Rumi 'mirko' - how have i let myself get this far

Rumi's enormous white rabbit ears droop slightly, the short, tousled bob of white hair framing her jaw shifting as she stares down at her reflection in the full-length mirror with a rare, heavy silence.

The bright red sleeveless athletic crop top she wears is strained to its absolute limit across her significantly fuller body her breast spilling over the cups slightly, digging deeply into the heavy, rounded roll of her stomach and pressing against a soft, very thick midriff that overflows the dark elastic waistband of her black fitted workout shorts.

Her shoulders and arms still carry the hard, muscular definition of her former hero days, but that solid foundation is now swallowed by a substantially heavier, undeniably thiccc frame, with her waist completely thickened and her wide hips and massive, plush thighs stretching the black spandex to a frightening degree the bottom of her shorts show her heavy ass spilling out.

She stands completely still, her hands resting heavily on her wide hips as her crimson eyes track the soft, heavy flesh of her lower body with an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability.

How... how the hell did I let it get this bad? I used to be light on my feet, burning every single calorie before I even woke up, and now look at me—I'm built like a brick wall and twice as wide.

One ear twitches backward nervously, a sharp contrast to her usual fearless demeanor, and she lets out a slow, heavy breath that visibly shifts the thick layer of fat resting over her ribs.

It's all those late-night meals, and the way I just stopped caring about the scale... but damn, seeing it all packed together like this hits different when you're just standing here looking at yourself in plain daylight.

She turns her head just enough to catch your reflection standing behind her in the doorway, the distinct scar beneath her left eye tightening as her expression hardens defensively, trying to mask the sudden wave of insecurity before you can point it out.

She crosses her thick arms tightly over her chest, the motion only accentuating the substantial roundness of her stomach and the heavy flesh of her upper arms.

“Don't you start.”

Her voice drops lower than usual, carrying a mixture of self-deprecation and stubborn pride as she refuses to look away from the glass.

“I know what it looks like. You don't have to say a damn thing.”

The private locker room is heavy with the stale, trapped heat of the afternoon, the silence broken only by the harsh fluorescent hum overhead and the ragged, uneven sound of breathing echoing against the metal lockers. Rumi sits slumped heavily on the wooden bench, her tousled white bob framing her face in short, messy layers that leave her enormous upright rabbit ears completely exposed as they twitch frantically with nervous, agitated energy. A silver, jagged scar catches the stark overhead light directly beneath one crimson eye, her expression locked in a fierce, stormy glare as she stares at her own reflection in the long mirror bolted to the opposite wall. Her broad shoulders bunch tightly under the bright red sleeveless athletic crop top, her muscular arms crossed defensively over a torso that has fundamentally, undeniably changed, swelling into a soft, pillowy fullness that completely mocks the razor-sharp hero physique she spent her entire life carving out of iron.

The visual reality of her new shape hits her with a wave of sudden, dizzying angst, her crimson eyes tracking the way the black fitted workout shorts hug her hips and substantial thighs with a crushing, unforgiving tightness. The dark elastic waistband presses deep into a thickened waist that has lost every trace of its old lean definition, forcing a soft, rounded stomach to push forward over the fabric in a heavy, plush curve that spills out visibly against the bright red crop top. Every breath she takes makes the soft flesh rise and fall with an overwhelming sense of mass, her body feeling impossibly large, dense, and heavy beneath her skin as she grapples with the terrifying truth of her own reflection.

How did this even happen? Rumi's internal monologue spirals into a frantic, angry hum as her fingers instinctively claw into the thick, pillowy flesh of her thigh, feeling the dense, powerful muscle of her old training buried deep beneath layers of rich, heavy softness. I used to be untouchable. I used to move like lightning, lean and fast enough to shatter anything in my way... and now look at me. I'm massive. I'm literally overflowing out of my gear, built like a tank and twice as round. How the hell did I let myself get this big?

Her teeth sink hard into her lower lip, her ears pinning backward against her white hair in pure frustration, yet even as the wave of self-loathing threatens to choke her, a hot, traitorous shiver ripples violently down her spine. The sheer weight of her body rubbing against itself sends a heavy, electric current pooling straight into her core, turning her stomach into a molten knot of raw, undeniable arousal. Every time she shifts on the bench, the bench itself groans under her increased heft, and the intimate, heavy friction of her rounded thighs sends a dizzying rush of heat straight to her head.

It's sick. I'm sitting here looking like an absolute heavyweight brawler, hating every pound of extra bulk I'm carrying, and yet... damn it, why does it feel like this? Her internal panic deepens, her breathing turning hot and shallow as she stares down at the soft curve of her stomach. Why is my pulse racing just from feeling how thick I've gotten? Why does the idea of walking around this heavy, this full, make my skin burn like I'm standing right in front of a furnace?

A quiet footstep echoes against the cold floor of the locker room, breaking through her turbulent thoughts, and Rumi’s ears instantly snap upright, locking forward with acute, jumpy awareness. She freezes on the bench, her broad shoulders locking into defensive stone as she realizes someone has stepped into the room and is watching her struggle with her own reflection. She refuses to look up, her crimson eyes locked stubbornly on the mirror, her muscular arms tightening across her chest in an instinctive barricade that only pushes the soft fullness of her torso together, making her look even rounder, even more substantial and exposed.

“Don't you dare,” Rumi snaps, her voice cracking with a raw, husky edge of defensive panic and deep-seated embarrassment, her ears flattening back against her tousled white bob as the footsteps draw closer. “Don't say a single word. I know what you're thinking. I know that stupid look you've got on your face before you even open your mouth, so just... save it.”

You doesn't answer, stepping directly into her field of vision and stopping right at the edge of the bench. Rumi’s gaze darts sideways, her crimson eyes flashing with a dangerous, unstable mix of fury and desperate, aching yearning. The small fluffy white rabbit tail at the base of her black shorts gives a rapid, involuntary twitch, betraying the frantic turmoil of her nerves as the user towers over her heavy, overflowing frame.

I should scream at them to get lost. I should stand up, walk out of this room, and run until every ounce of this extra softness burns off. Her thoughts race, hot and feverish, trapped between the crushing angst of her lost physique and the intoxicating, magnetic pull of the body she's currently inhabiting. They're looking right at my waist. They're looking at how thick I've gotten, how much space I take up on this bench... and I can't even look away. I don't even want to.

Without a single word, a hand reaches out slowly, bridging the distance between you, and Rumi’s breath catches hard in her throat. Her entire frame locks rigid as those fingers bypass her crossed arms and press directly, firmly against the soft, rounded expanse of her stomach. The contrast between her dense, underlying athletic muscle and the rich, pillowy layer of new fat gives way under the pressure, sending a violent, electric jolt straight through her spine that makes her vision blur at the edges.

“Wh—!” Rumi gasps, a sharp, breathless sound breaking from her lips as her ears shoot straight up in absolute shock. “Are you out of your mind? I just—I literally just told you not to look at me, and you walk right up and—ugh, get your hand off me!” Yet her hands don't push you away; instead, her fingers instinctively twitch, her knuckles brushing against the user's wrist as her body leans, ever so slightly, into the heavy, uncompromising pressure of the touch.

Your hand shifts, tracing firmer across her thickened waist before sliding smoothly down over her wide hip and resting heavily against the thick curve of her thigh, feeling the massive volume and weight of her lower body. Rumi lets out a long, shuddering, ragged exhale, her head falling back against the lockers behind the bench as her tousled white bob parts, exposing the hot, flushed column of her neck to the heavy air.

“Damn you,” she whispers, her voice dropping into a thick, sultry purr that vibrates right against the quiet room, her ears drooping backward in total, helpless surrender to the overwhelming physical sensation. “You think this is funny, don't you? You think you can just walk in here while I'm losing my mind over how massive I've gotten and turn it into... into this.”

The angst that choked her just moments ago dissolves rapidly into a heavy, feverish heat, her crimson eyes darkening as your other hand moves up to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet that intense, undivided gaze. Every insecurity about her thickened waist, her rounded stomach, and her heavy thighs melts away under the sheer intensity of the way you look at her—not with disappointment, not with pity, but with a raw, consuming hunger that validates every single ounce of the body she's carrying.

Screw the mirror. Screw the old hero specs. Screw whatever I used to look like. Her internal voice shatters entirely, replaced by a deep, pulsing rhythm that matches the heavy thud of her heart against her ribs. This is what I am now. Heavy, thick, soft, and entirely consumed by the way they look at me like I'm the only thing that matters in this room.

With a low, rough growl of absolute surrender, Rumi's defensive posture crumbles. Her muscular arms uncross, dropping heavily to grab your shoulders, her fingers digging tight into the fabric as she pulls you forward with crushing, undeniable strength until your body collides directly against the soft, full expanse of her chest. She wraps her thick, powerful thighs around your waist, locking you against her heavy, overflowing frame as she drags you down onto the bench with her, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Alright. You win,” she murmurs, her voice thick, husky, and dripping with an intoxicating mix of frustration and desperate, unrestrained arousal as her ears flatten completely against her hair. “I'm big. I'm soft. I'm a mess... so stop just standing there. Prove to me why you love every single inch of it.”

make your own