Non Uberis

@nonuberis

I write and color things. I am very confused. He/Him. 33yo. 18+ only pretty please. #nonuberstories #nonuberart #nonubercomms #nonubergaming

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Ist das dein Profil?Übernimm es — dann gehört dir nonuberis.dirty.social.Profil übernehmen

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 2d

Are you interested in: Fruity dragon? Milking duty? Balloon dance? And line altercation? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

“Ooh…” Fluttershy makes a whining groan as she picks up her juicing timer, pinching the device between two swollen fingers and squinting her eyes to look at its display. “Still over an hour away…” she mutters under her breath with a wince hissing through her lips. Her attention turns to the big whiteboards which have schedules charted upon them. “But the songbirds need to be fed now!” she exclaims, “They can’t wait that long! Ooh…!”

She nervously chews on her lip and teases at her mane. The latter isn’t so easy to accomplish with her arm swollen and sunken, scarcely capable of bending, but the clawed fingertips carve through the pink and green locks more easily than any comb. Eventually, she sighs, snorting a plume of fragrant smoke from her nostrils, and says, “Oh…heck, I can’t stand to let the poor things wait so long.”

She closes the doors of her study, which is actually a large box mounted in the branches of a tree, a treehouse-cupboard, some fifteen feet up from the grassy floor. Groaning, gurgling, she shuffles about, turning in place with awkward heaving motions, before starting to waddle away. The familiar path she walks upon is marked by a furrow dug into the earth, the muddy dirt saturated with splotches of ruddy purple, with heavy footprints on either side. Her stumpy legs are forced into a wide-splayed posture by the rotund girth of her lower body, with her bulbous, spiny rump swaying in her wake. She groans from the exertion, a rumbling deep in her throat; around this time in the ripening process, she would normally try to minimize the amount of movement she has to perform, but the animals require her attention.

“No way!” Rainbow Dash exclaims, “Why do I have to do it?!”

“Because it’s your turn, Rainbow!” Twilight Sparkle snaps her fingers while her horn sparks and she summons a floating manifestation of a white board. It displays a series of scribbles with the title “OVERFLOW COLLECTION DUTY” along with a series of names, each of which has a number of dates written beside them. Rainbow Dash’s name, notably, has far fewer dates than any of the others. “We’ve already let you pass several times now,” Twilight continues, glaring sternly, “you can’t keep shirking your responsibility like this!”

The pegasus grimaces and crosses her arms. “I had to, I had important things to do! I had performances coming up! And I’ve got another one coming up in three days, as a matter of fact, I can’t afford to burn off that much weight on short notice!”

Twilight emphatically points to the chart and says, “And do you think it was easy for Applejack, when she had her summer harvest to worry about? Or for Rarity, when she had to deliver her fall fashion line?”

Still Rainbow glowers, grinding her teeth together, but her ears droop slightly.

“We all agreed that we would work together on this, for him, Rainbow,” Twilight asserts, “are you just going to leave him hanging whenever it’s convenient for you?”

A low growl rumbles in her throat before she tosses her head back and groans. “Okay, fine, I’ll do it.”

“What’s the matter?” they murmur, snickering, “You’ve never seen a unicorn before?”

This may certainly very well be true. The glittery purple and lavender spire which projects from their forehead high above, golden rings along its length, surrounded in a faintly luminous aura, is most definitely a striking feature. But it is also among the least striking of their features.

“It’s okay,” the unicorn continues with a playful wink, eyeballs bigger than dining plates. “I’m not so shy that I mind a little ogling. I think it’d be a little silly not to—kinda the whole point while I’m up on the stage, you know.” They gesture with one thick, bulbous hand to the shadowed stage at the head of the chamber, which all the barren dining tables are arranged around. “Make sure you’ve got a good seat,” they remark, and they wink again and make a gesture of blowing a kiss—a good thing that they don’t attempt a literal kiss, as their lips would probably be smothering, suffocating—before they shuffle away. Improbably, despite their girth, the unicorn seems to melt into the gloom and out of sight, their presence only marked by a faint rhythmic squeaking as their legs shift back and forth, skin grinding together, fading into the background.

Then, after all is quiet, a disembodied voice echoes through the darkened lounge: “ESTEEMED GUESTS OF CULTURED TASTES, PLEASE GIVE YOUR FULL ATTENTION TO THE CENTER STAGE FOR A PERFORMANCE BY THE BODACIOUS BLIMP, THE UNFORGETTABLE INFLATABLE, OBSESSION.”

“What the hell?” With some effort to push on her breasts so she can even see beyond the canyon of crimson cleavage, Claire sees that there’s actually someone standing between her and the Beartic, someone who is nearly half her height. The sheep wears thick red clothes over fluffy white fur, a combination that seems sweltering for summer. “What’re you doing here?” she snarls accusingly, “Did you cut in front of me?!”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” the sheep replies calmly, staring back without flinching, “not that you’ve made it easy for me.”
This time, Claire doesn’t feel any compulsion to hold back. “Well I say you cut in front of me,” she yowls, glaring with all the venom she can muster, “and I’m bigger than you so what I say goes!”

She smiles back and chuckles. “Is that so?”

Claire doesn’t have any capacity for tolerating that kind of smugness. She’s certainly never watched enough of her sister’s competitive matches to know the proper technique for swinging one’s bosom as a weapon, but it doesn’t take much skill to lunge forward with the intent of grinding the sheep into the pavement.

Her would-be victim makes no attempt to move out of the way. In fact, she comes to meet her, opening her mouth. Wide, wider, yet wider. For a moment, Claire is struck by the image of the sheep’s maw looming before her, a gaping abyss, jaws distended impossibly far.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 6d

Flukemon?

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 6d

Are you interested in: Anger management? Dragon popularity? Bimberry regimen? And koopa construction? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

A figure sits in the corner, hunched over. Her shape is difficult to construe due to being swathed in a thick blue mass—like a blanket, but its surface is faintly glossy.

Promethea’s vocal cords crack slightly from disuse as she speaks, opting for physical speech instead of telepathy due to the dampeners in the room. “How do you feel, Colette?”

The huddled figure rocks back and forth and mutters, “They let me read a book.”

The Mewtwo drifts over to her and settles onto the floor amid the wreckage; it’s easiest for her to sit with her legs crossed and turn to the side so that her vision isn’t overtaken by groin. “What did you think about it?”

For a while, the subject doesn’t say anything coherent. She huddles in place and her breath comes in guttural gasps and grunts. The blue mass swaddling her ripples, seeming to tighten around her, conforming to the curvature of a thick, bulky body, red spikes jutting from the arms and legs and between the breasts. The face remains obscured by a thick, curling tuft with a yellow star printed upon it. Eventually, she croaks out, “Why didn’t she stay with him?”

“Who?” Promethea asks.

“The RAPIDASH!” Colette screams as she makes a staggering lurch forward, falling onto her chest as she slams her fist into the ground, cracking the reinforced concrete. “Why didn’t she stay with him?!” she demands again as she heaves to her feet, the blue conforming around her into a dress that clings to her bosom and drapes over her thighs, a thick ponytail that extends behind her like a cloud.

It’s time for another appearance.

There are butterflies whirling and dancing in Spike’s stomach. Or maybe something larger. Whole bugbears, doing gymnastic routines, a complex rehearsal for a performance. He smiles and laughs to himself despite his anxiousness. He holds his robes around himself as he walks to the grand doorway that leads out onto the balcony. There is a distant clamor, a yearning chant which calls over and over again, and when he opens the door it resolves into a deafening roar.

“SPIKE! SPIKE! SPIKE! SPIKE!”

It prompts him to stand straighter, long neck rearing up, frills blooming outward, tail swaying behind him. He comes to the edge of the balcony and looks out over the banister, and he’s met with a thunderous roll of applause that sweeps through the crowd which surrounds the crystal palace, spilling across the fields and into the streets of Ponyville. He beams contentedly, basking in the swell of satisfaction that he feels in his breast. And the very literal swelling—he can’t exactly afford to dither on any of this.

Shrugging off the robe, the dragon unveils the form which before had only been tantalizingly suggested by the draping folds of cloth. This further stirs his audience into a frenzy, cheering at the sight of his curvaceous figure, his pert chest and plump buttocks and generously endowed dragonhood. These assets offset the slender, willowy proportions of his body, tall enough that he would loom over these ponies even if he weren’t so high above them already. He spreads his wings and holds up his arms behind his head whilst swaying from side to side, allowing his breasts and cock to swing pendulously.

The obnoxiously loud ringing of the timer alerts Twilight Sparkle that it’s juicing time, and she breathes out a wet wheeze of a sigh and mutters “Finally” in a muffled, spluttering tone. It’s grown tiresome, having to hold her book straight before her eyes in order to see past the swollen lips at the end of her muzzle.

She endeavors to shift herself physically, with a commotion of crinkling and crackling beneath her. The heap of cushions she sits upon has a clear plastic sheet on top of it in order to prevent the pillows from being stained by her juices. Moving requires heaving with her whole body, shimmying forward, grunting and huffing and wincing in a most inelegant manner. Her arms can do little to help, unable to reach beyond the slopes of herself which surround her. It would undoubtedly be easier to levitate herself, but she wishes to maintain bodily autonomy without the aid of magic as much as possible; if she gets to the point that she can’t walk, she might as well simply allow herself to pass the threshold where she has to be rolled everywhere.

And she can feel, while she hobbles to her hooves and telekinetically bundles up the plastic sheet behind her, that she might be a little closer to that than she’d like. It is a struggle for her to keep both of her hooves on the floor at once, stiff and splayed out far to the sides, and the puffy mound of her vulva fills the span between them, folds squeezing together. “Must have…miscalculated…the rate of…acceleration,” she mutters to herself. With great difficulty, she swings one leg out, pushing against the encumbrance which surrounds her body and then pulling to haul herself forward. A single step is exhausting, taking all of her strength; the only solace is that the effort of doing this is already doing some work to squeeze out the juice inside her (which is lessened by the knowledge that it’s more mess to clean up later).

“Why is is taking them so long, Kamek?!” Bowser bellows, embers glowing in the depths of his gullet.

“Sire, please, just a little patience,” the Magikoopa replies hurriedly, keeping his head bowed so that the tip of his cap flops forward, “need I remind you that the construction hasn’t even been going for a full day yet? This project is one that will take time, especially given your, ah…specifications.” He glances at the “schematics” on the nearby table, which consist of a crayon-drawn scribble of a lopsided castle covered in spikes and cannons and increasingly deranged notes.

The giant turtle slams his fist on the arm of his temporary makeshift throne, which is only cleared for about three slams before it breaks. The seat perches on a platform which overlooks the horde of Koopa Kingdom underlings who are scrambling about with supplies to work on his new castle, which currently only exists as a rough foundation. The spikes are still being sharpened and the cannons haven’t been acquired yet. “They’d be working faster if they were more excited for how awesome my new castle is going to be!” Bowser declares, glaring down at the Koopas and Goombas and Shy Guys and Snifits and more who clearly aren’t putting enough work into carrying enormous blocks of stone. They know better than to meet his gaze, keeping their heads down. After a few seconds, he settles back into his seat, glowering angrily into the middle distance.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 8d

Balance is still important while you're levitating. Hera can catch it all before it hits the ground, don't worry. Original art by @spicycharley.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper #pregnant

An anthro female Mew named Hera who is big hyper pregnant with huge belly and boobs and butt, wearing a sweater and pants, she's floating in the air with a bottle of Science Serum falling from her hands and she gasps in alarm.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 10d

Are you interested in: Macro struggle? Wife material? And head trap? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

“This is a real problem,” Alice mutters to herself, muffled on account of how she has her breasts held up and smothering her face. Their astronomical bulk is readily apparent, exponentially greater than it would be normally, but her strength feels proportionally scaled such that it’s no greater burden than usual. This means she’s still faced with the usual burden that the crimson mounds are simply far too large for her arms to hold no matter how capable she is, spilling out beyond her grasp no matter how high she tries to lift them.

Slowly, cautiously, the giant Garchomp takes a step forward. She leans a little too far to the side and the iron-hard spikes on her thigh scrape across the side of a building, digging through brick and glass. Wincing, she still tries her best to be wary about how she puts her foot down on the street beneath her, moving with the caution of someone dipping their toes into a pool, since she has no way of looking down at herself. Her sole presses on something thin, an overhanging street sign, and it crumples beneath her foot with as much aplomb as a dry twig. Just as much care has to be put into keeping her tail still, the sinuous finned appendage trailing behind her.

Yet still, despite her best efforts (or breast efforts), her breasts catch on something, dragging over some rooftop with a grinding and crashing as the architecture sunders, followed by a further distant explosive commotion as the debris lands on the street far below. The susurrus of screaming civilians around her climbs to a peak once again, to which she responds desperately with “Sorry!”

“Suits prove effective for preventing effects of radiation. Team, sound off. Philips?”

“Doing fine.”

“Kellogg?”

“Everything’s good here.”

“Stevenson?”

The last of the scientists stands still, staring at the rock on the table through his visor. His breath rattles and his body shudders.

“Stevenson, report,” the leader commands again, speaking firmly.

“Oh, shit,” Kellogg exclaims as he peers around Stevenson, “the tail port for his suit isn’t fully sealed.”

The attachment on the back of his suit, a port at the base of the spine that allows a tail to be fitted through with a custom flap for one’s tail, hangs ajar, leaving a sliver of a thin black-furred appendage visible as it twitches erratically, as he doubles over.

The testing chamber becomes a bedlam of noise and commotion. Kellogg calls out, “Emergency, a researcher has been exposed to contamination!” The leader fumbles to close the box while Philips slams a red button on the wall that sets an alarm blaring and brings shutters over the lone door. Stevenson stumbles and falls forward, sprawling on the table and barely holding in place with a single arm that holds upon the counter. The sudden motion prompts the leader to back away from the box, leaving the pink rock unrestrained for precious seconds longer. No one rushes to assist Stevenson despite his apparent discomfort as he audibly groans, the sounds muffled through his suit’s speakers but still clear enough to hear how the pitch shifts.

$Before his eyes, something slips past, falling and landing on the floor with a quiet plop. Yuri looks upward, and he sees another black patch which grows across the ceiling. The more he looks at it, however, the more convinced he is that it isn’t lichen. Too slick, too shiny, its surface rippling like oil. And it’s extending, reaching out with a molten pseudopod that points straight at him, the shimmering refractions of light upon its surface mesmerizing him. “Yuri!” Rei shouts, cutting through his stupor. The red panda throws himself back, only to hold fast. Something sticky adheres to his foot, keeping him locked in place. He makes the mistake of gasping before the black slime falls upon him, plastering over his face and probing for orifices to enter through. It’s bitter and acrid and hot upon his tongue, but that’s the least of his worries. As the huge wad clings to him, shutting out all perception of the world and throwing off his balance, he instinctively gropes for it with his right hand, only for that to get stuck as the gunk spreads over the appendage as well, and he has to refrain from using his other hand as well. He can feel his fur matting down, flattened and sealed by the layer of black which engulfs his skin. “No, how could this happen?!” he thinks, screaming in his skull, separated from the world outside. “I should have been able to detect one of the sorcerer’s defensive wards at least!” And then, an unfamiliar voice calls back, echoing inside his brain: “The sorcerer? He’s long gone, gave up on the profession entirely. His leftover enchantments were quite tasty, though.”$

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 10d

QRP with your most popular piece on Bluesky! The sheer disparity between this and everything else is baffling (also the second one is the unshaded version of this picture)

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 11d

Tilly lays exclusive claim to the slushie dispenser. There's usually nothing left after she's done. Original art by @energyunit.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper #fatfur #bimbo

An anthro female Lickitung named Tilly who has huge tits and belly and ass and lips standing in a vague approximation of a convenience story and holding up a slushie dispenser with tubes from all the nozzles feeding into her mouth and her belly is extra big because of how much she's been drinking.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 11d

Licky lady looks lasciviously. Tilly, a gothpunkbimbo Lickitung I've had sitting around for a while. Art by @dotintheparadox.bsky.social #nonubercomms #furry #nsfw #hyper #fatfur #bimbo

An anthro female Lickitung named Tilly who has huge tits and belly and ass and lips leaning toward a bottom-heavy hourglass shape, wearing a skimpy top and clothes and showing her tongue and all those damn piercings she got.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 12d

There is Lycanroc. And also titty. She's kinda rude. Original art by @chiseacreations.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper

A female anthro Midnight Lycanroc who has comically large boobs that reach to the ground and also is kinda chunky and has big pawb and she's looking back and flipping you off wow so rude.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 13d

New story uploaded. At a lack of ideas, Applejack and Rainbow Dash let Discord set up a competition for them. It's perfectly ordinary. Don't listen to the hoops' hum. #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw #clop #transformation

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 13d

Binary Brush, secretary working at the Crystal Empire. Was supposed to be a public access character for the Decaverse. Original art by @kurgalito.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper #multi #clop

An anthro nonbinary pony named Binary Brush who has two heads, four arms, three legs, three breasts, a hyper vulva on the right side of their body and a hyper cock and balls on the left side, wearing a secretary-style suit that doesn't cover their genitalia at all.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 13d

Are you interested in: Steamy rescue? Pink approach? Distracted gains? And cakeroom explorers? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

“Hey! Is anyone there?!”

Victoria looks about, suddenly alert. The hall she stands in is empty, a nonsensical mess of pipes and faucets along one tiled wall. The distant echoes come from a passage to the side, up a recessed stairwell that claustrophobically shrinks toward the top of the flight. A single hazy light shines at the top of the steps.

As she starts to wonder if the voice might have just been another auditory hallucination, it calls again, “Please! I could use some help! I’m stuck!”

The Vaporeon exhales a laborious huff before she decides to walk up the steps. The tiles aren’t wet, but they’re smooth enough that she detests the lack of handrails. She feels a little winded at the top of the stairs, or maybe that’s just because the air is thicker, steamier, a soup in the air that casts a grey haze over everything. And, further ahead, there is something silvery that fills the narrow passage from one wall to the other. “Hello?” she calls.

A quiet gasp as the silver mass twitches, wobbling in place. A part of it moves, a metallic appendage that ends in dark red wedges. “Hello? Oh my gosh, there are actually other ‘mons here, I thought this creepy place was empty!”

“It’d be easier if it was empty,” Victoria mutters under her breath as she walks closer. She fights with her throat and lungs to regulate her breathing, the steamy air hot and thick, cloying within her. She grunts as she holds a hand to her midsection—faintly convex.

It’s always hard moving to a new place.

It’s a different kind of hard when it involves being spatially dislocated into the land of Equestria, home of a myriad assortment of stunning and bodacious creatures.

Ponyville, at least, has been a welcoming place to settle down after all the tumult of medical and legal procedures, with many friendly ponies who are receptive to new and unfamiliar faces.

Such as one pony who now calls from far away, “HEY NEW FRIEND!” Her bubbly, high-pitched voice carries clearly across a vast distance. Down along the town’s main thoroughfare, there is a clear shot to the confection-shaped confectionary that is Sugarcube Corner, several blocks away. Standing beside the building there is a bright pink shape, one hand extended and waving frantically.
Pinkie Pie is unmistakable. She insists on being on good terms with everyone she meets, which she usually succeeds at despite how overbearing she can be. At this distance, however she doesn’t seem especially remarkable.

Then she breaks into a run.

It doesn’t take long to feel the sheer force of her hoofsteps, pounding upon the packed earth road. The ground shakes, windows of nearby buildings rattling in their frames, storefront signs creaking and swaying, and birds shriek as they take wing into the sunny, cloudless sky. Other ponies passing by, taking notice of the mare’s approach, are quick to duck out of the way.

When Jody lifts the dumbbells, handles with heavy black weights, his slender arms ripple with cords of sinew along their length, distending beneath the skin as the appendages flex and curl.

Dorothy watches this with a placid expression upon her face and a low hum deep in her throat while she holds up a barbell over her head, disguised as a grunt as she lowers the handle again and sets it to the mat again.

“I need to get stronger,” the Lopunny grumbles, clenching his jaw each time he lifts the weights. “I’m tired of getting screwed over all the time by all this weird shit at BeauTech. I need to have a better capacity for mega evolution so I can stay in that form longer.”

The change is subtle, but with Dorothy’s focused concentration and keen eye for detail it’s immediately obvious. The musculature within Jody’s body thickens, skin tightening yet further around the bulging meat. It’s most obvious within his arms, biceps burgeoning, pumping up and down, but his trim figure gradually expands all across his anatomy. The sports bra he wears stretches around his shoulders and chest, shorts becoming increasingly ill-fitting as they strain on the girth of his thighs and glutes and groin.

Jody doesn’t seem to take notice of this, continuing to flex his arms and lift the weights, nor of Dorothy staring at him all the while. She’s still plenty lucid, enough to sense the faint entropic presence within the dumbbells. A special treat from Judith, presumably. She grumbles in her throat, knowing that even while they are off-duty she still detests the idea of the mess that is going to result from all this. Something is going to have to be done about it.

Fluttershy is tired of cake. This is a troublesome conundrum to be in when one’s surroundings entirely consist of cake.

She totters in place as she rises to her hooves, wings extended for balance. Grunting, she clutches at her midsection, feeling the doughy girth that sprawls over her waistline. The fat flesh spills over her arms like a liquid glob more than a solid mass. She swallows and feels something slide down her throat, a wad of sugary mush that had been lingering in her mouth. A low groan rolls out of her.

The pegasus staggers into motion, still holding her stomach to minimize the wobbling and jiggling as she walks. She shivers in the chilly atmosphere of the empty hall, feeling the cold air upon her exposed skin. Her skirt and shirt are barely holding on, clinging around her broad frame, the cloth stained with smears of frosting, a muddiness that extends to her hooves and fur. Her pink hair hangs loose in sticky strands, making her wish to brush it away from her face, but she knows that her grimy hands will just make it worse.

At a lopsided crossroads, she sees an opening on the right side that leads into a chamber that looks like it’s been subjected to a horde of ravenous ants. Chunks are taken out of everything, ranging from bite marks to huge divots that look like some explosive impact. There had been a structure on one side of the room that looked like a tree, trunk made of fondant and filled with jelly and crown of green frosting. Now it’s fallen over, the trunk sundered, several branches torn off. The cause of this destruction is still at work.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 14d

Lugiazelf full of psychic power or something. Sure would be a shame if she built up any more. Also comes in Blue flavor. Original art by @jennysmallergod.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #fatfur #inflation

A female anthro Lugia/Azelf hybrid (Lugiazelf) who has ended up as a big inflated glorb, resting on her belly with her stumpy arms and legs stuck out and her tail hanging limply above her, looking strained like she's experiencing a lot of pressure.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 15d

Big bucks can have big butts. Virizion deerdad who's been at the back of my mind for a while. Original art by @spicycharley.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #muscle #hyper

An anthro male Virizion who's wearing a suit and doing some flexy arm poses, he has big muscles and crotchbulge and lower lip and the biggerest ass cheeks which form a huge wall behind him.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 16d

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 17d

Are you interested in: Experimental compression? Experimental decompression? Tongue tussle? And pizza party? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

From the box, Paul removes a bundle of glossy dark material that cascades downward, hanging limp from his hands. It’s a full-body suit, with openings in the sleeves for arms and legs and a collar for the neck, and a slit for a tail to poke through on the back. The substance that it’s comprised of is sleek and shimmers faintly, almost like latex but with the texture of nylon. Around the waist is a belt with some kind of electronic console.

“What is it?” Jody asks bluntly.

“I’m calling it…a compression suit,” Paul explains, grinning eagerly as he shows off his fancy toy, “you can put this on and it will keep your body to a set size no matter how you grow or transform!”

The Lopunny’s eyebrows tilt upward, just slightly. “That sounds…impressive. And somewhat implausible.”

“Oh, it’s not really that complicated,” he says with a chuckle, “just a little dimensional anchoring to stabilize your physical parameters to a particular…” He stops when he detects that Jody is not particular interested, evidenced by the drooping of his ears as he crosses his arms under his chest. “Ah, well…anyway it still needs to be…tested, so…I was wondering if you might be interested in that!”

“I’m really not qualified for something like this,” Jody says, turning one foot to indicate that he’s getting ready to leave.

“You don’t have to do anything!” Paul insists, “You just have to wear it for a while! Keep it on through your shift and let me know if anything happens!”

He unzips his coveralls to take them off, only to give pause when he looks down at himself. There’s another layer underneath the baggy garment, a smooth, glossy surface that stretches over his bosom. For several seconds he just stares, his brain rendered blank by the dark material, but then he blurts out, “Oh, right, the suit.”

“The what?” Dorothy responds, her attention drawn sharply toward him.

“This,” Jody says, and demonstrates by shedding the sleeves of his coveralls, leaving them to dangle limply from around his waist. The suit adheres neatly to the shape of his body, breasts held together in a uniform mass. “It’s a…compression suit, he called it,” he explains, trying to remember the details of the encounter, “a developer gave it to me to test. He said it makes it so that someone…I guess can’t grow beyond a specified size.” He rubs at his chest, feeling the suit’s smooth, pliant surface. “Funny, I completely forgot I was wearing this. It’s really comfortable, actually.”

Then suddenly Dorothy’s hands are upon him, gripping tightly on his shoulders, the Kangaskhan looming over him, glaring down, and he doesn’t feel very comfortable anymore.

“What’re you—?”

With a rough start, she pushes on him. He gasps and stumbles, barely able to keep his legs moving enough to keep up with her motion as she directs him, especially while he’s walking backward. “Dorothy, what’re you doing?!” he exclaims, grabbing at her arms, but they’re as sturdy as steel.

“What’s that about?” Alice mutters under her breath as she leaves, and she holds up the translucent plastic cup full of red fluid before herself. “I know they’re not especially healthy but it’s just what I want right now. Is that really a big—”

“Oy, titan tits!” A gruff voice muffled with aspiration calls out to her along with heavy footfalls stomping behind her.

She starts to turn, leading with the arm holding the slushie extended before her. Then something swings into her field of view, a fleshy pink tendril that grabs at the plastic cup. When she feels it touch her hand, its moist, sticky surface, she cries out with a couple choice expletives and releases her grip, jolting away. The appendage wraps around the slushie and takes hold of it before it can fall, then retreats, and Alice follows its path along to its owner.

The Lickitung reels in her long, meaty tongue, stopping briefly to take the cup into her hand before it recedes entirely in between her huge purple lips. The thick mounds obscure much of her face, what isn’t already covered by her purple and blue-streaked hair, but there is just enough of a sliver between upper lip and bangs to see her glaring eyes. “Awful lotta nerve o’ you to act up on my turf,” she growls, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“The hell are you talking about, all I did was buy a drink!” Alice doesn’t have any problem with stepping forward to assert her advantage in height. Her breasts heave ahead of her, closing the gap between them and the Lickitung’s own bosom, which forms a broad shelf ahead of her, leaving only a sliver of a rotund belly visible beneath their underside. Her lower body is drastically larger, however, buttocks and thighs jutting all around herself, huge pink columns supporting her body, with a thick tail that extends behind her—the tail Alice saw at the back of the convenience store.

Spitfire grimaces, curling back one lip as she opens the door. The noise from inside washes over them immediately, but it diminishes significantly when she raises her voice and calls out, “Alright, food’s here!”

The atmosphere immediately grows hotter as Chrysalis steps inside and is surrounded by a host of ponies, slavering like ravenous dogs. Well, that’s what she thinks of them, in any event, whooping and hollering along with the music and clamoring for her as she approaches. They don’t seem to be as discerning of her criminal history, especially the ones who make comments about her copiously endowed figure. She could swing her breasts around to knock them away if she wanted to, but Spitfire clears the way for her, shooing them like a mother ordering her foals around. Chrysalis vaguely recalls some of the Wonderbolts from old intel reports, but others are unfamiliar, likely new recruits in the past few years.

And, of course, among them…

“Heyyy, Chryssy!” Rainbow Dash comes hobbling up to Chrysalis, teetering unsteadily, her eyes unfocused. She’s wearing her blue and yellow Wonderbolt race suit under a heavy windbreaker that looks like it’s too large for her. A lot of the ponies are wearing team colors, in fact, even though this hardly seems like a formal event. “This sure is a wild party, huh? Can you believe we convinced Spitfire to let us hire a stripper?”

“How are you already tipsy, Crash?” Spitfire asks from the other side of the changeling’s broad frame.

“Hey, I can stop anytime I…” The mare tilts to the side and leans upon Chrysalis’s side, into the cushy mass of her chest. In contrast, Chrysalis remains steady enough that she hardly breaks her stride while another pony comes in to pull Rainbow away.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 19d

I have Milotic/Beta Arceus fusion

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 19d

Thank for opportunity! I have uh...evil tentacle horse

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 20d

The eternal struggle

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 21d

Kiss bug

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 21d

Are you interested in: Cramped elevator? Indulgent excess? Delicious loot? And space compression? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

“Best not to think about it,” he replies curtly, and he gestures downward with one finger, imploring Beryl to look away from the display.

Having two urgently pressing matters that he has to avoid thinking about at the same time is asking a lot of Beryl. It was bad enough when he was running late for his dentist appointment. Then everything got worse when the Lopunny barged into the elevator with him, toting a janitorial supply cart behind him. He wasn’t quite so engorged at the time, but then he stripped off his coveralls and boots, down to his underwear (which included a bra for his unusually pronounced chest), and revealed his ballooning physique and the purplish discoloration which was spreading through his skin and fur. “Arceusdamned stone,” he had been muttering, “do I need to get it surgically grafted to my flesh?” And by the time Beryl stopped staring, the elevator had trapped them in a limbo of nonsense floors, refusing to stop and let either of them out.

“Hey!”

Beryl gasps and shakes his head, ears flopping. “H-huh?”

“I said, can you give me a hand?” the Lopunny asks gruffly. It’s not so easy to see his face anymore; the distending of his anatomy has made him higher, and the broad slopes and folds which surround his head, leaving only the long ears which hang over the sides. His arms are turning swollen and stumpy, and he can barely manage to bend them enough to press his palms on the sides of his bulbous chest.

“With wh-what?” he says warily, trying and failing not to think about where he could put his hands upon Jody’s body.

“Can you jack me off?” Jody asks in a low groan.

“Alright, then you can come along with us to the next restaurant,” they reply while they stride out from the rows of crowded tables, the creatures who are preoccupied with their own meals.

“HOW DO YOU PROPOSE THAT WE DO THAT WITH THIS INCONVENIENCE YOU HAVE INFLICTED UPON US?”

The phantom sensations of Pneuma’s bulk flash with greater vigor when Euphoria steps out from the restaurant to find the other unicorn right there, waiting for them. The pale morass occupies the entirety of the street outside the building, stretching from one building to the next (which would be an enormous disruption to local traffic, but pedestrians and vehicles simply pass through Pneuma as if they aren’t there, conscious only of a faint lightness of breath in the process). At this angle, one cannot see their face at the summit of the mountain of flabby folds, but Euphoria can distinctly sense the disgruntled intensity of their scowl all the same.

“Huh,” Euphoria remarks as they observe the sprawling bulk, the overflowing fat that obliterates nearly all sense of anatomy. Thighs and buttocks and belly and breasts are nearly indistinguishable, the latter only identified by the swollen blue nipples at their far ends. Only vaguely can they discern a bloated appendage, a doughy mitt of a hand poking from sleeves that are as thick around as truck tires. They can get a better sense of it all through the sensations which pound upon the porous wall that divides their consciousnesses, the detached twinge of overflowing enormity, pressing together, the ravenous pull of hunger, and the quivering of the swollen vulva which crams into the span between Pneuma’s legs. “Have I really been eating that much? I didn’t think I’d been going for that long.”

“Guilmon, we’re here for loot, not food,” she says, glaring back at him, “I’ll get you something to eat when we get back, just wait a little longer.”

He whimpers and goes back to drooping while she opens the chest and inspects its contents. “Cards…armor…vendor trash…oh, is this what I think it is?” She lifts something out of the box, a smooth, glossy sphere that barely fits within the palms of her hands. Its surface is a light pink color, and inside it pulses faintly with prismatic light.

“Ooh…pretty…” Guilmon remarks, snapping back to attention once more.

“It’s a transmutation core,” Renamon says without acknowledging her partner’s commentary, “we can use this for a major upgrade to our parameters.”

“Can Guilmon hold pretty ball?” he interjects.

“Guilmon…” When she looks at him, he’s pouting up at her, lip quavering, eyes shining, claws clasped together, and she breathes a beleaguered sigh. “Alright, fine!”

“Hooray! Guilmon hold!” He hops from side to side on his feet before he takes the orb, clutching it to his chest.

“I’ll just get everything else,” Renamon says as she gathers the rest of the loot from the chest.

With approximately five seconds elapsed, she turns back to Guilmon to see him stuffing the core into his mouth, jaws stretched wide and making an unpleasant gurgling and gagging noise. “GUILMON!” she shouts while dropping the miscellaneous items with a clatter, and he makes a muffled gasp and swallows the orb whole. “No no no no—!” Renamon seizes him and tries to grab at the distended bulge that passes down his esophagus and into his doughy stomach, all to no avail (Guilmon blushes lightly from the contact of her hands upon his skin). “What were you thinking?!” she shouts into his face while shaking him by the shoulders.

“Fox, it’s good to see you safe, but where’s Falco?” Slippy asks urgently, “We didn’t get any other emergency signals. Did you get separated from him? Is he still out there somewhere?”

“Out there?” Fox looks back to the aperture, the hangar shielded from the vacuum by a translucent barrier. “No, he’s not there,” he replies, his voice perfectly level.

Slippy gasps. “Y-you don’t mean—!”

“No, he’s fine. I think. Help me get this thing off and I’ll explain.” He pats at his hip.

“O-okay,” the toad replies, confused but obeying the command nonetheless. “What happened with the mission, then?”

“Well, ah, it could’ve gone better,” he says with a sigh while he works on shimmying out of the astronaut suit, tugging at the cloying material, “the good news is that the pirate base is history, mission accomplished. The bad news is that we couldn’t make it to our Arwings before the charges went off, so those are history now. We’re barely going to come out with a profit from all this.” Both he and Slippy wince. “So in the scramble we found a port we could use to sneak out and hopefully space walk far enough away from the blast radius. Only problem was, turned out there was only one suit.” He taps on the suit’s collar before he slips out of it, revealing the flight suit underneath, green mesh conforming to his form. “And there wasn’t enough time for us to find somewhere else to go, so we were in a real pickle.”

“Then…then what about Falco?!” Slippy asks again, anxious all over.

“He’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Fox says, patting on his stomach, then he holds out his hand. “Can you step back for a moment? I need to decompress.”

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 25d

Are you interested in: Shark shift? Blob movement? Banana shake? And musky meeting? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

A squalling cry.

You look up and see a gull coasting overhead, silhouetted against the blue sky, amid the concrete and glass spires which rise all around.

And in doing so you stop looking where you’re going, and you walk straight into a street pole. This isn’t so bad in itself, other than how comically embarrassing it feels, like a scene out of a comedy sketch. When you reflexively raise your hand, however, you push your palm on a thin, sharp surface, and coldness cuts through your skin. You wince and grunt in pain, gritting your teeth as you clutch your hand to yourself, tentatively inspecting the damage.

A gash runs along the center of your palm, seeping crimson. There’s a splash of red on a sign on the side of the pole ahead of you, the place where you cut yourself.

Someone is speaking to you, their voice muffled as if deep underwater.

Your concentration is entirely upon the blood oozing from your wound as it trickles over your palm and drops to the ground, mingling with the grimy concrete surface of the sidewalk.

Your nostrils flare.

That smell—that copper tang.

When you look up, you see that there’s a woman standing beside you. Perhaps she looked worried a moment ago, but now her expression shifts, turning vacant, pupils dilating, as she takes a deep breath through her nostrils. As the structure of her face distorts, her nose and jaws extruding outward until a broad, square snout. As your own sightlines shift, a light grey plane emerging beneath your eyes. As your jaws gape open, and in inhaling you feel slits open up along your neck, allowing additional intake of air.

The alarm rings for the third time. Spike grimaces and, for a third time, taps the yellow wait button on the console he has on the side of his desk. The purple light continues to flash incessantly, shining in the corner of his field of view. “C’mon, Twi, I’m in the middle of something,” he grumbles as he returns to inspecting the plastic figure he has on his desk, meticulously applying painted details to Mane-iac’s convoluted tendrils.

The seconds tick past, and the warning doesn’t come again.

Instead, the dragon hears a shimmering distortion in the air and then a thunderous crash as something slams into him from behind, like a wave made of solid matter, hot and heavy. It rams into the back of his chair and pushes him forward, stomach jammed painfully against the edge of the desk, before piling up and threatening to engulf him. Distantly, he registers the clattering commotion of the figure falling over, jars of paint spilling, their acrid stink filling his nostrils. He has to plant his palms on the desk and push back with all his might just to prevent himself from being buried.

“Spike…! Where…where are you?!” With the pliant bulk spilling around his head, flattening his crest and frills, the sound of Twilight Sparkle’s voice is faintly muffled, in addition to its regular muffled quality.

“What were you gonna do if you crushed me completely?!” he shouts, his lungs straining, already feeling the bruises from where he hit the desk.

“Ough.” The Tropius groans. “Gettin’…awful ripe…”

He clasps at his torso, feeling the strained skin, the mushy flesh, the coarse brown and green scales discolored a light yellow. It’s a struggle just to bend his arms enough for that, the limbs bloated and sunken, and as his body groans and churns he feels their flexibility waning yet further. His legs aren’t faring much better, growing stiffer with every step, forcing him into an awkward waddle that has his whole body swaying from side to side. His wings sag behind him—not because they’re full of juice, just because it’s too tiresome for him to keep them in the air.

Groping himself is the only thing he can do to assess the damage. He can’t look down at himself because his neck is completely swollen, bulging around his chin, preventing him from bending the appendage at all. Perhaps that’s a good thing, since he doesn’t want to have to look straight down at the ground and think about the idea of falling over. He’s already accustomed to being tall enough that his head is among the leafy tree canopy as he walks, but it feels more pronounced when he has to lurch and lumber about like this, swaying precariously this way and that.

As the burgeoning pressure in his body mounts yet higher, it becomes harder to maintain a perfectly rigid posture. The weight of his swollen, towering neck, its width having grown to be flush with the rest of his body, no distinction between chest and neck and shoulders, causes him to slouch forward, a slight crescent curve. This makes it all the more difficult for him to maintain his balance, compounded yet further by the uselessness of his limbs, arms and legs little more than nubs, the latter scarcely capable of wiggling about beneath his bulbous, rounded underside. He gurgles inarticulately, fumbling to make forward progress, urged on by the dull clamor of voices that he hears ahead of him through the treeline.

Euphoria proceeds to leap down the other side of the dune and gallop across the desert at a breakneck pace. The loose sand kicks up in great dusty clouds as they go past, a line of steps left in their wake, each imprint like a cannonball landed there. Their vision blurs into a smear of color, going past so quickly that they scarcely notice when the tans and browns are joined by greens and yellows and a scattering of so many more. They slide casually past underbrush and low-hanging branches, moving as formlessly as the wind. Fragrant earthy scents spring up around them, but it’s that one smell which calls to them above all else, drowning out all other thoughts.

And then they arrive at the source and they stop abruptly.

“Oh!” exclaims a voice, “Sands and stone, you didn’t waste any time in getting here, did you?”

Euphoria looks ahead. They see a large pool of crystal clear water. They see scrubby grass and tall trees with broad leafy fronds. They see the roof of a building which rises above the canopy further ahead. They see an enormous, bulbous mass with a vast cloth canvas draped over it, covering much of its surface but not enough to conceal the underside of the swollen bulk or the flared ruddy red tip.

They blink, stumbling to take this information in.

“I see that something has caught your eye.” The bulging shape swings slightly from side to side, rustling in an arc across the grass. Euphoria watches and stares, neck twisting scant degrees, utterly entranced, and a deep, rumbling laugh follows. “Perhaps you should look up if you want to see my face, dear.”

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 27d

Dragon from the cover of Twenty-One Pilots's Scaled and Icy

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 28d

this but with increasingly large creatures aiming to smother the other

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 28d

Top ten percent of big Nons. Bimborb probably makes for a good stress ball. Original art by @chiseacreations.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper #bimbo

Non, an anthro bustyboy Milotic, with really really hyper breasts and butt and lips and cock/balls, perched upon his fat bulge.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 29d

Are you interested in: Stripper ordeal? Stripper ordeal 2? Rolling shark? And bug consort? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw

“Sugar!” Morgan raps her knuckles loudly on the dressing room door. She gropes at the knob again, gripping tightly at the stiff, locked mechanism, as if expecting it to have changed its condition in the past few seconds. “We are facing a riot out here, the crowd is waiting for someone to perform! If you don’t get your bubbly ass out here in five seconds I’m gonna break the door down!”

“No!” cries out a shrill voice from within, “I simply cannot! I look absolutely dreadful!”

The Ninetales tosses her head back and groans. “Sugar, with tits and nuts like yours they’re gonna eat you up no matter what you look like, you’re fine, now let’s go!”

Something smacks against the other side of the door. “No, it is completely unacceptable!” Sugar wails. “I am supposed to have turquoise lip gloss and all I have is aquamarine! You cannot expect me to present myself unless I am at the pinnacle of my performance! Until I have a suitable replacement I refuse to show my face!”

For several seconds Morgan keeps her hand on the door knob, lips pursed, drawing in thin streams of air through her nostrils, before she lets go. “As if anyone can see his face past his fat lips,” she mutters under her breath as she saunters further along the hall to the next door down, swaying with every step. Her hip and bosom and tails brush into the panel as she reaches for the handle, and this time it swings open for her.

“SUGAR!”

Morgan’s fist bangs thunderously on the door.

“I don’t give a damn about the lipstick, if your ass isn’t out here in ten seconds then I’m gonna rip the implants right out of it!”

“Okay, okay!” The Rapidash’s voice momentarily cracks out of its high-pitched falsetto. “Just…give me a moment, I’ve got an idea.”
The Ninetales allows what she considers to be “a moment”, and just as she’s getting ready to howl again the door’s lock clicks and it swings open. Sugar appears standing on the other side of the aperture, garbed in an ill-fitting bikini that leaves next to nothing to the imagination.

But Morgan immediately discerns that there is something off about this figure. The Rapidash’s visage is fixed in a sultry pout, eyes half-lidded, not so unusual for him, but he stares vacantly ahead, as if not even noticing her presence. There’s no smell about him, when he ought to be drenched in perfumes and scented shampoo. When she peers closely at him, she realizes that he is ever so faintly transparent, the room behind him visible through his body. And she can see that there is another Sugar still sitting in the chair by the vanity mirror, his eyes closed.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asks as she reaches to grasp at the Sugar in the doorway.

“Don’t touch it!” the Sugar in the chair cries abruptly, and she retreats. “It’s a projection! Don’t let anyone touch it or I might lose concentration!”

The sound of cracking wood and plaster alerts Alice to something unusual taking place within her home. She looks up and sees as the doorway to the living room buckles and stretches outward, making room for an enormous blue mass which comes rolling into the room, its shape spilling and sloshing gelatinously like a water balloon. Then Non comes into view, humming a jaunty tune to himself as he pushes the blimp along, hands sinking into the bloated bulk. The room stretches to accommodate them, extending from the dimensions of a conventional house to a small warehouse.

“Here you go,” the Milotic announces as he comes to a stop. “I brought Shannon for you.” He slaps a hand upon the taut blue surface, eliciting a dull groan of discomfort.

“Shannon?” Alice repeats skeptically as she stands and approaches the misshapen globe.

“Sure, just look, she’s still got the important bits. See: big fat tail.” Non stands on one side of the mass and points up to the thick shark tail which dangles over its curvature. “And big fat tits.” Then he moves to the other side and gestures to the breasts which project from the uniform rotundity, sprawling on the floor, wide pink nipples leaking dribbles of milk.

And above these, nestled within a divot of swollen folds, there is a shark’s face, wreathed in a mane of frazzled red hair. Shannon moans and burbles, her eyes open but unfocused. There are similar sunken mounds around her body where her arms and legs have been swallowed up by her inflated enormity. Normally the shark’s breasts would dominate her anatomy, but now her midsection has overtaken her, obliterating all sense of structure.

“Okay, fine,” Alice says as she stands beside her and plants a hand upon her, feeling the tautness of her scaly flesh. “But why is she a blimp?”

Thorax shudders when he hears a commotion outside his chamber—chittering vocalizations, scraping claws, clattering metal. He breathes harshly as he lurches into motion, pulling on the membranous blanket which rests upon his bed, wrapping around himself as a protective barrier. It is a meager, insubstantial effort, but it still assists him in feeling just a tad more assured.

The green lanterns of the bed chamber provide scant luminescence, only just enough to cover the room itself, leaving the doorway to the outside hall cast in shadow. Thus, when she appears it as at first only by her own faintly glowing light, a gleam that reveals her piercing eyes staring from the shadow. “There you are,” Queen Chrysalis says in a purring rasp as she emerges into the light, flashing the smile that stretches across her muzzle, “my favorite egg sac.”

The drone struggles just to sit upright, all so he can then bow his head low, letting his gut press further over his lap.

Chrysalis chuckles as she strides across the room. Her form looms over him and she has to peer far down to look at him, but at the beginning at least she isn’t looking directly at him, her gaze far lower. She kneels down before him and pulls aside the blanket; he doesn’t try to resist her touch. She then places her hands upon his stomach, the dark chitin faintly discolored with green, rubbing her palms along the dimpled, bumpy surface. For a moment, Thorax can take solace in the pleased look upon the queen’s face as she inspects the clutch.

Then she turns her attention upon him and her demeanor shifts ever so slightly. The smile turns from maternal to cordial, the animated glimmer in her eyes vanished. “You are taking care of yourself?” she asks, except it isn’t really a question, more like an expectation, a part of a business contract.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· 29d

What if Non was something not Milotic? I haven't done this as much as I could have. Original art by @chiseacreations.bsky.social #nonuberart #furry #nsfw #hyper

Non, species-swapped to an anthro bustyboy Sylveon, doing a perky pose where he's standing on one foot and holding up a hand with a V-for-victory gesture.

Non Uberis@nonuberis· Jul 13

Are you interested in: Bed obstruction? Coerced gala? Demon violence? And horseradish farming? These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon. www.patreon.com/user?u=273837 #nonuberstories #furry #nsfw