Supplements

by Non Uberis

Part 1

Rarity awakens in a manner most unbecoming of her. It is with a series of guttural grunts and groans gurgling up from her gut that her heavy eyelids (which are still the least heavy part of her) start to flutter open. There might even be a dainty expulsion of gas from her rear. And this is to say nothing of the fact that she is waking up in her workroom, the same place where she fell asleep, in the middle of working, as seems to so often be the occurrence these days. Thank Celestia that there is nopony present to bear witness to this—not even Rarity herself, really, too bleary-eyed and unfocused to truly be conscious of herself.

“Ouuugh…” A protracted, whining sigh escapes her, a noise that transforms into a belch partway through. She blinks away the sand in her eyes, a part of her thankful that all the windows in the room have their blinds over them, shielding her from the dreaded sun, another part dreading the idea of looking at a clock and seeing what time it is. Laboriously, she shifts her legs, one after another, loosening joints, until she has mustered enough strength to push them toward the floor. Easier said than done, as her personal mattress is so insistent on taking up as much space as possible beneath her, on keeping her anchored in place, even as it begins to rumble and gurgle, yearning for sustenance. She groans again. “So little…time in the day,” she huffs, her voice heavy and muffled and slurred, spluttering through fat lips and flabby cheeks and overflowing jowls, “so…very much…to do…”

For better or worse, Rarity has grown used to falling asleep on herself, the voluminous, sprawling girth of her barrel far more convenient for her than her bed. It’s just so easy for her after a night of hard work and occasional snacking to slump in place and allow herself to be carried off to Luna’s dreamscape in the cushy embrace of her own all-encompassing flesh. She can’t help that her fatty body is so comfortable, soft and pliant as marshmallow, anypony ought to envy her for being so tantalizingly plush. What does it matter if she can barely manage to move her flabby, engorged legs enough to get her sunken hooves on the floor and push in upon her gut until she’s able to stand? What does she care if her belly drags against the floor as she walks and all the draping flabby folds of her form grind upon each other with every slightest movement that she makes? It’s just an indicator of her decadence, her indulgence, her majesty.

It's fine. All she has to do is go through her morning (and sometimes afternoon) routine and she’ll be prepared to face the world.

Before her daily grooming can begin, though, she first has to tend to her personal needs. It’s a process which she can perform largely without conscious thought purely through rote repetition. Slowly yet surely, the white glob begins to walk (though that is a generous way to describe the action), shuffling about in a wide arc, hooves thumping one after another, before approaching a doorway. Her form wedges in the frame very quickly, and it is with further undignified grunting and gasping that she pulls herself through. She has the strength for it, but her languid state prevents her from acting swiftly enough to wrench her ponderous girth free, shoulders and then barrel and then hips, inching along bit by bit.

Rarity is particularly careful about avoiding looking at her reflection as long as possible. She keeps her gaze away from the trifold mirrors in her studio, the mirror over the sink in the bathroom, even the sleek shiny metal surfaces in the kitchen. She needs to be in a lucid state of mind in order to properly take in her unoptimized state at the start of a day, and before that she needs to be reasonably refreshed and energized. Once she’s at the kitchen counter, her horn sparks and sputters and then finally lights with cerulean magic, her aura pushing aside the empty pastry boxes and then going about her business. Again, the process is something she has down to auto-pilot, levitating out all her ingredients and mixing them together in a bowl. The hardest part is getting the batter into a griddle and flipping it appropriately; at least, by then, she’s reasonably awake, but she still has had her share of cakes flung haphazardly about the room.

The resulting stack of pancakes doesn’t look too dissimilar to Rarity herself: a pile of doughy folds drooping over each other. She liberally applies syrup and butter and powdered sugar and a few pieces of fruit for good measure. Then she inhales it all in a fraction of the time it took to make. The breakfast is capped off with a glass of water and a series of vitamins and supplements, just the basics to maintain her beauty and health.

Omega-3 for her oh-so-delicate fur.

Magnesium for her ever-straining hooves

Vitamin C for her eyes, all the better to focus on threading a needle.

Sage infusion for her magical focus.

And one last bottle that’s distinctly different from any of the others that look like they came from the Ponyville pharmacy. Opaque pink plastic with a label that only reads “Pert Plus Plus.” The rose-colored pill tastes sweet like candy as Rarity washes it down. A shiver wracks along her spine, shaking her hips and then shoulders and neck, and a contented sigh rolls out of her.

Though it’s only a meager start for the day, the carbs in the mare’s stomach are enough to give her a little extra pep in her step as she shuffles out of the kitchen. It certainly has nothing to do with the way her gut, gurgling dully, starts to recede, pinching inward as if constricted by an invisible corset. Slowly but surely, the bloated midsection goes from dragging along the floor to brushing upon it and then merely bobbing above it, hardly an inch away at its lowest. The flabby sleeves along her legs also shrink, folds smoothing into a uniform thick texture, broadest at the thighs, steadily tapering down to the calves and ankles, her thin, stiletto-like hooves freed from their fatty confines.

Into the boudoir, Rarity settles upon a sturdy, several times over reinforced bench in front of her vanity. Her rump, huge round hills which rise up behind her while standing, squish and compress beneath her when she reclines. She gazes into her reflection, and she’s able to smile and make a pleased little chuckle; enough time has passed that she can regard herself properly, and the vitamins are already getting her closer to her ideal form. She lifts one hoof to tap against her pleasantly plump face, which is no longer so thoroughly swaddled in fleshy tires, cheeks and neck plush to the touch. The limb falls and then settles upon her chest, which feels particularly warm to the touch as it continues to swell out in front of her, pulsing with every intake of breath. She purrs as she strokes the bulbous mass, gazing longingly into her reflection.

There’s not so much that needs to be done, just a little brushing and makeup (not sleeping in a bed has the benefit of not having to worry about bedhead). She has more than enough focus now to devote to this task. Drawers on the desk fling open one by one, pulling out all her supplies in her aura. There’s also a trundling as two long mirrors on wheels come rolling over to stand behind her, positioned in such a way that she can inspect her tail and brush it at the same time as her mane. And, as a bonus, get a tantalizing view of her rear. She smirks again while wriggling her hips and grinding her haunches on the poor bench.

“Some ponies don’t appreciate the effort that goes into looking this good,” she croons to herself while she continues the process of her beautification, the exaggeration of her form intensifying with each step. She rubs powdery shadow over her eyelids and brushes at her lashes, and each stroke seems to tug them out a little longer. She applies a fresh coat of glittery sapphire gloss over her lips, plump mounds which rise up into her field of vision and completely occlude her muzzle in her reflection. Brushing at her mane only seems to cause it to become even more unruly as the purple locks grow yet more thick and voluminous, but eventually she approaches equilibrium and tames the tangled nest into gorgeous lavender curls, swept to one side to cascade along her neck and shoulder and back. “But the results are always worth it,” she remarks while batting her eyelashes, and she places a hoof to her puckering lips to blow herself a kiss.

Once the grooming is complete, Rarity rises with a creaking of wood, at the same time returning all of her tools to their proper places. There is some further deliberation to be had over her wardrobe for the day, though the process of putting any clothes on takes considerably longer. She has to manage the coordination of raising her hooves one by one and tugging everything into place just right. She has practice with doing this, but she knows that it has to be taken seriously, understanding that tipping just a little out of balance could send her toppling over.

At the end of it all, she regards her reflection once again, and she can’t help marveling at herself. Though she had gone out of her way to avoid being reminded of her natural appearance, it’s starkly obvious that she has become completely different from the slovenly way she looked when she woke up. The periwinkle blouse she wears clings delicately around her barrel, brushing at the soft girth of her belly, and cups at the underside of her cushy chest, jutting out in front of her, a balloon of fluffy flesh faintly wobbling as she moved. And her rump, clad in a skirt and panties with her corkscrew tail draped on top, is a pair of mountainous mounds, perfectly round and smooth. She is fat, undeniably obese, but the padding serves to accentuate her form rather than smother it, making her perfectly soft and curvaceous and delectable.

“Just right,” she says, licking at her lips hungrily while levitating over a broad-brimmed sun hat to deposit upon her head.

Author's Note:

For a while I've been taking L-Lysine vitamins daily, with the main reasoning being its benefits to the immune system. A few months ago, though, I noticed a bottle which advertised the primary benefit of improving "lip health". So, bimbo vitamins? Might as well. Then I had some unrelated inklings to do chesty feral body shapes so I decided to combine the two for a simple scene.

Fun thinking about vitamins that magical creatures might need.

Rare mention of farting in non-commissioned work.

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