Untitled Nintails Health Problems Fic

Writing a little something while I'm in the van with no signal.
Arrabella shifted weakly on the couch, plump-lipped maw agape as she drew in heavy, laborious breaths. Faint whistles and wheezes could be heard as she did, straining just to breathe through a fat-congested neck and fill lungs compressed by several thick, sagging breasts.

Despite the fact she was a Fire-type, the immensely obese woman was sweating profusely and further staining the distressed couch beneath her because of how much her blubber insulated her naturally heated body.
Across from her, above the long unattended and unlit fireplace, pictures and awards in ornate frames and lined the maroon painted walls.
She turned her head against the resistance a collar of neck fat and peered past sight imposing cheeks to them.

All of them were from her days in Hollywood, blessing the red carpet with her presence, dressed in elegant dresses hugging her curves that men lusted for.
Beneath the plaques and framed awards were the trophies that sat on the mantle, gathering more dust with each passing day and each pound piled onto her body.
Arrabella tried to look down upon her body, but her very own body restricted even that. Sagging cheeks were pushed even more into her eyes, almost mechanically blinding the middle aged kitsune. What she could see, however, was her body effectively spilling out in all directions. Her hips spread wide, and even formed dimpled rolls where sweat often gathered.
Six immense, sagging breasts rested low and heavy on her body, draping to their respective sides of her gut which dominated the entirety of her front.

Despite her natural pear shape, her gut had grown immensely, and age had formed it into not a double, but a triple belly, three segmented rolls, her deep, humid navel buried amidst one. It hung low, to fat-buried ankles.
The heat had grown to be unbearable and she struggled to raise a quivering, ham-like arm to waggle a thick, pudgy paw at her face in an attempt to cool herself. The subtle motion made the hanging sheets of fat drooping off her arm bounced and jostled fluidly and tired her out even more than just being awake already did.
With a wet plop, her arm dropped back down to her side and she let out a heavy sigh of relief, the tension on her aching, underused muscles now gone.
A wet-sounding gurgle could be heard from deep within the sack of blubber attached to the front of her body and the volume of it was almost frightening. It rose higher and higher until it was finally liberated as an abrupt belch that caused a huge plume of fire to pour from her maw.

"Ooofhhh.. exsh'cuse me.." She slurred past cheeks that pressed against her maw and her bottom lip.

She had gotten so immensely fat that even her voice was deeper and slower than the dainty, effeminate voice she had in her hit films less than a decade ago.
Attention grabbed by the sound, her lover came from around the corner, a subtle smile on -her- face.

It caught everyone by surprise six years ago when Arrabella announced that she was now dating a woman, a similarly aged and wealthy caribou, despite her boyfriends and husband in the past. Not that they minded. It provided nice thoughts for the lesbian loving teenage boys across the nation.
"Good evening, dear. You're looking lovely tonight, as usual." The caribou spoke, voice soft as the thousand dollar silk blankets they slept under.

Claire approached the Ninetales and pressed the entirety of her body against the sweaty, matted fur of Arrabella's gut. Her hands gripped firmly at floppy love handles and gave them a shake as she leaned far, practically sinking into the toneless blubber, to deliver a kiss to her lover.
"Oh, heh- hffhh- thh- thank you, Claire. You're- huuuff- you're too sweet.." Arrabella breathed, their faces inches apart.

Her breath smelled heavily of both sweets and grease, the two primary staples of the entirety of her diet for the past six years. She had almost forgotten what a salad, or grilled chicken, or a glass of water, all previously prominent in her diet, even tasted like.

They've long since been replaced, by Claire, with grease-dripping fried chicken, sugary cakes, and countless liters of syrupy cola.
Claire groaned happily and let one hand slide from Arrabella's side to her hanging left breast, firmly kneading into and under it.

Claire always loved doing this. She could feel the flesh quiver and ooze through her fingers. Claire reveled in the slow, semi-steady rising and following as her lover breathed. And if she pressed deep enough? The caribou could feel the weak ever-rapid pitter patter of the obese woman's heart, struggling to maintain and pump blood through her body despite the torture.