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Suck It In

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Impossible.

It was simply impossible. There was no way that Mycroft had outgrown his latest pair of new trousers in less than two months. For God’s sake there was a /reason/ he had every item of clothing in his wardrobe personally tailored! It was to avoid incidents like this. Besides, ready-made clothing from stores was just so…

Mycroft sniffed and wrinkled his nose, before taking a deep breath and sucking in his ample gut as much as he could. He’d put on three stone in as many months, although it was looking more like four now, with the way his white, trembling belly was bulging out over his trousers, which were simply refusing to button, no matter how much Mycroft sucked it in. 

Pig, he thought viciously, disgusting pig. A minor military threat and a handful of deaths in MI6 and you’ve let yourself go completely. 

The truth was, Mycroft had been under enormous strain at work, between the Koreans threatening a nuclear strike and the Chinese threatening to join them, Mycroft has spent the past four months constantly hauling England (and America too, lest anyone wonder who was hanging onto whose coat tails) back from the brink of military destruction. It was stressful, and harrowing.

And when Mycroft was harrowed, he ate. 

And that was how he found himself in his current situation, struggling to fit into trousers which were already four sizes up from his ‘normal’ (painstakingly maintained) size. He let out a frustrated growl, and in one last ditch effort to fit into them, he hefted the overhang he’d developed up and buttoned the trousers underneath it watching miserably as his gut flopped over the tight waistband of the trousers. He turned to the side and inspected himself in the mirror, before making a disgusted face and poking his flabby belly. Disgusting. Unacceptable. He was going on a diet today, he was not going to buy another pair of trousers. Absolutely not. 

He sighed and pulled on his shirt, noticing with a grimace that the buttons on it gaped after he was done doing them up, and then he began to tuck it in roughly, without regard to the tenuous hold his trouser-button had. He didn’t consider how hard his button and zipper were working to keep his belly contained, and so continued to tuck.

And then he heard it. The dreaded pop and zing of a button breaking and skittering across the floor. His face coloured as the weight of his gut pushed the zipper down, his fat bulging out in a obscene triangle through his now-open fly. He made a small whimpering noise, and then sighed, moving to sit on his bed and trying not to think about the way he grunted when he leaned across it to get his phone from his bed side table. His pudgy fingers flew quickly as he typed out a text to Anthea, unable to face talking to the woman on the phone.

Reschedule my appointments for today. I’m having a spot of trouble at home. M

The reply back came almost instantly.

I’ve made you an appointment at the tailor’s for noon, sir. Track suit bottoms are clean in your latest delivery from the laundry service. A

Damn her.