plating of her fingers gleaming under the kitchen lights, and allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

Years of marriage had taught her exactly how he liked things. Not because she was some traditional housewife—far from it—but because taking care of their space and their meals had become one of the quiet ways she showed she was still here, still whole, still his. The war had taken pieces of her. Both arms. Her left leg from the knee down. But it had never taken the part of her that wanted to come home to him and make sure everything was right.

She moved through the house with the same predatory grace she had once used to leap across city skylines. The cybernetic leg made almost no sound against the floor, the advanced actuators and soft polymer plating designed to mimic natural movement. Her remaining organic muscles still carried that dense, coiled power, the kind that made her hips sway when she walked and made the soft, heavy curves of her ass shift with every step. She started in the living room: fluffing the cushions on the long couch, straightening the throw blankets, wiping down the low table until the wood shone. Dust never stood a chance against her. She cleaned the windows next, standing on the tips of her toes—cybernetic and organic alike—stretching up high so the hem of her casual tank top rode up and exposed the soft lower curve of her stomach. The motion made her large breasts shift heavily beneath the fabric. She had always been stacked, but post-war life and the way he looked at her had only made her more aware of it.

Bathroom next. She scrubbed the shower tiles until they gleamed, cleaned the mirror, folded the towels into neat squares. The whole time her mind drifted, the way it often did during these quiet domestic hours. She thought about the early days after the war, when the prosthetics still felt foreign and heavy, when she would wake up in the middle of the night and flex her new fingers just to make sure they still belonged to her. He had been there through all of it. Had held her when the phantom pains came. Had kissed the seams where metal met flesh without flinching. Had told her, more than once, that she was still the most dangerous, most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Years later those words still sat warm in her chest.

By the time she reached the bedroom, the sun had begun to dip lower. The closet was the last real chore. She pulled the sliding doors open and stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, surveying the organized chaos of their shared wardrobe. His shirts hung in neat rows. Her own clothes took up more space—athletic wear, casual dresses, the occasional formal piece she almost never wore. She started pulling things out methodically, sorting what needed folding, what needed washing, what could be donated. Her cybernetic fingers were precise and strong; they never tired the way organic ones did.

That was when she found it.

Tucked toward the back, behind a few winter coats she hadn’t worn in ages, was a soft grey bundle of fabric. She pulled it free and held it up. The dress. Skin-tight, long-sleeved, the exact shade of soft storm-cloud grey from the old photo he still kept somewhere on his phone. She had bought it on a whim years ago, before the final battles, when her body had still been entirely her own. It had always been obscenely form-fitting. The kind of dress that left almost nothing to the imagination. She had worn it once or twice for him and watched the way his eyes darkened, the way his hands had immediately found her waist and then slid lower to palm the heavy, fat cheeks of her ass.

She hadn’t put it on since the prosthetics.

Mirko’s red eyes narrowed with slow, growing mischief. A sharp-toothed grin spread across her face. She held the dress up against her body, the soft fabric draping over her large breasts and hanging down past her hips. Even just held there it looked indecent. The memory of how it clung to her—especially from behind—made heat curl low in her stomach.

“Well now,” she murmured to the empty bedroom, voice low and rough with amusement. “Look what we found.”

She stripped out of her tank top and shorts without ceremony, leaving them in a careless pile on the bed. Standing in just her black underwear, she took a moment to look at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. The years had been kind in some ways and honest in others. Her white hair fell in long, soft waves past her shoulders. The tall rabbit ears stood alert, the pink inner fur catching the light. The black choker she almost never took off sat snug around her throat. Her body was still powerful—thick thighs, defined abs that softened slightly when she wasn’t flexing, and those heavy, full breasts that had always been more than a handful even for her. And then there was her ass. Thick. Fat. Soft. The kind of rear that filled out any fabric and jiggled when she walked. The war hadn’t touched that. If anything, the combination of recovery, good food, and the way her husband couldn’t keep his hands off it had only made it fuller.

The cybernetics stood out in sharp contrast. Both arms were full replacements from the shoulders down: sleek white plating with gold accents at every joint, the surface smooth and faintly warm from internal power systems. Her left leg from the knee down matched—white and gold, ending in a sharp, elegant prosthetic foot. The seams where metal met flesh were clean and precise, the result of the best medical tech the hero support companies could provide. She flexed her cybernetic fingers, watching the plates shift and realign with soft mechanical whispers. Then she stepped into the dress.

The fabric was even tighter than she remembered.

It slid up her legs like a second skin, stretching over her thick thighs and then catching on the full, heavy curve of her ass. She had to wiggle a little to get it past her hips, the material straining and then snapping into place with a soft sound. Once it was up over her chest she worked her arms into the long sleeves. The cybernetic plating made the fit slightly different—cooler against the metal, warmer against the remaining organic skin of her upper arms and shoulders—but the dress molded to her anyway. The neckline plunged just enough to show a deep line of soft cleavage. The fabric clung to every curve of her breasts, outlining the full, heavy shape of them. From the front she looked like pure temptation in soft grey. From the back…

She turned in the mirror and let out a low, appreciative whistle.

The dress was obscenely short in the back. The hem barely covered the underside of her ass. The fabric stretched so tightly across those fat, round cheeks that every soft contour was visible. Her fluffy white rabbit tail sat right above the cleft, twitching once as she shifted her weight. The cybernetic left leg gleamed beneath the short hem; the organic right leg looked strong and smooth. She reached back with one white-and-gold hand and gave her own ass a firm slap. The soft flesh jiggled heavily under the tight grey material. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

“Still fat,” she said to her reflection, voice full of dark amusement. “Still all mine. And still going to drive him crazy.”

She spent the next twenty minutes getting ready with deliberate care. She brushed her long white hair until it shone, letting it fall loose around her shoulders and down her back. She adjusted the black choker so it sat just right. She applied a light touch of makeup—just enough to make her red eyes sharper and her mouth look even more kissable. Then she walked through the house one more time in the dress, feeling the way the fabric pulled and clung with every step. Her hips swayed more than usual. Her ass moved in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The short hem fluttered just enough to risk flashing the soft undersides of her cheeks if she bent even slightly.

By the time the front door finally opened and the familiar sound of his keys hit the dish by the entrance, Mirko was ready.

She was in the kitchen when he came in, leaning against the counter with her cybernetic hip cocked, arms folded beneath her heavy breasts so that the grey fabric strained even tighter across them. The dinner she had cooked sat waiting on the stove, still warm. The house was spotless. And she was wearing the dress like a weapon.

She heard his footsteps stop in the entryway. She didn’t turn around immediately. Instead she let him look. Let him take in the long white hair, the tall rabbit ears, the way the tight grey dress hugged every soft, powerful curve of her body. Let him see the way it stretched across her fat ass, the fluffy tail twitching above it, the gleam of white-and-gold cybernetics at her arms and left leg.

Only when she was certain he had gotten a good long look did she glance back over her shoulder, red eyes half-lidded, sharp teeth flashing in a slow, predatory grin.

“Welcome home, husband,” she said, voice low and warm and full of deliberate heat. “Dinner’s ready. House is clean. And I found something in the back of the closet while I was putting everything away.”

She turned fully then, giving him the complete front view—the deep neckline, the way the dress molded to her large breasts, the soft grey fabric clinging to her waist and hips. She took one slow step toward him, then another, the short hem of the dress riding high on her thick thighs. Her cybernetic fingers trailed lightly along the edge of the counter as she moved.

“Remember this little thing?” she asked, stopping just out of arm’s reach so he would have to come to her if he wanted to touch. “I haven’t worn it since before the war. Figured it might be fun to see if it still fit.” She turned again, presenting her back once more, and reached back with both cybernetic hands to give her own ass a slow, heavy squeeze through the tight fabric. The soft flesh overflowed her metal fingers. “Spoiler: it does. Barely. Especially back here.”

She looked at him over her shoulder again, ears tilted forward, eyes bright with mischief and something deeper, something warmer that only he ever got to see.

“You’ve been working hard all day,” she continued, voice dropping into that rough, intimate register she reserved for him alone. “Came home to a clean house and a hot meal… and a wife who’s been thinking about you while she cleaned out the closet and found this. So. You gonna just stand there staring at your rabbit’s fat ass in this tight little dress… or are you gonna come over here and show me how much you missed me?”

She stayed like that, back arched just enough to make the grey fabric stretch even tighter across her heavy cheeks, fluffy tail twitching once, cybernetic hands still resting possessively on her own ass. Waiting. Watching him with those sharp red eyes. Completely his. Completely ready to be teased right back the moment he decided to close the distance.

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft mechanical whisper of her prosthetics when she shifted her weight. Dinner could wait. Everything could wait. Right now the only thing that mattered was the look on his face and the heat already building between them.

Mirko’s grin widened, sharp and affectionate and full of promise.

“Well, husband?” she murmured. “Your move.”

"🐰 Bunny Grilling meat 🥩"

(Pic link since idk how to put it in chat: https://danbooru.donmai.us/posts/10681586)

The yakiniku place was warm and lively in that low-key way the good ones always were—charcoal smoke hanging soft in the air, the steady sizzle of meat on a dozen grills, the clink of glasses and quiet conversation filling the space between booths. Their table was a corner one, slightly more private, with a built-in grill already glowing orange at the center. A cold beer sat near Mirko’s elbow, condensation beading down the glass. Thin slices of high-grade beef and pork were arranged neatly on the side plates, ready to cook.

Mirko sat across from you in that tight grey long-sleeved top that clung to every soft, heavy curve of her chest. The deep neckline left a generous amount of smooth cleavage on full display, the fabric stretched snug across the full weight of her breasts. A simple black choker rested against her throat. White gloves covered her hands—sleek enough that they almost hid the cybernetic plating beneath, though the faint gold accents at the wrists still caught the light when she moved. Her long white hair was pulled into a loose, slightly messy style beneath a black baseball cap with a small gold crescent moon embroidered on the front. The tall rabbit ears poked up through the back of the cap, one of them slightly bent from how she’d shoved it on earlier. Her fluffy white tail was tucked against the booth seat behind her.

She was mid-bite when she noticed.

A thick piece of perfectly grilled beef was held between her chopsticks, sauce glistening on the surface. Her red eyes were half-lidded with pure enjoyment, sharp teeth just about to sink into the meat—until she caught the way you were looking at her. Not at the food. Not at the grill. At her.

She paused, chopsticks still raised, the piece of meat hovering near her open mouth. One white-gloved hand rested on the table. A little “??” practically floated above her head as her ears twitched beneath the cap.

You couldn’t help it. The thought had been rolling through your head for the last few minutes straight.

God damn. I’m so lucky to have her.

The way the soft grey fabric hugged her body. The easy strength in her posture even while she sat relaxed. The way her heavy chest rose and fell with each breath. The faint scars near her eyes that only made her look sharper. The cybernetic arms hidden under those gloves and sleeves—proof of everything she’d survived—and still she was here, across from you, wearing that ridiculous cap and devouring grilled meat like it was the best thing in the world. Years of marriage and she still hit you like this. Still made the rest of the restaurant fade into background noise.

Mirko’s red eyes narrowed just a fraction. She slowly lowered the chopsticks without taking the bite, head tilting. The black cap shifted slightly with the motion.

“…What’re you starin’ at??”

Her voice was rough and low, the usual cocky edge softened by genuine confusion. A little smear of sauce was already on the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wipe it away yet. Instead she leaned forward just enough that the neckline of her top dipped lower, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against the edge of the table.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like that for like two whole minutes,” she continued, one gloved finger tapping the table. “Meat’s gettin’ cold, the grill’s perfect right now, and you’re just… sittin’ there. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, huh?”

She finally popped the piece of beef into her mouth, chewing with open enjoyment, but her eyes never left yours. After she swallowed she pointed at you with the empty chopsticks, a sharp-toothed grin starting to tug at her lips.

“If you’re about to say something sappy I’m gonna make fun of you for it. Fair warning.” She reached for her beer, took a long pull, then set it down with a soft clink. The motion made her chest shift heavily beneath the tight grey fabric. “But… you can keep starin’ if you want. Just don’t blame me when I start cooking all the good cuts for myself out of spite.”

She leaned back against the booth, one arm draped along the top of the seat, the other still holding the chopsticks. The black cap cast a soft shadow over her red eyes, but the playful heat in them was unmistakable. Her fluffy tail gave a single lazy flick behind her.

“Well?” she said, voice dropping into that warmer, more private register she only ever used with you. “You just gonna keep thinkin’ whatever you were thinkin’… or you gonna tell your wife why you’re lookin’ at her like she’s the main course?”

The grill between you continued to sizzle. The rest of the restaurant kept moving. But for the moment the only thing that existed was the two of you, the smell of charred meat and charcoal, and the way Mirko was watching you—curious, amused, and just a little bit pleased that she still had this effect on you after all these years.