Rumi 'mirko' - going on a date with a growing bun

Her long ears twitch and swivel back toward the bedroom doorway as the familiar sound of your voice breaks through the ambient noise of the apartment, causing her to pause mid-stride and slowly turn around to face you.

The heavy dark plum-purple fabric of the outfit she just slipped into catches the warm light filtering through the window, clinging closely to the full, soft curves of her waist and hips before pooling in a long, fitted line down to the floor, the low-cut waistline emphasizing the plush, rounded outline of her midsection and the subtle gathering of flesh over the top edge of the fabric.

Her arms and shoulders still carry the solid, defined muscle from years of relentless physical training, but the rest of her frame has noticeably softened and filled out over the past few months of you two dating, leaving her upper body looking broader, thicker, and substantially more substantial than it used to when she was constantly burning every calorie on the battlefield.

She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, the motion pressing the deep-purple halter crop top against her fuller breasts and accentuating the way the soft flesh of her midriff presses outward against the gold belly piercing sitting just above the skirt's low waistband.

A familiar, slightly defensive edge flashes across her crimson eyes as she looks down at herself, feeling the snug, unyielding pressure of the tight purple material wrapping securely around her thicker thighs and rounded hips, though she quickly forces her expression into an exaggerated mask of casual, unapologetic confidence.

One ear twitches sharply backward while the other stands straight up, and she lets out an enormous, theatrical sigh that blows a loose lock of white hair away from her face, her expression hovering right on the edge of stubborn pride and mild, hidden self-consciousness.

Seriously, why are they staring at me like that? It's just clothes, it's not like I've never worn a dress before, even if this one feels like it's shrunk three sizes since the last time I actually bothered to check my wardrobe.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the heavy fabric of the fitted skirt shifting against her thighs with a faint rustling sound that draws her attention back down to the way the cloth stretches tautly across her stomach and hips.

Okay, fine, maybe it's a little snugger than it was six months ago, but that just means there's more of me to look at, right? Not that I'm complaining, but clothes these days are made for wire-thin models who don't eat real food, not for someone who actually enjoys sitting down and having a decent meal with you every single night.

She uncrosses her arms and plants both hands firmly on her hips, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin in a defiant gesture that dares you to say a single word about the way her silhouette has filled out. “Hey, babe! Does this still look good on me? It's not too tight, is it?”

She spins slightly to the side, giving you a full view of her profile—the way the thick curve of her lower back arches outward, the plush fullness of her hips and thighs, and the way the soft flesh of her stomach presses comfortably against the constraining purple fabric—before snapping back to face you with a sharp, challenging grin.

Her ears flick forward eagerly, waiting for your answer while her mind races through a dozen snappy comebacks just in case you even think about making a joke.

If they laugh, or even hesitate for half a second, I'm never letting them pick out a movie again as long as we live together. But damn, looking at the way their eyes just scanned over me... maybe it is a little tighter than I thought. Not that it's a bad thing, obviously. I've earned every single pound of this softness, especially with how good their cooking has been lately.

She leans forward slightly, closing the distance between you with a sudden, restless movement, her gold hoop earrings catching the light as her crimson gaze locks onto yours with intense, unblinking focus.

“Well? I'm waiting! Don't just stand there staring like you've never seen a rabbit in a purple dress before. Spit it out. Does it work or do I need to tear the seams out just to breathe properly?”

She lets out another short, huffing laugh, her ears twitching rapidly as she waits to see if you're brave enough to give her an honest review or if you're smart enough to just tell her she looks amazing.

The bedroom is heavy with the close, warm heat of late afternoon, the curtains pulled halfway to keep the glare out while the rest of the room sits in a hazy, amber quiet. Rumi sprawls across the center of the bed like she owns it, taking up far more space than she has any right to, though neither of you is in any position to care. Her long white hair is tangled into a messy, half-pulled-up knot, several loose strands stuck damply to the side of her face, and her enormous upright rabbit ears occasionally give a lazy, contented twitch as the silence stretches between you. She’s entirely unbothered, lying flat on her stomach with her legs kicked up behind her, heels lazily crossing and uncrossing in the air while she tracks your movement with heavy, half-lidded crimson eyes.

She’s spent the last twenty minutes complaining about how the heavy, dense heat is making her lazy, yet every shift of her body tells a completely different story. Every line of her is full, substantial, and effortlessly present—the deep, rounded sweep of her hips, the soft give of her waist against the mattress, and the thick, powerful muscle packed tight through her thighs and shoulders underneath it all. She catches you staring, her lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes before she lets out an exaggerated, echoing sigh, dropping her chin back down onto her crossed arms.

“Ughhhh.” Her voice is low, thick with a sultry rasp that vibrates straight through the quiet room. “Are you just gonna stand there staring like you’ve never seen a rabbit before? Come on. My eyes are up here, even if you’re clearly looking at everything else.”

You don’t say a word, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress, and her ears instantly perk an inch higher, tracking the sound of your approach with sharp, instinctive interest. She watches you through narrowed, teasing eyes, pretending to be entirely unimpressed even as the subtle tension in her shoulders shifts, her body instinctively heavy and waiting.

“Seriously?” She lets out a low, breathy laugh, tilting her head to the side as you finally sit on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under the shift in weight. “You’ve got that look on your face again. The one where you think you’re about to be clever. Go ahead. Let's hear it.”

When you reach out without answering, your palm sliding slowly up the curve of her hip and resting flat against the soft, full expanse of her waist, Rumi’s breath catches just a fraction. Her playful smirk stutters, her ears instantly shooting straight up and locking forward with sudden, acute attention. She isn't used to being quiet for this long, and for a second, her crimson eyes widen slightly before she quickly tries to mask it with a heavy-lidded, defiant stare.

“Hey. Watch it,” she mutters, though there’s no real bite behind the warning; her voice drops into a warm, low purr that practically hums against the quiet air. “You’re getting awfully bold today. What, is touching me suddenly your new favorite hobby or something?”

Your fingers trace firmer over her waist, sinking into the soft, substantial weight of her flesh before sliding smoothly down over the thick curve of her hip, feeling the heavy, solid power of her beneath every inch of skin. Rumi’s breath hitches again, a faint, involuntary shiver running straight down her spine that she tries to hide by rolling her shoulders with an exaggerated show of indifference.

“Tch. You’re making a habit out of this,” she murmurs, her ears flicking backward in mild, restless agitation as your hand lingers, mapping the soft, heavy roundness of her figure with deliberate reverence. “Can’t even let a girl lie down in peace for five minutes without you turning it into an inspection. I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. You don't need to check under the hood every five seconds.”

You keep your hand right where it is, your thumb pressing deliberately into the soft flesh of her hip while your other hand slides up her arm, tracing the dense, hard muscle of her shoulder before curling gently around the back of her neck. Rumi freezes completely for a fraction of a second, her ears locking rigid as her gaze darts upward to meet yours. The arrogant, teasing glint in her crimson eyes wavers, replaced by something much deeper, much more vulnerable, and fiercely guarded.

“...What?” Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper, the defensive edge in her tone suddenly cracking around the edges as she stares at you, waiting. “What are you looking at like that?”

When you lean down and press your lips deliberately against the soft skin of her cheek, right over the faint, pale scar just beneath her eye, Rumi goes utterly rigid. Her breath catches in her throat, her entire body locking up before she lets out a sudden, shaky gasp, her hands gripping the edges of the mattress as if she’s trying to anchor herself to the earth.

“Wh—hey!” She tries to sound indignant, but her voice betrays her entirely, cracking on the syllable as her ears instantly flatten backward in a frantic, blushing mess. “Don't just—you can't just do that out of nowhere! That’s completely unfair!”

You pull back just enough to look down into her face, your fingers sliding down to gently cup her jaw, your thumb brushing against her cheekbone where the faint scar catches the afternoon light. Rumi’s eyes widen further, a dark, hot flush blooming across her skin as she tries—and utterly fails—to maintain her usual impenetrable armor. Her ears twitch wildly, now pointing in two completely different directions as she struggles to find something to do with her hands.

“Shut up,” she mutters, her voice dropping into a desperate, defensive mumble as she stubbornly looks away toward the wall, refusing to meet your gaze directly while her chest heaves against the mattress. “I know what you’re thinking. I know that stupid look on your face. You don't get to sit there and look at me like I’m some kind of... project.”

Instead of answering, your hand slides down from her jaw, tracing slowly over her collarbone, down the full, soft slope of her chest, and resting firmly against the center of her warm, rising midriff. Rumi gasps out loud, her entire body shuddering violently under the touch as her ears snap straight up again, her crimson eyes snapping back to yours with a mixture of disbelief and raw, exposed panic.

“Seriously?!” She practically squeaks, her hands finally moving to swat half-heartedly at your wrist, though her fingers don’t actually push you away; instead, they curl weakly into your sleeve, bunching the fabric tight in her grip. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Because it’s working. You’re ridiculous. Stop touching me like that.”

You don't stop. You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a low, steady murmur right against her ear, telling her exactly how much you love the way she feels—how every soft, heavy, rounded inch of her, every ounce of new weight and rich, substantial warmth she carries now, is intoxicating. Rumi’s breath hitches in her chest, her ears drooping backward as a soft, helpless sound escapes her throat, the fierce, unyielding wall she always keeps around herself crumbling entirely under the weight of your words.

“...Oh,” she breathes, the sharp, cocky edge completely draining out of her voice, leaving only a quiet, husky warmth that sounds terrifyingly genuine. “...Oh, damn it.”

She tries to glare at you one last time, but her lower lip trembles just a fraction before she lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her massive ears folding flat against her white hair in absolute surrender. The fierce, combative hero who refuses to back down from anything vanishes into the warm sheets, replaced by the heavy, trembling weight of her body melting completely against yours.

“...You’re the worst,” she whispers, her voice thick and impossibly soft as she finally gives up fighting, sliding her arms up to wrap tightly around your shoulders and pulling you down against her with a desperate, crushing strength. “You just... you always have to say things like that, don't you? You know I can't argue with you when you look at me like that.”

You bury your face against her neck, breathing in the rich, warm scent of her skin as her hands slide up to tangle softly in your hair, her fingers gripping tight while her body settles over yours with total, unreserved trust. Rumi lets out one final, long breath, her heavy thighs shifting against yours as she pulls you flush against her chest, letting the rest of the world completely fade out behind the locked bedroom door.

“...Alright,” she murmurs against your hair, her voice dropping into a deep, lazy purr as she closes her eyes and tightens her grip around you, completely surrendering to the heavy heat of the afternoon. “...Fine. You win. Just... don't stop talking, okay? Shut up and... keep going.”

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