Would u be able to write some Mirko x male reader smut?
Content: Shameless smut. Maledom. Hickeys. Shower sex. Oral sex (Mirko receiving.) Thick thighs. Thigh worship. Thigh fucking.
of courseee ^^ i haven't fully caught up on bnha so i'm not too familiar with mirko as a character but i hope it's good regardless <3
dripping
rumi usagiyama (mirko)
cw. sub!rumi, dom!male reader, shower sex but no actual sex, thigh worship, hickeys, cunnilingus, thigh fucking
wc. 2.3k
the sound of running water echoes faintly through the apartment, a low, steady hiss that drifts under the half-closed bathroom door. steam spills out like dragon’s breath — thick, warm, and curling lazily into the dim hallway. it rolls past the scattered trail of clothes leading from the front door to the bedroom, clinging to the air like a promise.
you’re perched on the edge of the bed, half-dressed. sweat still clings faintly to your skin from your own training session, your body thrumming with leftover adrenaline — and something else. something heavier. you lean back onto your hands with an exhale, head tilted slightly as you stare down the hallway.
she’d walked past you a few minutes ago like a fucking goddess.
rumi.
still damp with sweat, her toned frame wrapped in nothing but a towel that barely reached the tops of her thighs. her skin gleamed in the low light, bronzed and glistening. her silver hair clung to the curve of her throat and collarbone, the ends darkened with moisture. every step she took was calculated, confident, hips swaying with the unbothered swagger of someone who knew exactly how much power she had and exactly what she was doing to you.
one of her ears twitched when she passed you. she heard the low, involuntary growl rumble in your chest. you hadn’t even tried to hide it.
you don’t bother pretending you’re not already hard.
then the door creaks. not fully closed. not locked. like an invitation just waiting for you to accept.
the shower sputters for half a second, then steadies into a rhythm. the rush of water striking tile, slicking skin. then comes the faint clink of glass, a bottle maybe, or soap being set aside.
and then her voice.
low. lazy. drenched in wicked amusement.
“water’s warm, y’know,” she calls out, casual but unmistakably deliberate, “and there’s room for two… if you’re man enough.”
you smirk. slow and dangerous, a wolf baring its teeth.
the bed creaks as you rise. each step toward the bathroom stretches out, your blood thrumming hotter with every footfall. by the time you reach the door, your fingers curl around the edge — not hesitating, not asking. you push it open and step into a wall of humid heat.
steam thickens the air, cloaking everything in a gauzy haze. but even through it, she’s crystal clear.
rumi stands beneath the spray, her back arched slightly, white hair slicked and sticking to the strong lines of her back. water pours over her like liquid glass, cascading over her shoulders, down her chest, clinging to the curve of her breasts, trailing over her taut stomach and down those fucking thighs. the ones you’ve dreamed about, gripped, bitten, spread.
she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t hide. that’s never been her style.
instead, she shifts, cocking a hip and leaning back against the slick tile. one arm lifts to rest above her head, biceps flexing, breasts rising with the movement. she watches you like prey that knows it’s more dangerous than the hunter.
then she smirks.
the kind that speaks of bruises and bite marks and nights neither of you will walk away from clean.
“you gonna just stand there and gawk, big guy?”
you don’t answer. you don’t need to.
your hands move wordlessly, gripping the hem of your shirt, dragging it up and over your head. her eyes follow the motion like a predator tracking movement in the wild. when the shirt hits the tile floor with a dull slap, her gaze dips lower.
the air is thick and hot, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of her attention.
her teeth catch the edge of her smirk as her eyes rake over you — broad shoulders, scarred chest, the ridges of your abs still tight from exertion. she lingers at your waistband, watching the outline of your dick beneath your boxers swell with every breath.
and when they drop—
she lets out a slow, approving hum, almost like she’s savouring a fine drink. “mhmm.” her head tilts. “no wonder you act like you own the place.”
you step into the shower in silence. no words. just action. one hand braces against the wall beside her head, the other ghosting to her hip. the space between your bodies crackles. water hits your skin, turning hot muscle to slick contact as your body towers over hers.
she doesn’t shrink.
her breath hits your jaw, warm and sharp. her hand slides along your ribs, curling around to the small of your back, dragging fingernails lightly against your spine. you feel them. every inch.
she tilts her face up defiantly, silver hair clinging to flushed skin, her ears twitching with anticipation.
“you gonna make me beg?” she murmurs, lips brushing your throat now. “‘cause you know i’m not the type.”
your thumb finds her bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
“wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper, eyes burning into hers, “but you’re gonna give me exactly what i want anyway.”
her pupils blow wide, black swallowing red.
you don’t give her time to fire back.
your mouth crashes into hers — wet, consuming, full of hunger you don’t bother masking. she moans into it, hips canting up into yours, the firm swell of her breasts pressed against your chest. her leg hooks around your waist instinctively, dragging your bodies even closer, not that there was any space left.
friction. heat. steam. tongues tangled, teeth grazing.
the water drums over you both, but it’s not enough to cool anything.
your mouths break apart with a gasp, your foreheads pressed together in the fogged heat. rumi’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, her smirk softened into something hungrier, darker.
your hand trails down her side, over the swell of her hip, the taut line of her thigh where her muscles flex beneath the skin. her leg is still hooked around you, holding you close, but now you’re easing her down, back against the wet tile, your body lowering slowly with purpose.
she watches you. doesn’t stop you. doesn’t say a word.
you sink to your knees.
the water pounds over your shoulders as you settle in front of her, large hands gripping the tops of her thighs, pushing them open just slightly — enough to make her shift, enough to make her back arch off the wall like her body already knows what’s coming.
your breath is hot against her skin.
her thighs glisten, not just with water, but with heat, need, anticipation — every line of her honed by training and war and power. but here, right now, you’re the one in control.
and you’re going to savour it.
you press your lips to the inside of her right thigh, slowly. not a kiss — a drag of breath, then mouth, then tongue. her skin is smooth and salty from sweat and steam, and she twitches under the contact, just a little.
then your lips part, and you bite.
just enough to make her hiss and grab at your damp hair.
you grin against her skin and suck deep — a dark, blooming hickey right where the meat of her thigh curves outward. her breath stutters.
another kiss, just below the first. slower this time, your tongue swirling before your teeth graze again. then another mark — deliberate, unhurried, your mouth sinking into her like you want to brand her.
because you do.
she groans above you, and her hand tightens in your hair. “you better not stop there,” she mutters, voice ragged, thick with lust and the edge of challenge.
“i’m not stopping,” you murmur against her. “i’m worshipping.”
that earns you a breathy laugh — but it breaks when your mouth moves to the opposite thigh. you part her legs a little wider, coaxing her into a stance that gives you full access, full control. and you devour her there.
hot, open-mouthed kisses, tongue tracing the strong cut of her muscle, slow sucks that leave marks like constellations across her skin. her body is pure tension — tight, coiled, shifting between dominance and surrender as your mouth continues its path.
“you like those strong thighs, huh?” she says, trying to keep the teasing tone, but there’s a breathless hitch in her voice that betrays her.
“i love them,” you murmur, pressing a chaste kiss to one of the hickeys. “could spend hours right here.”
your tongue flicks along the sensitive crease where thigh meets hip, your breath now fanning across the heat of her pussy — so close she shudders.
and finally, finally, you look up at her.
she’s leaning back against the tile, white hair plastered to her cheeks and neck, chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths. her gaze pins you in place, feral and flushed. but she doesn’t say a word.
you lower your head.
and your mouth finds her pussy.
the first pass of your tongue is slow, deliberate — a long, flat drag from bottom to top. she exhales hard, hips jerking once before you settle your hands on them, pinning her in place. you do it again, slower. then with more pressure. then again, deeper.
she gasps when your tongue circles, flicks, teases. her thighs twitch under your palms, but she doesn’t close them — no, she opens them wider, baring herself completely for you now. the groans spilling from her mouth are low and drawn-out, punched from her lungs like she’s trying not to fall apart too fast.
you want her to fall apart.
you want to watch her unravel from the legs up — the very thighs you just worshipped now trembling around your head as you push your mouth harder against her, tongue plunging, curling, licking her into something desperate and wild.
and when her fingers clutch your hair tight, dragging you closer, her head knocking back against the tile with a helpless little sound, you know she’s yours.
the tremble in her thighs is addicting.
you can feel it in every small quake of muscle against your jaw, every desperate roll of her hips, every breathless curse that slips from her lips as you tear her down bit by bit. she’s so strong — always so strong — but right now? she’s barely holding on.
you draw back slowly, lips slick, chin wet, breath coming heavy through your nose. you press a kiss to the top of her mound, then another to the inside of her thigh — reverent, teasing. rumi’s gaze is hazy when she looks down at you, chest heaving, skin flushed a dark bronze from the heat.
“not letting me come yet?” she rasps.
you grin. “not yet,” you say, low and rough, as your hands slide back up her legs, thumbs grazing the curve of her hips. “i’m not done yet.”
she opens her mouth, maybe to make another cocky remark, but you grab her hips and spin her.
she lets out a sharp gasp as you push her legs back together, pushing her further into the tiled wall. she turns her head to look at you over her shoulder, and when your cock brushes between her thighs — right against that thick, slick heat you just tasted — she swears under her breath. a hot, needy sound.
but you’re not going there. not yet.
instead, you shift your hips lower, angle yourself carefully, and thrust between her thighs.
not inside.
between.
the tight, muscular press of her legs engulfs you. Her thighs, still trembling from your mouth, squeeze around your cock like they were made for it — slick, hot, velvet friction as you start to move.
slow. then faster.
the ridges of her muscles flex around you as you thrust between them, the water from the shower and the wetness from her pussy making everything glide perfectly. the sounds are filthy — wet and obscene and echoing in the tile-heavy bathroom like a drumbeat. her body jerks with every motion, head falling forward, mouth parting around a moan that’s as much a growl as it is a whimper.
“you like that?” you grunt against her against, one hand bracing beside her head, the other gripping her hip tight enough to bruise. “feel how good you are for me?”
rumi’s eyes flutter as her hips jerk in time with yours. “f-fuck, yeah,” she groans. “don’t stop. i swear to god, don’t fucking stop—”
you don’t stop. you drive into her harder, the drag of your cock between her thighs maddeningly tight, surrounded by nothing but heat and strength and the soft, helpless sounds she’s trying not to make.
your hand slides up, fingers finding her throat, not squeezing — just holding, possessive, grounding. her gaze snaps to yours, and it’s feral, a perfect storm of lust and pride and challenge.
“look at you,” you murmur against her jaw. “all that muscle. all that power. and you’re letting me fuck your thighs like they’re mine.”
her lips curl into a ragged smile. “that’s ‘cause they are yours.”
that snaps something inside you.
you groan — loud, raw — and rut harder between her thighs, the slap of your hips against her ass echoing off the tile, the slick glide of her skin against yours driving you right to the edge. her hands scramble for purchase, one braced against the wall in front of her, the other reaching behind her to grip onto your forearm.
you let go of her throat and reach between her legs. this time not to tease, but to finish what you started.
your fingers find her clit, swollen and slick, and you rub tight, punishing circles there as you fuck her thighs. her mouth drops open in a strangled cry, and her whole body locks.
then she shatters.
her orgasm hits like a detonation. full-body, guttural, her thighs clenching around you as her voice cracks on your name, heat pouring over your cock where you’re pressed so tightly between her legs.
that’s all it takes.
you groan against her skin as your own orgasm crashes through you, hot and sudden, spurting thick between her thighs as you thrust once, twice more — then hold, buried against her, chest heaving.
silence settles for a moment.
just the sound of the shower, your breaths tangled, her body twitching gently around yours.
then, still panting, rumi smirks as her head falls back against your shoulder. “not bad, big guy,” she mutters, voice hoarse.
you nuzzle into her neck, still catching your breath.
“you say that like we’re done.”
her grin sharpens. “oh, are we not?”