A study of cartoon physics

by Indeliblink

Rating: mature
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Fetish, Random, Original Character
Length: 8389

Archive of fetishistic one-shots involving cartoon tropes and OCs featured on the tumblr blog nom-sympony.

Ongoing archive of fetish one-shots involving silly cartoon tropes and OCs featured on the tumblr blog nom-sympony.

Though up to individual interpretation, all scenarios are intended to be nonfatal unless given a [death] tag.

Note: Some stories have undergone minor editing for FiMfiction and may differ slightly from their original source.

Published 2016-07-21 04:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-12-26 05:17:45 UTC

A Hearty Breakfast [2nd person, flattening, cooking/foodplay, vore]

Author's Note

anonymous asked:
Hey, Nom. Tell us your wildest vore fantasies

A Hearty Breakfast [2nd person, flattening, cooking/foodplay, vore]

7:00 A.M. Breakfast time. You sit at the kitchen table, chowing down on some Cheerios, an omelette, or a bowl of oatmeal -- whatever it is you like to eat in the morning. A large helping today, too; it was a long night, and you’re pretty hungry. After a nice, filling meal, you stand up from your seat, stretch, and pat your gut, ready to start the day.

As you rise to your hooves, your roommate, significant other, best friend, or whoever else may be sharing the house with you walks in, and they’re as hungry as you just were. They search through the cupboards for food, finding nothing they care for. Of course, you suddenly come to a realization: you may or may not have just finished off the last of the breakfast foods in the house for your own meal, not thinking to leave some for them. A brief wash of guilt runs through you before they turn around and sigh in annoyance, telling you what you already know: you’re all out of food. Decent food, at least.

You shrug innocently and mutter a brief condolence, hoping they won’t ask any questions nor notice the unusual roundness of your tummy this morning, but a telling hiccup escapes your mouth and draws their attention to you. They now take note of the used dishware on the table and the remnants of your meal around your mouth, scowling at you as they finally catch up. Your careless feasting has left them without a bite to eat!

After a moment’s thought, their expression morphs into a grin, and they share some good news: they think, perhaps, that they may have noticed a box of pancake batter in the cupboards. When they turn around to root through the cupboard behind them, you edge closer to the doorway, thinking it might be wise to leave. Before you can move far, however, your housemate spins around, brandishing a rather large frying pan.

A split second later, they’ve pounced across the room, lifting the pan up over your head and swinging it down with all their might. With an echoing clang, the pan collides with the top of your head, pressing down with what seems like an immense force. As it turns out, this pony has one heck of a follow-through, because the pan continues to descend, effortlessly compressing you further and further beneath it, your body crumpling like an empty soda can. The entire process lasts but an instant, and you immediately find yourself squashed flat against the floor into a tight, inch-thick patty, your vision filled with grey as your face presses against the underside of the cool metal pan. The sudden compression results in your tongue being forced out of your mouth like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube -- quite the unfortunate consequence, as the metallic taste of the pan against your flattened tongue isn’t exactly the most appetizing thing in the world.

After a moment’s pause, the pan lifts off of you, and you blink wearily. Despite the lack of anything on top of you, you still feel a heavy pressure on your body. Your assailant, catching their breath, smirks down at you, relishing your cartoonishly-pancaked state and goofy expression for a moment before reaching down to peel you off the ground. Your thick, disk-like form dangles from their grip, flopping a bit as they wiggle you around, much to your embarrassment, though there’s little—rather, nothing—that you can do to protest. Stifling a few chuckles, they roll you up tightly into something resembling a pony burrito and squeeze your form gently, eliciting a muffled squeak from within the several layers of pony. Their stomach lets out a rumbling growl, reminding them of their impending meal; they quickly unroll you, toss you into the skillet, and turn on the stove.

You don’t feel it at first as the pan slides over the flame, but it soon begins to grow warmer—first becoming lukewarm, then comfortable, then cozy, then toasty hot, and finally settling at a high heat that’s just a tad uncomfortable, in your opinion. Forced to stare straight up at the ceiling, your chef’s face appears in front of you; they smile and drop a pat of butter onto your face, which quickly melts and spreads across your flattened frontside, coating you in a shiny, fatty glaze.

A spatula works its way around the sides of the pan and wedges underneath you, lifting your limp form off the hot surface. With a quick motion, the spatula flips you over, and, with a loud plap and a sizzle, you’re lying face-first against the pan, the butter sizzling and bubbling gently against your face and shoulders. The comparatively cool air against your rump and belly is a welcome relief, but it’s now somewhat overshadowed by the uncomfortable wall of hot pressed against your face and chest. You feel a soft, warm dollop of butter spread over your exposed underside, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. Fortunately, the spatula greets you once again after a few minutes, flipping you right-side up.

Some minutes and several more flips later, you’re finally scooped out of the pan and laid on a plate for the cook to observe your shiny, lightly-browned skin approvingly. Turning off the stove, the other pony opens the refrigerator, withdrawing a few condiments. They set the items on the table next to you, starting out with another large pat of butter, left to soften over your frontside. Next, they pop open a tall brown bottle and tip it over you, drizzling a thick, goopy syrup over your face - maple, you realize, as a few drops run over your tongue. It pools atop you, dribbling down your sides once it spreads over the edges of your circular body. Then comes a white spray can; after shaking it up for a few seconds, they squeeze the nozzle over you, tracing your body in a thick, fluffy trail of whipped cream. A dash of cinnamon and sugar, some blueberries and strawberries, and a single cherry later, and the other pony is licking their lips with anticipation, sending an almost unnoticeable tremor through you. They fetch a tall, cold glass of milk and some silverware, then eagerly return to the table.

Finally finished with the tedious preparation, the starving chef sits down to admire their work, but not for long. Fork in hoof, they dig right into their thick, squishy pone-cake, devouring it in a few ravenous mouthfuls. The mix of syrup and butter (along with their saliva) lubricates the tunnel of their throat, allowing you to slip right down with ease. As you settle in a delicious, creamy mass in their warm stomach, they gently squeeze and rub their full belly, sloshing you around inside.

Following a short belch, they stand up from their seat, stretch, and pat their gut, ready to start the day.

Buttering Up [force feeding, inflation, weight gain, vore]

Spearmint awoke to a heavy pressure across his torso, straining to take a few deep breaths. He was nearly swallowed up by his soft bed, pressed deep into the mattress by a mountain of blue. Familiar purple eyes greeted him from inches above as his vision gradually sharpened. He squinted, turning his head to glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 2:08 a.m.

He sighed, rolling his head back to glare dully up at the slightly-chubby mare straddling him. “What.”

“Hi,” Pepper said simply, returning his stare with a bright smile. “How are you?”

“What,” he repeated, eyes narrowing impatiently.

“That’s good.” Pepper shifted her weight, settling more comfortably on top of him, in the process putting a much less comfortable squeeze on Spearmint’s stomach. “Hungry?”

“No.” Spearmint struggled to free his forelegs from her vice-grip, to no avail. “Go home, Pepper.”

“Are you sure? I think I can feel somepony’s tummy grumbling~!”

“No, I don’t think you can.” He lay his head back against the pillow and shut his eyes, waiting for the embrace of sleep or for the mare to leave, whichever came first. “Goodnight.”

After a few agonizingly long and physically uncomfortable minutes, Spearmint felt a cool object gently but insistently bumping against his snout. He sighed. “Pepper, whatever food you brought with you, I don’t wa–” He jolted in shock, eyes snapping wide open as the object invaded his mouth. The blue hoof in front of his eyes was guiding a thick hose inside, and he felt the metallic tip of a nozzle brush against the back of his throat. “Mmghf! Hmm!”

“Oh, shush,” Pepper chided him, stretching a hindleg out and kicking something behind her. In the near-darkness of his room, Spear caught the glint of moonlight off what appeared to be a metallic tank at the foot of his bed. He could only guess what it contained, but the fact that it towered above everything else in his room, at least twice the size of his refrigerator, gave him little in the way of comfort.

Before he could even bother with more futile squirming, a lukewarm liquid flooded his mouth, and he instinctively, almost rhythmically, started gulping it down. The taste could only be described as… fat. And somehow… slippery. Whatever it was, if Pepper was force-feeding it to him, it couldn’t be healthy in any large amount.

He stopped swallowing for a moment, trying to force his mouth wider and allow the substance to dribble harmlessly out, but his jaws were stretched to their limit by the hose, his teeth digging into the rubber and keeping it firmly locked in place. His cheeks bulged as they quickly filled up, and the greasy fluid rose in the back of his mouth to trickle from his nose. Coughing and sputtering, he reluctantly resumed guzzling the stuff down, sneaking in short gulps of air between swallows.

“So, Mr. Spearmint,” Pepper began with a grin, “how much weight do you think this bed can support? Three, four hundred pounds?” Spearmint grimaced, his flat belly starting to round out as he choked down one mouthful after another. Within minutes, he was sporting a sizable gut, having slurped up a good two gallons of the fatty substance.

Pepper reached back with her hind leg once more, kicking at the faucet on the front of the tank and giving it another full turn. The flow into Spearmint’s mouth must have doubled, and he screwed his eyes shut as he struggled to keep up.

Pepper slid backwards to sit on the stallion’s hind legs, lifting one of her front hooves off the bed. Whether Spearmint noticed or cared, he gave no indication, merely bobbing his head in time with his long, hearty gulps. Her hoof traced gentle circles over his soft tummy, the skin growing steadily more taut to her touch, the contents faintly churning and swirling about inside.

As the hour went on and Spear’s gut began to spill onto the bed and into Pepper’s lap, his eyes eventually fluttering shut, and his need to swallow being the only thing keeping him awake, he came to notice a strange tingling in his midsection. He felt warm; the tingling gradually washed over his belly, running down his sides and into his flanks, upwards across his back, swirling around his neck and over his face. It wasn’t unpleasant, he had to admit.

He drowsily forced his eyes open, suspicious that his… friend may be drizzling some syrupy substance over him with less than pure intentions. His momentary dismay as he took in the extent of his bloating faded into confusion as he noted the lack of any sort of glaze over his belly.

The tingling was soon joined by a faint but growing heaviness that spread throughout his body. Finally noticing his unrestrained hoof, he slowly lifted it from the bed, the limb feeling like stone as he cradled his swelling stomach. Perhaps it was just his bleary eyes playing tricks on him, but he could swear that his foreleg was spreading over his belly, ever-so-slowly growing thicker and heavier. Craning his neck to glance along the length of his body, his ears flattened to the sides of his head as his vision was confirmed; his flanks had already widened by at least an inch on either side, and they were growing thicker and doughier by the minute.

Spearmint sluggishly reached up and grasped the hose, clumsily tugging and jiggling it in a vain attempt to dislodge it from his maw, but his jaws were clamped tightly around it, sore and stiff from being forced open for so long.

Almost unnoticeably slowly, Spear could feel his entire body plumping up, the warm tingling intensifying into a hot, almost mind-numbing bubble bath. More and more of the bed pressed against his back as his form gradually spread over the mattress. He hated how achingly full he was starting to feel, and he hated how Pepper was so happily teasing his tightly-stretched skin with rubs and kisses, and he hated how ridiculously fat he knew he was bound to be as a result of all this, and he really hated that he could tell he was completely red-faced and may have started to drool around the hose due to the wonderfully pleasant sensations that accompanied this whole vile event.

At long last, as his sloshing stomach approached the size of the mare pressed against it, Pepper finally granted the poor colt some relief. With a few more kicks, she halted the flow through the hose, then gently worked Spearmint’s jaw open and slid the hose out. His jaw hung limply half-opened as he drew several raspy breaths, drool pouring down his chin and–he winced–the beginnings of a second, then pooling on his widened chest. Pepper climbed onto his gurgly gut, kneading and squeezing with all four hooves, and Spear grimaced before releasing a long, wet belch.

“I knew you were hungry~!” Pepper sang, draping herself over Spear and throwing her legs around him. Her hooves sunk into the thick new layer of pudge coating the stallion’s sides, and she nuzzled into his soft chest with a giggle.

Frowning slightly, Spearmint tried to ignore the disgustingly pleasant expansion of his flanks and wriggled beneath her, surveying the situation. He’d grown quite noticeably in the past hour; he now made a pretty sizable dent in his mattress, and once his body finished processing the rest of… whatever he’d been forced to drink, he’d likely be nearing the edges on both sides of his twin bed.

“What is that stuff?” He finally asked, nodding to the tank looming at the foot of the bed, which he estimated was still quite unfortunately full. “It just tastes like… fat.”

“Close!” Pepper shook the hose, spraying a few droplets of light yellowish goop onto her hoof, which she then licked up with a hum of delight. “It’s melted butter. Nice and fattening, great for helping ponies bulk up fast – especially ones with a really powerful metabolism like yours! Aren’t you lucky?”

“Aren’t I,” he grumbled, feebly kicking his hind legs against the cushion of chub propping them up. “What brought this on tonight?”

“A little birdie told me you’ve got a date tomorrow~” She leaned in close, booping their noses together with a somewhat manic grin. “So I just wanted to make sure you look nice!”

“Nice?” Spear echoed incredulously. “You couldn’t have just bought me a nice tie or some mane gel?”

She snorted. “Boring. You’ve got those already. But now, thanks to me you’ve got about a hundred more pounds of you that you didn’t have before!”

He groaned, rubbing his eyes with a terribly thick foreleg. “Look, it’s really late. Are we done now? I’d kinda like to be able to walk to the restaurant tomorrow instead of being carted there. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to burn a little of this off so I can fit into my suit.”

“Aww, why would you want to? You make such an adorable little butterball!” Pepper cooed, squishing his flabby cheeks with her hooves.

“Pepper.”

“No, we’re not done.” Ignoring his defeated groan, she picked the hose up once again and inspected the tip, which was still dripping with saliva. Hopping over the edge of the bed, she walked around to the foot, Spear’s view of her completely obscured by his belly. He blinked as he felt Pepper prodding his soft, massive flanks, the nozzle worming its way deep into the crevice between–

“Yipe!” Spear would have jumped ten feet in the air had he been physically able; as it was, he merely writhed about on the bed as the hose pushed deep inside his rear, and with a few squeaks of a faucet, his insides were flooded with warmth. It gushed backwards through his intestines, the kinked tunnels swelling with the warm butter while allowing some to proceed further. As the flow reached the stallion’s stomach, he felt ten times as full as he had only moments prior, tail stiffened and back arched in delicious discomfort.

“You’ll thank me later.” Pepper climbed back onto the bed, reclaiming her seat atop Spearmint’s chest. “I’m just doing everything I can to make you look nice and plump, ‘kay?” She winked, reaching behind him to help prop up his upper body against the pillows.

Spearmint blinked rapidly. “Huh?” Pepper grasped his chin and muzzle firmly, yanking his jaws wide open, and before any protests could be made, she dove muzzle-first into the depths. Spearmint flailed, rocking back and forth on the bed as Pepper pushed herself into the stallion’s tight maw. Her nose pressed firmly into the back of his throat, triggering a powerful swallow that dragged her a good six inches further inside. Her shoulders, chest, wings, and belly all slid in rather quickly as Pepper slithered her way down his gullet. He whimpered as her wide flanks forced their way in, stretching his aching jaw ludicrously wide, and within ten seconds his mouth closed over her back hooves, the mare’s fluffy tail slipping between his lips as her lower body slid down to join the rest of her inside his slowly-expanding stomach.

Coughing a few times to expel some loose hairs and feathers, Spearmint sighed angrily. “Pepper! You know I ha-- *uuurrp* --hate when you do this! Is the butter not enough already?!”

He froze, staring towards the end of the bed with fear. “The butter! Pepper, who’s going to turn the faucet off now?” No response, other than some sloshing from inside his gut and rubbing against the walls of his stomach. “I know you can hear me!”

Spear let out a hmph, leaning forward to reach for the hose – too far. He tried to roll onto his side and reach behind him, but his ballooned belly and chubby forelegs didn’t allow him to do either.

A sudden creak from below drew his attention, and he flicked his ears nervously. Pepper’s question from before rang in his mind: Three, four hundred pounds?

He bit his lip; that tank was far bigger than his bed. He’d be lucky if he could even see his bed in the morning. He glanced down at his churning, steadily bloating tummy, imagining how it might look pressed against the ceiling.

Letting his head hit the pillow with a sigh, he glanced at the clock out of the corner of his eye. 3:25.

At least now he could finally get back to sleep.

Dinner To-Go [force feeding, stuffing, inflation, gas, bursting/popping]

Cirrus tightened his scarf with a grunt and resumed trotting in place in front of the door, his breath clouding his vision in the freezing winter air. Hurry up, he grumbled silently, snow-white hooves gently clip-clopping on the stone porch. At long last, the door swang open with a gust of warmth, and the stallion was hurriedly ushered inside.

“Hey!” Pepper bumped her snout gently against his, recoiling from the touch of his chilled fur. “I won’t keep you, I know you gotta go. Stay right there!” Not allowing so much as a word of response, she darted off into an adjoining room. Cirrus tapped a hoof on the floor impatiently, noticing after a moment the way his hooves sank into the plush carpet. Glancing downwards, he grinned at the sight of a small, light-green rug set neatly before the door; locks of a white, lime green and blue mane curled over the edges, and the word “Welcome” was scrawled across ~~him~~ it in black ink. The pegasus made sure to wipe his hooves (as any polite guest should) before stepping forward onto the wood floor.

“What’s going on, Pepper?” Cirrus called, and after a moment, the mare peered around the corner at him.

“I knew you had a performance tonight, so I made you a special little dinner to-go!” She chirped.

“Oh.” Cirrus blinked, his lips curling into a little smile. That had been awfully thoughtful of her. “Well, I did eat about an hour ago, but I guess I’m still kinda hungry. I didn’t have time for anything fancy.” He tilted his head, tail swishing gently behind him. “What’d you make?”

Pepper disappeared once again, and after a few seconds of silence, she stumbled back into the room on her hind legs, carrying… something really big. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a burrito – one that was at least as large as his torso. Cirrus wondered momentarily if it was simply a very realistic body pillow, but the strong, spicy scent quickly dismissed that thought. His eyes flickered between the burrito and the eager smile plastered across his friend's muzzle, marred only slightly by the obvious strain of lifting what had to be at least sixty pounds of food.

“Uhm.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, wings fluttering nervously at his sides. “Th-thank you, Pepper, it… it looks delicious.” Pepper’s smile widened, and she waddled closer, hefting the wrap over a shoulder to point it at him. “What’s in–”

His question was abruptly cut off as she strode forward and thrust the front end of the burrito into his face. The tightly-wrapped tortilla proved to be quite tough, slowly prying his jaws apart as Pepper jiggled the other end up and down like a screwdriver. His mouth stretched wide, wide open, beginning to ache as the meal finally slipped inside. The floury tortilla slid over his tongue, sapping the moisture from his mouth as Pepper guided/crammed it into his throat.

The stallion tried to relax his jaws and allowed his teeth to sink into the thick wrapping, and a flavorful, soupy mixture seeped through, washing over his tongue and running down his throat, further aiding the burrito in its descent. Pepper’s voice rang in his ears then, his view of her blocked by the tower of food protruding from his muzzle.

“…in it? Oh, y’know, the usual burrito fare: some beans, broccoli, plenty of cabbage for those vitamins, a few dozen more pounds of beans, a tub of sour cream, and a gallon or three of melted sharp cheddar – your favorite cheese, if I remember correctly.” There was a note of pride in her voice, and she braced herself against the back of the burrito, pushing with heightened vigor. Cirrus cringed, already regretting the havoc this ridiculous combination of ingredients would no doubt wreak on his digestive system.

After a minute or so of choking, gasping, and a slowly-mounting tummyache, Cirrus found his weight nearly doubled, his stomach churning and gurgling like mad as it worked over the sudden overload of food. The stallion rubbed his jaw and moaned, falling back onto his haunches with an unusually heavy whump.

“So? Did you like it?” Pepper leaned in close, her eager eyes dancing with no lack of amusement.

“It–” He coughed, smacking his lips with a grimace. “It wasn’t bad…” He leaned back and cradled his gut, wincing as a particularly noisy squelch met his ears. “I’m not sure it’ll agree with me so well, though…” He prodded his distended belly, prompting another loud gurgle as the contents shifted. Was it bigger than it had been a moment ago? No, he was probably just imagining it.

*BWURRRP*

The sudden release of air caught him off-guard, and Cirrus flinched, his face feeling uncomfortably warm. “’Scuse me,” he muttered. It took him a moment to realize there was no one nearby to hear him, and he glanced around the room curiously, rising to his hooves. A tremor of unease raced along his spine as he felt the fur of his belly gently brushing the cool wooden floor. “Pepper?”

“Right here!” Pepper bounded into the room, delighted little smile ever-present. One of her wings was curled tightly against her side, clutching an odd grey object he couldn’t quite identify. “I heard that, by the way~” she sang, sending another wave of warmth over the stallion’s cheeks.

“Yeah, ye–” *hurp* A hoof shot up to cover his mouth, and he had to swallow another belch that was following close behind. He glared down at his midriff with disdain, receiving only a strangled groan in response. No, it was most definitely more bloated than it had been a moment ago; in fact, it seemed as though it was slowly swelling outwards before his very eyes, accompanied by a steadily-mounting pressure deep in his lower abdomen. “Ugh… Pepper, you know full well that those foods are volatile and extremmEEP!”

Cirrus’s voice rose into a squeak as there was a sudden and powerful jab below his tail, and the tip of a large, cone-shaped rubber plug slipped into his rear; he could swear he heard a sound not unlike that of a champagne bottle being corked up.

“Of course I do! But I came prepared.” Pepper patted the stallion’s flank and walked around in front of him, dragging a blue feather over his belly as she passed. “We can’t have you all gassy on stage, can we? That’d be pretty embarrassing.” Cirrus’s scalding blush went ignored as he felt a renewed pressure rising in his throat, and his mouth was forced open by yet another burp, only for it to be stifled by a light blue and white hoof. “Ah-ah,” Pepper chided, waggling her other forehoof from side to side, “none from this end, either!”

“Mmp!” The stallion whimpered into her hoof, and Pepper withdrew her foreleg from his lips.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t get you anything to drink.” Pepper turned and once again left Cirrus alone in the room, and he took in a strained breath. Wriggling in discomfort, he felt a surge of alarm as he felt his haunches roll from side to side. He craned his neck to peek behind him, and his ears flattened against the sides of his head as he took in the state of his formerly lithe body.

His backside was starting to rise into the air, lifted by his ever-growing belly. He kicked his rear hooves, finding them no longer quite able to reach the floor, and winced as they thumped gently against his bloated tummy. He exhaled sharply. His stomach felt like an overinflated beach ball, his intestines like a balloon animal. And were his forelegs always so thick?

A loud hiss startled him from his thoughts, and he turned his head forward again to find an open bottle right under his nose. Pepper pressed the bottle to his lips and tipped it, sending a deluge of soda into his mouth. The stallion took quick, powerful gulps, racing to keep up with the steady stream of liquid – a plain diet cola, he idly noted. Not exactly the tastiest beverage, but not bad for washing down a rich meal; it was sweet and plenty fizzy.

After nearly a minute of guzzling it down, the bottle withdrew from his lips with a tug and a pop, and before he could even think to open his mouth, there was already a pair of hooves clamping it shut. The soda bubbled and fizzed noisily, and his cheeks bulged as the gas surged up into his throat, but the vice-grip on his muzzle allowed none to escape. With a pained swallow, he sent the air back down into his stomach, and Pepper released her grip, falling down onto all fours.

“There, better?” She asked, shouldering the empty bottle – it was nearly as big as she was! Did they even make bottles in that size? He shook his head, trying not to estimate how many gallons of soda had just been dumped into him, and especially trying to ignore the restless churning in his ballooning stomach.

“N-not real–” *hic* His skin felt taut and stiff, not only around his midsection, but… everywhere. His back, rump, and chest felt tight as they, too, began to expand outwards. For the first time he could remember, his thighs brushed together, and despite spreading his legs as wide as possible, he was soon unable to separate them. Even his wings had begun to swell up, and motion was becoming increasingly difficult as his limbs were slowly swallowed up by his rapidly growing torso. He scrabbled his hooves for purchase – none of them could quite reach the floor anymore.

Pepper pulled away, scrunching her muzzle up and waving a hoof in front of her face. “Hoo, your breath!” She trotted over to a desk against the far wall and rooted through one of the drawers for a moment, returning quickly with a package of mint candies. “Do us all a favor and have some of these.” Yanking his mouth open like a mailbox, she dumped the entirety of the bag inside and re-closed his jaw with a click. Cirrus sucked on the mints for a few seconds until their harsh flavor began to make his eyes water and quickly gulped them down.

As soon as the wad of candy dropped into his stomach, a loud whoosh emanated from within, and he could feel a strange vibration in his belly as his stomach rumbled and fizzed furiously. A warning look from Pepper was enough to make him swallow the belch that threatened to escape, and he moaned quietly as the pressure throughout his body continued to build in intensity.

“Oh!” Pepper’s voice cut through the haze of discomfort clouding his mind, and he blinked at her. “You’re gonna be late!”

Late? Oh right, the concert! Vinyl would be expecting him… a few minutes ago. His eyes flicked downwards to gaze despairingly at his now next-to-useless body. He could barely wiggle his hooves, his swollen legs almost completely immobilized by his blimp of a torso. His belly was massive, squeaking like a balloon with any attempt he made to move, and he could feel the telltale groaning and churning deep within as his meal continued to digest. His back had expanded in kind, rounding out his body into a shape resembling a sphere.

Pepper took advantage of this, placing her hooves against her friend’s fluffy chest and rolling him towards the front door. “Better hurry along!” Cirrus felt a wave of nausea as the contents of his stomach sloshed around, the angry hissing of the soda never ceasing. He was far wider than the doorframe by now, and Pepper braced herself against his gut, ramming her shoulder into it several times before the poor balloon of a pony finally slipped through. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and waved into the near-darkness at the retreating white sphere. “Have fun now!”

Being rolled a few feet to the door had been nothing in retrospect; Cirrus’s head spun as he tumbled down the short flight of steps leading up to Pepper’s front porch, his earlier meal being tossed about within his stomach. He eventually came to a stop in the front yard, his balloony body barely making a dent in the snow. The fizzing and gurgling in his gut was deafening, agitated by his bumpy descent down the stairs. He lay there, wondering what was to come next, as his body continued to bloat further and faster. The pressure in his abdomen was unbearable; he couldn’t decide what was worse – the carbonation trapped in his stomach due to the soda, or the seemingly immense volume of gas filling his intestines as a result of his friend's fiendishly-constructed burrito.

It was getting hard to see, both due to the darkness of late evening and to how his neck had been completely engulfed by his expanding midsection. He could no longer so much as wiggle the stumps that had once been his hooves, completely immobilized by his own tightly-stretched body. His flanks were each nearly as big as he had been a mere half an hour ago, trotting up the steps to Pepper’s house, and his cutie marks were horribly warped over the curve of his ballooned butt. He couldn’t even feel his wings now, the appendages most likely hidden entirely within his blimped-up torso. Yet the storm in his gut raged on, his body continued to swell, and his skin grew more and more taut by the second. An image materialized in his mind of a bright red balloon, growing and growing and growing until–

The pegasus flinched and hurriedly opened his mouth, trying to coax a burp out of his stomach to grant him some momentary relief, but none came. Every part of him felt far beyond full. He flailed with all his strength, only succeeding in rocking gently from side to side and tiring himself further. He panted with exhaustion; even breathing had become a struggle, and it soon became impossible to open his mouth, his chin digging into his enlarged chest. His cheeks quickly filled as well, his lips puckered in a futile attempt to expel some of the air.

Throughout it all, his gut never relented, continually churning and bubbling as it worked down the partly-digested food, all the while fueling the helpless pony’s gaseous expansion.

Cirrus whimpered through his nose, screwing his eyes shut in anticipation before they, too, bulged outward in opposite directions, the pony’s vision going out of focus. His head felt fuzzy… All he could really do at this point was wait.

Pepper frowned, pressing a fuzzy blue ear even harder against the front door. It was awfully silent out there… Awfully, disappointingly silent.

Just as she was reaching for the doorknob, a muffled, high-pitched squealing pierced through the quiet, and her ears perked up.

*PAF*

The mare’s face split into a wide grin, and she bounced over to the window to peer into the front yard. A dusting of white confetti was scattered across the yard, nearly indistinguishable from the fallen snow underneath. A cloud of bright white feathers drifted slowly to the ground, swirling around in the slight breeze, and a still-knotted purple scarf rested near the edge of the yard, slung carelessly onto the surrounding fence.

Pepper turned away from the scene and pranced back into the kitchen. “I’d better call Vinyl and let her know he’ll have to reschedule.” He’ll probably need to take a vacation until the snow melts, she added to herself with a giggle.

Economizing [post-vore, weight gain, sentient fat/transformation]

“Yo Tavi, we’re leaving!”

Octavia blinked and spared a glance as Vinyl Scratch made her way downstairs and entered the lobby of Ponyville’s record shop, a parade of suitcases, instruments, and electrical equipment floating behind her. She came to a stop near the exit, and the items fell into a haphazard pile on her back. The unicorn grunted as she slung an unexpectedly heavy duffel bag over her shoulders, the strap digging painfully into the thick skin on the back of her neck. “Woof. Gonna need a serious massage at the spa after this tour, babe…”

From her spot behind the counter, Octavia slowly turned the page of her magazine. “Mhm.”

The DJ raised her front hoof to wipe a bead of sweat from her face, wincing at the sight of her rather thick foreleg. “Are you sure you can’t close the store for, like, twenty minutes to help me get to the station? I normally have Cirrus around to help carry stuff, but he…” Her eyes darted around the room, and a strangled gurgle emanated from her sagging gut. Her lips curled into something between a grin and a grimace. “Heh, y’know…”

“Yes, he’s quite indisposed at the moment, as I recall.” Octavia raised her eyes over the counter to peer at her marefriend, briefly looking over the unicorn’s unusually plump figure. “As he will be for the foreseeable future. Did you remember to bring his items as well?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Vinyl wiggled her hindquarters, trying to balance the unwieldy stack of boxes and bags piled onto her back. “I dunno if we’ll even make it on time with all this stuff weighing me down.”

“Not to mention the additional baggage you’ve acquired since breakfast,” Octavia muttered, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Vinyl rolled her eyes and huffed, glancing over her shoulder. The slightly-broadened barrel and doughy flanks that met her eyes would take some getting used to, but they would be mostly gone before too long, thank Celestia. “What, you don’t like it? I thought you were all for being smart with money.”

Octavia returned her gaze to the magazine, scanning the pages with only mild interest. “I’ve no opinion of your… travel arrangements. Though I do appreciate your efforts to be more thrifty, dear.”

“I wasn’t asking what you think of our travel arrangements.” Octavia didn’t look up, but Vinyl's smirk grew at the faint coloring of her marefriend’s cheeks. “Hm. Noted.”

“Don’t you have a-a train to catch?” Octavia asked, rather tersely. Vinyl giggled and lifted the remaining bags with her magic. She snatched her bandmate's striped purple scarf off the counter and draped it around her neck before slowly maneuvering her way out the front door of the shop. “See you in two weeks!” Octavia called out behind her, and Vinyl waved her tail in response, the grey mare’s lingering stare and bright pink muzzle going unnoticed.

Vinyl growled as the door swung shut and smacked her in the rear, sending her stumbling the first few steps toward the train station. She quickly enveloped her cargo in a magical aura, releasing it once she was sure the items wouldn’t topple over. She briefly reconsidered her decision to carry their luggage on her back, but the thought of having to carry over a dozen heavy objects across Ponyville with her magic alone nearly turned her legs to jelly.

“Sixty-two bits for this, Scratch,” she reminded herself, commencing the slow trek across town. “Sixty-two bits.” She repeated the mantra in her mind as she waddled down the road, trying to focus on balancing the leaning tower of luggage and not on the slight jiggle she felt in her belly and plot with each step, nor the way her thighs had begun to brush together as she walked. “Ugh. You really did a number on me, C,” she grumbled under her breath, shooting a glare towards her backside.

Her body offered no response, of course, but she knew her partner (or should she say passenger) could hear her. She could just picture that amused and only barely apologetic grin he’d be giving her, were he not currently busy padding her rump.

“Ah, well.” The mare continued to drag herself forward, forcing a smile onto her muzzle. “It’s worth the trouble, yeah? Just a little pudge, carrying some stuff… and that’s one less train ticket to add to our expenses. And hey, I don’t really need to grab lunch on the ride anymore.” As though on cue, she felt a sudden pressure bubble up in her throat and let out a short belch, carrying a few white feathers along with it. She paused to cover her mouth with a hoof, and her horn lit with a sudden glow as she steadied her payload. “Eh, heh… Well, I guess you won’t, either.”

Vinyl was panting lightly by the time she reached the station, and she hobbled towards the ticket booth. The clerk smiled, unfazed by the wobbling pillar of luggage reaching towards the ceiling. “Hi there, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, two–er, one ticket to Baltimare, please.” Vinyl grinned as she paid the sixty-two bits for her ticket, then trotted over to the boarding platform and hauled herself into the first car. Once she’d packed away their things into the overhead bins, Vinyl fell back into her seat with a thump and a sigh, her soft white rear spreading over the base of the chair. She shifted around for a moment, and her expression soon melted into one of satsifaction. “Ooh. ‘Least the seats are comfy, hey C?”

Garbage Disposal [gross, semi-dark, force feeding, stuffing, inflation, weight gain, slob, flattening]

Author's Note

anonymous asked:
What's your most disgusting fantasy scenario that still turns you on?

Garbage Disposal [gross, semi-dark, force feeding, stuffing, inflation, weight gain, slob, flattening]

Picture an ordinary day - garbage day, it so happens to be - and everyone’s favorite Pep is taking out the trash. He walks out to the dumpsters in the alley beside his building, drops off the bag, and turns to leave when he spots a remarkably pristine pizza box sitting unopened atop one of the dumpsters. Scanning around, no one seems to be nearby, so he opens it up: there was, unsurprisingly, a pizza, and it was still hot and untouched. What kind of idiot throws away a perfectly good pizza? Licking his lips eagerly, he snatches a large slice from the box and starts to chow down.

About halfway through his second slice, a rather large pony turns into the alley and stumbles upon the skinny pegasus eating the “trash.” Already thoroughly embarrassed, he’s taken by surprise as the pony angrily pins him against a bin – apparently not very fond of dumpster dwellers.

Before he can explain, the stranger has grabbed up another two slices of the pizza and crams them into Pepci’s mouth. He chews for a second before the rest of the pizza follows, purple cheeks bulging out and dribbling with fatty grease. He chomps into the huge mass for a moment before swallowing, just in time for a wad of something else to be shoved into his maw, tasting faintly of liquor, chocolate, and orange. The odd combination isn’t the worst thing Pep’s ever tasted, but it's hardly pleasant. He cringes and tries not to chew it for too long before choking it down, the other pony’s hooves clamping his muzzle shut so he can’t spit it out.

Pep writhes in protest as the pony pries his mouth back open, reaches into one of the dumpsters, and starts shoveling hoofful after hoofful of apple cores, half-eaten sandwiches, and empty soda cans down the poor pony’s gullet. Several times he feels close to retching, while some mouthfuls grant him only a slightly unpleasant taste. His belly hangs below him, growing slowly with the added weight before eventually sagging onto the ground.

Eventually, the other pony’s rage seems to fade into a tired annoyance, and they let out a little hmph before tossing what they have left in their hoof at him and stalking away. Pep slumps down on his swollen belly and lets out a little belch, making a face at the taste. Rolling forward and back, he finds he can’t quite reach the ground with all four legs, so he flares his wings and attempts to lift himself off the ground – no good. He's too weighed-down.

Before he has time to come up with a new plan, another pony enters the alley, trash can in tow. They pause and look him over for a moment, taking in the pizza box and the bits of trash draped over his distended stomach. With a shrug, they roll the bin closer and pull out a full, nearly pony-sized trash bag, and as he opens his mouth for a panicked “Wait!”, they stuff it into his maw, pushing it back into his throat before following it with another four bags. Trash bin now emptied, the pony waltzes away, exiting the alley just in time for Pep to catch his breath and call out to them for help.

Groaning in annoyance, he fumbles around on his stuffed tum, already approaching the size of the dumpster behind him. He wriggles for a moment longer before a loud beeping meets his ears, and a large truck roars into the alley. Uh oh.

The garbage truck screeches to a stop in front of him, and a pair of garbageponies step out, grinning at the sight. “What, we got a new dumpster?” One asks. Pep glares indignantly at them, and they snicker for a few seconds before the other says, “Let’s help him out.” Somewhat hopeful, Pep watches as one climbs back into the truck, and he raises an eyebrow. How could they help him out of this from there?

Suddenly, the arm on the side of the truck extends, reaching past him and lifting up another dumpster, while at the same time, the pony next to Pepci gives him a predatory grin and forces his mouth open with both hooves. The dumpster hovers overhead momentarily before lowering down to eye-level and tipping over, and the garbagepony stretches Pep’s mouth cartoonishly wide over the lip just as a wave of trash comes spilling out, filling up the purple stallion's mouth, throat and stomach even further. The pony next to him reaches into Pep’s maw and stomps down on the backed-up load, forcing the rest of it down into his stomach.

Pepci gasps and coughs for a moment as the arm fetches another dumpster, and then another, the process repeating until all of the dozen or so dumpsters in the alley have been emptied and the purple pony quite un-emptied. Laughing to themselves, the garbageponies realign the dumpsters against the walls of the buildings, placing the bloated pegasus inconspicuously among them.

Over the next few days and weeks, word spreads through the two buildings of the stallion’s plight, and he quickly becomes the most popular dumpster (a title he accepts quite reluctantly) of the alley. Ponies from other buildings around the block begin bringing their trash bags to the alley to feed into growing purple pone, stuffing him bigger and fuller each day. His digestive system races to keep up with the constant supply, his skinny body plumping up rapidly from the fatty loads of junk. Even the assortment of cans, bottles, plastics, and other containers mixed in among the waste is gradually melted down into goop as his stomach grows stronger, his tubby form very nearly taking on the shape of a dumpster itself.

Ponies take trips down the alley on occasion, tossing a banana peel or candy wrapper in Pep’s mouth as they pass, while others climb on top of his tummy and make use of his immobility to blow a load or two into the warm dumpster’s rear. When not in use as such, the pegasus’s backside is firmly plugged up, so as to keep his own processed waste trapped within him as well.

Realizing there’s no longer a need for the other dumpsters in the alley, the garbage collection department removes them. Soon after, they begin to remove others in the vicinity, as well as rerouting the local garbage trucks to bring the collected trash from all around town to dump into the new community waste bin.

Pepci soon outgrows the narrow alley, and with the assistance of a few powerful vehicles, the big purple tub is dragged out and relocated just outside of town, where all garbage from the townsponies is now directed.

Well, if we’re feeding all our trash into this pony, reasons the mayor, why not all our waste in general? A long, thick metal pipe embedded in the banks of the lake has been dumping the town’s sewage into the water, polluting it to the point of toxicity. In an effort to sanitize the water, Pepci is moved once again, now residing much nearer to the lake, and the sewage pipe is dug up and redirected to the lavender landfill. Luckily, the town officials show him some measure of mercy, deciding not to make the poor stallion drink the sewage; rather, the pipe is fed into his rump, and Pep is stretched incredibly wide around the two-foot-thick metal pole pumping the thick dark sludge into his depths.

After some time, Pepci’s size surpasses what is believed to be a safe limit. Now close to the size of a small building, the feathered blob is disconnected from the pipe, transported to the garbage collection agency, and brought around to the garage. He gulps nervously as he takes in the sight before him: an industrial-size compactor, built to reduce cars, trucks, and tons upon tons of waste to mere bricks. Pep absently squeezes a hoofful of flesh on his belly as he watches an assortment of auto parts and gnarled chunks of metal disappear into the compactor, only to be replaced seconds later by a neat, tidy little cube. That doesn't exactly bode well for a soft, squishy body.

The crew of garbageponies slowly feed the purple stallion's water balloon-like form into the compactor, and the operator seated in front of the control panel press the ON button. The compactor roars to life and squeezes tightly against Pepci, the vile mixture in his gut sloshing around and threatening to squirt out both ends of his body like a fountain, if not for the smooth walls pressing in on him from all sides. He grunts as the pressure outside and inside his body rapidly builds, his form feeling tighter and heavier by the second.

All of a sudden, the compression ceases, and the compactor emits a metallic hiss. After a silent moment, the walls slowly pull away to reveal a small purple cube resting on the floor, with Pepci’s flattened features visible on the sides.

The extremely dense pone-block is then taken away, with the help of a forklift, back to the alley alongside his building, where he is left beside a shiny new dumpster.