Cyberwulf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madra_liath) wrote2013-06-14 02:46 pm
madra_liath) wrote2013-06-14 02:46 pm
Entry tags:
Saboteur
Summary: Pudgy Miles fails at exercise. Luckily, his partner loves him just the way he is. Written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme.
***
“Hnngh-!”
“Come on, Miles. You can do it!”
He’s red in the face, eyes screwed shut as he struggles to lift his back off the ground. Half an inch…one inch… His legs tremble with effort, and a moment later he flops back onto the mat, breathless and panting.
“You’re doing great, that’s two down. Just eight more!”
He stares up at you in a daze. His bangs are clinging to his sweaty forehead, and his magenta running shorts are riding up on his plump, pale thighs. His soft belly rises and falls with every frantic breath. Kneeling over him and holding his feet down, you’ve got a front row seat for the whole show.
He composes himself, and tries again.
“Hrrk-!”
His stomach quivers as he tries to sit up, weakened muscles struggling against seven years of too much food and too little exercise. Little beads of sweat trickle down his face.
“Come on, Miles, you’re almost there!”
“Can’t –”
The word comes out through gritted teeth, and half a second later he crashes back to the mat. His flabby body jiggles with the impact, and all you can think about is how perfectly his singlet frames his fat little tits.
He rolls to the side and sits up, cradling his sore tummy. He’s disgusted with himself, with his inability to do this simple exercise, and you can’t stand it. This morning he forced down half a grapefruit and a cup of unsweetened tea for breakfast, when you know he really wanted fried eggs with toast smothered in marmalade.
“Miles…” You rest a hand on his back. “…why is this so important?”
There’s more to his red face than just physical exertion, and he can’t meet your eyes.
“I –” He looks away and grasps his arm compulsively. “I want to look nice for you.”
You wrap your arms around him, rubbing the cushion of fat on his belly that he seems to hate so much. You wish he knew that his rounder face makes him look younger, that you don’t mind slowing down to keep pace with him when you walk, that it’s all you can do to keep your hands off all that soft, plump flesh. But if you tell him, you know he’ll deduce immediately why you always bring him cookies with his tea, why you always cook just a little too much for two, why there’s always a bottle of his favourite red open every Friday evening when he comes home from work.
Oh it’s wrong, you know it is, no matter how often you tell yourself he can always say no, that you don’t hold him down and force him, and you hate that he’s unhappy but you can’t bring yourself to stop. He’s so beautiful, so round and soft and cute like this, and it’s proof that you love him and spoil him with all his favourite things.
“You do look nice, Miles,” you murmur, planting little kisses up his neck. He looks at his feet and you cup his cheek, tilting his head up. “I love you. At any size.”
***
“Hnngh-!”
“Come on, Miles. You can do it!”
He’s red in the face, eyes screwed shut as he struggles to lift his back off the ground. Half an inch…one inch… His legs tremble with effort, and a moment later he flops back onto the mat, breathless and panting.
“You’re doing great, that’s two down. Just eight more!”
He stares up at you in a daze. His bangs are clinging to his sweaty forehead, and his magenta running shorts are riding up on his plump, pale thighs. His soft belly rises and falls with every frantic breath. Kneeling over him and holding his feet down, you’ve got a front row seat for the whole show.
He composes himself, and tries again.
“Hrrk-!”
His stomach quivers as he tries to sit up, weakened muscles struggling against seven years of too much food and too little exercise. Little beads of sweat trickle down his face.
“Come on, Miles, you’re almost there!”
“Can’t –”
The word comes out through gritted teeth, and half a second later he crashes back to the mat. His flabby body jiggles with the impact, and all you can think about is how perfectly his singlet frames his fat little tits.
He rolls to the side and sits up, cradling his sore tummy. He’s disgusted with himself, with his inability to do this simple exercise, and you can’t stand it. This morning he forced down half a grapefruit and a cup of unsweetened tea for breakfast, when you know he really wanted fried eggs with toast smothered in marmalade.
“Miles…” You rest a hand on his back. “…why is this so important?”
There’s more to his red face than just physical exertion, and he can’t meet your eyes.
“I –” He looks away and grasps his arm compulsively. “I want to look nice for you.”
You wrap your arms around him, rubbing the cushion of fat on his belly that he seems to hate so much. You wish he knew that his rounder face makes him look younger, that you don’t mind slowing down to keep pace with him when you walk, that it’s all you can do to keep your hands off all that soft, plump flesh. But if you tell him, you know he’ll deduce immediately why you always bring him cookies with his tea, why you always cook just a little too much for two, why there’s always a bottle of his favourite red open every Friday evening when he comes home from work.
Oh it’s wrong, you know it is, no matter how often you tell yourself he can always say no, that you don’t hold him down and force him, and you hate that he’s unhappy but you can’t bring yourself to stop. He’s so beautiful, so round and soft and cute like this, and it’s proof that you love him and spoil him with all his favourite things.
“You do look nice, Miles,” you murmur, planting little kisses up his neck. He looks at his feet and you cup his cheek, tilting his head up. “I love you. At any size.”