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nonuberis.bsky.social
Non Uberis
@nonuberis.bsky.social
410 followers 96 following 1.3K posts
I write and color things. I am very confused. He/Him. 33yo. 18+ only pretty please.

#nonuberstories
#nonuberart
#nonubercomms
#nonubergaming
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nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Burger date aftermath?

Doppelganger twist?

Juicy reversal?

And makeout machinations?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“Come on, Chryssie,” Luna burbles, giggling, lips stretched in a giddy grin, her normally refined enunciation slurring together, “do you not…want a drink?” “No,” Chrysalis replies for the umpteenth time, pointedly sipping from her glass of water instead. “Aww…come oooon!” she whines back in the distinct manner of a foal instead of a centuries-old alicorn. She squeezes her breasts together, the globes sprawling over the table ahead of her, having long since broken free from the confines of her dress. A milky fluid dribbles from the nipples, pale and translucent, and with it pooling over the table, splashing on their empty dishes, the lingering aroma of their dinner is being overpowered by alcohol. “If you do not drain me…then I will pop! You do not want your princess to pop!” “Oh no, oh goodness, what a terrible prospect,” the changeling remarks with a droll, forced gasp. “This is all just a dream, there’s nothing to worry about. Anyway, you can still fit on your side of the booth, I think you’ll be fine for another few minutes.” (Neither of them realizes that the booth has subtly extended its dimensions over the course of their meal.) Then the other Chrysalis, the corpulent waitress garbed in the uniform branding of Burgatory, comes wobbling up to their table again. She doesn’t express any surprise at how Luna has become a living keg of moonshine. “It looks like everyone’s enjoyed their meals here,” she remarks with curt politeness while she starts to reach for the empty plates, sopping with fluids, “would you be interested in dessert?” “No thanks, I think I’d better bring her back home, it’s past her bedtime,” replies the buxom Chrysalis sitting at the table, “I might need some help getting her out of here though.” After a long shift of swabbing floors, cleaning up spills, beating down extradimensional abominations, and dodging rifts of unreality, Jody looks forward to an opportunity to take a break. Then he walks into the janitor office and sees himself standing by the desk. There is still enough adrenaline pumping through him that he’s able to spring to action, leaping across the room and grabbing the red-haired Lopunny by the shoulder and demanding in a harsh growl, “What the hell are you?!” Despite the urgency of his threat, it moves with calm complacency as it turns to face him. Jody flinches when he sees his own face mirrored back at him…but not entirely accurately. The eyes are smaller, beady black dots, and wider apart, and its mouth is a thin line formed into a faint smile. It responds in a cheery garble: “?kcans a tnaw ouy oD !ereht ih ,hO” “What?” Jody sputters back, not knowing how to respond but certainly not prepared to back down. The doppelganger shrugs and makes a sound that’s almost like laughter but played in reverse, and it says “flesruoy tiuS” before showing a bundle of black licorice clenched in its fist. “H-hey, wait, are those—!” Jody doesn’t get a chance to intervene before the uncanny Lopunny stuffs the candy into his mouth, gnawing and chewing them up in seconds. Rainbow pushes the cardboard rectangle back. “C’mon, Queenie, you don’t gotta be so hostile.” She smiles at her, lips curling slowly upward. “I’m not payin’ you unless I can give you a drink too.” Chrysalis glares daggers back at her (or perhaps something larger and more deadly such as broadswords or battleaxes would be more accurate). With the threat to her financial obligations, however, she has no choice but to acquiesce. “Fine, bring me the drink,” she says, keeping hold of the box, “and it had better not have any alcohol in it.” Not that she wouldn’t welcome the buzz, but she can’t get caught drinking on the job. Rainbow should know that too, which is exactly where the problem lies. “Wouldn’t dream of it!” she replies with a wink while she starts to turn around, “Just gimme ten seconds!” And, indeed, it’s almost exactly ten seconds after the pegasus beats her wings, flying off into the house with a gust of air, before she zips back to the door. In her hands she holds a fistful of bits and a glass of orange juice. After completing the business transaction of dropping the bits in Chrysalis’s payment jar (with a small show of fireworks; a surprising tip), she enthusiastically extends the juice and says enthusiastically, “Here you go, pal!” “Hey there, Non,” Claire says as she sidles up to the Milotic, stumbling over the name just for a moment (she couldn’t remember it despite it only being a three-letter word, but she found it by combing through her texts and emails), “you’re looking pretty hot tonight.” He turns to face her, long neck craning around, his smiling lips coming to occlude much of his face. “Hiya!” he replies with a chipper giggle, “You look pretty hot too!” He croons as he eases his weight against her, nearly pushing Claire over. His body, hardly contained within a crop top and skirt and underwear, compresses more than hers does, her breasts and buttocks maintaining a pert, round shape. And then he asks, “You wanna make out?” The Gabite blinks at him, taken aback for a moment, before she breaks into a toothy grin and replies, “Yeah, of course!” “Okay!” He promptly takes hold of her shoulders and kisses her right on the muzzle. It’s too fast for Claire to keep up, but she wouldn’t have been able to reciprocate this anyway. Non’s lips engulf her snout, smearing gloss over her scales, squeezing and sucking as if trying to swallow her face, the rubbery wet squealing noise filling her ears. The kiss utterly devours all other thoughts for the time being. She doesn’t have enough brain space left over to think about the boneless, twisting manner with which his arms encircle her, anchoring her in place while her legs turn to jelly. When he lets go, she staggers away, doubled over, face inches away from her own cleavage. She can feel the sticky purple paint staining her face.
November 25, 2025 at 7:27 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Taking a break?

Big smashy?

Bimbo propaganda?

And fattening media?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
Euphoria assesses themselves. They have been looking out the window for some time. How long exactly? It doesn’t especially matter. A while. The passage of time is largely irrelevant anyway. What have they been looking at? The fields outside the cottage, grass rustling gently in the breeze. Nothing unusual has passed by; they would be able to remember something of that nature, surely. They can see their own reflection in the glass, ghostly and transparent, smiling placidly. “Don’t you have something to say about this waste of time?” they ask aloud as they glance away, toward the seat across from them. “Are you quite certain that you do not want something…smaller?” the draconic blacksmith asks, speaking every syllable with a guttural growl. Aster blinks back at him and frowns. “Why would I want something smaller?” He hums, a tectonic grating sound in his throat, as he looks down upon the rabbit. Even lying upon the ground, limbs curled around himself in a feline manner, he looms over her. “One cannot help getting the impression that you are pushing above your weight class,” he mutters, and he extends one claw to gesture at the weapon she’s currently holding, “that hammer looks like it was crafted for one a good three or four heads taller than you, a human or even an orc.” “I’ve been using this hammer for over a year and it’s served me well,” she asserts promptly, holding the war hammer out and stamping its haft on the floor. It would be taller than her were it not for her long ears sticking up from her head. Her arm can barely reach far enough beyond the expanse of her broad curvature to make this pose without bumping the handle against herself. “It only just occurred to me that this one is insufficient for my purposes. I need something with greater reach and heft if I’m to engage in combat.” “Fox,” General Pepper says with a breathy, gruff huff, “I’m calling to inquire about the…photos that just came in.” “Oh, yeah?” asks the digital image of Fox McCloud over his computer display, muffled voice further distorted by radio static. The video feed isn’t entirely helpful since most of his face is obscured by lips. The glossy green mounds make it difficult even to discern how he grins. “From the shoot for the military advertisement, right?” “Hrm, yes,” Pepper grunts back. “I felt pretty good about it,” Fox prattles on, lips wobbling gelatinously as he speaks, “even though that uniform was awfully tight on me, it’s been so long since I had to wear something so stuffy. And it gets really hot under those big photography lights, I got awfully sweaty from that and I wasn’t even doing a workout!” “I see…” Pepper can certainly guess as much from looking at the pictures that show Fox wearing a standard issue Cornerian military uniform. Or, rather, one that was meticulously tailored to his absurdly augmented proportions. The grey and red jacket around his torso is fairly unremarkable. The pants, on the other hand, would look like some kind of absurd tent if they were extricated from his gargantuan buttocks and genitalia. “So what’s the deal, General?” he then asks, eager zeal brimming through his voice. “Everything good? Did you need some more pics taken?” “HELLOOOOOO and welcome back to GAAAAAIN WATCHERS,” announces a tinny, nasally voice, “where it would appear that our last contestant is just wrapping up their binge session!” The screen shows a sprawling mass of chocolate brown with a few buttery yellow highlights. It takes a few seconds for Renamon to decipher that this pile of furry folds is actually a person, their anatomy scarcely identifiable, swaddled up in an ocean of fat. The bloblike creature has a large hose fed into their mouth, buried within the fleshy crevasses of cheeks and neck and muzzle, bushy tufts and long ears and light orange hair perched on top of their head like mossy growths. This scene does, if nothing else, succeed at rousing Renamon from her stupor of malaise, eyes widening and ears perking up as she comes to attention. “What an admirable performance, let’s give it up for them, everyone,” the announcer declares over canned applause and laughter. “Ah but what’s this? It looks like we have a neeeew contestant.” The feed shifts, showing a dark space, as they say, “Let’s give a warm weighty welcome tooooo—” The audio cuts out, replaced with a robotic monotone utterance of “RENAMON.” “Huh?” Renamon stands straighter still as she watches the black get chased away by a spotlight, revealing another Renamon, waving as she looks about. “Thanks, Paul!” she replies cheerily, “I’m glad to be here, I’ve wanted to be on the show for a long time!”
November 21, 2025 at 10:47 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
As well as gala belly, weighty demon, heavy lifting, kiss defense, and charm mishandling.

www.furaffinity.net/view/63056086/

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
November 21, 2025 at 12:26 AM
nonuberis.bsky.social
TWO (2) new drabble selections uploaded.

Featuring beach jiggle, royal audience, spooky sleepover, subdued berries, and dream transformation.

www.furaffinity.net/view/63056026/

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
November 21, 2025 at 12:26 AM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Charming snakes?

Data corruption?

Reverse exercise?

And undercover operations?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
There is a figure sitting at the mouth of an alleyway, partially obscured in shadow, beckoning with a curling finger. He—this seems like the correct designation despite his exaggeratedly plump purple lips and the armfuls of breast which extend from his chest—is garbed in thin satin veils with golden trim. There are thick golden bracelets around his wrists. He sits cross-legged, perched upon something which seems like a giant pillow, but it has the conspicuous shape of a thick shaft and a pair of conjoined globes. “Please, I do not ask for much of your time,” Non remarks, and his long neck sways ever so slightly from side to side while he speaks. “It will be a most titillating spectacle, I promise.” From behind his back he produces a pungi which he holds up to his engorged lips. He plays a cyclical rhythmic tune on the thin instrument, bobbing along with the beat, antennae shaking. There is a distinct sense that something is missing from this equation. There should be some kind of vessel which the Milotic has before him, a basket or a jar. Then his breasts jostle, independent of his own movements, as if possessed. This continues for a few seconds before something emerges from the deep cleft of pale flesh. It starts as a tangle of chocolate hair attached to a scalp, and as the face emerges it unfurls to the side in a broad hood. The blue cobra has a crimson underbelly with a yellow star on the back of her hood, and she wears a gossamer veil over her muzzle, draping over the mounds of her lips. She sways from side to side with the humming tune as her neck emerges, but she comes to an abrupt stop after only a couple feet. She tugs and yanks as if there’s something caught inside the Milotic’s cleavage. “This would be easier if I had arms,” Alice grouses, twisting back around so she can glare at him. “Guilmon,” Renamon says sternly, watching him with her arms crossed, “don’t you suppose that you should be more discerning about what you eat? You don’t even know where any of this came from.” Guilmon looks at her with a vacant expression in his eyes and his maw crammed full with a loaf of bread, before he swallows the thing whole, bulging down his esophagus to his bloated stomach. “But it came from right here, Renamon,” he replies plainly, pointing to the pile of breads and pastries and desserts scattered over the ground, slightly dirty. “It came from there,” she asserts, pointing higher, to the green rift floating about ten feet above them, a glitch in the makeup of the Digiverse. It ambiently produces a low buzzing hum, intermittently crackling, and, with a sound uncannily akin to a belch, a whole chocolate cake drops from it and splatters on the pile. “And it’s delicious,” Guilmon chirps back as he picks up a bagel and dabs it in the mess of chocolate frosting. Sighing and shaking her head, Renamon waves her hand while she turns to leave. “Whatever, do as you will, have fun being a blob.” “Sure will!” he replies through another mouthful of half-chewed mush. And perhaps he would have kept on eating and done just that. But digital food is not like food in real life; instead of being made of flour, eggs, yeast, and sugar, it is comprised of numbers and code, and inside the rift that code roils chaotically. This can lead to unexpected results, such as when, for example, Guilmon eats a cupcake that has a caloric value of UNDEFINED. “Huh…what’s the deal with this?” Shannon wonders aloud as she stands by the machine. It’s recognizable enough as an exercise treadmill, a pad with a rotating mat to stand and walk upon. However, it lacks the typical support handles at the front or sides. There is only an arm that extends up from the side with an electronic interface perched on top. This works well enough for Shannon’s purposes, since her figure makes it difficult to use treadmills that aren’t specially designed for users of her proportions. Experimentally, the shark steps up onto the machine, and she doesn’t have to worry about her broad chest or hips wedging into anything, nor does it even groan in protest at her weight. “I guess this’ll work just fine,” she says with a cautious smile as she glances to the controls. The arm is far enough away that there’s no danger of her knocking into it, though she does have to stretch and reach to put her fingers on it. There’s a cord with a safety cut-off she can attach to her wrist to minimize risk of injury. There are an awful lot of settings on the machine, though, and it’s a little hard for her to read the tiny text from this position. In scanning over it, she sees a button that reads “AUTO” and decides that’s good enough for a test run. She presses the button and lights blink on one by one, and the machine whirs beneath her. She puts one foot forward and the mat begins to turn beneath her, accommodating for the stride of her legs. Whilst idly wandering through the crowd, a squishy, bouncy collision jostles her out of her thoughts. “Gah!” “Oh my!” Under normal circumstances, this upset balance wouldn’t be a problem, but with those damnable high heels on, Carmelita is unable to stop herself from tipping over. Before she can fall, however, a hand grasps around her waist and holds her firmly, enough for her to get her feet firmly in place upon the polished floor. She gasps for breath, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sharp intake of a throat clearing presages a shrill voice saying, “My goodness, hon, I’d hate for you to fall for me like that!” “I’m…sorry, it was my fault,” she mutters as she corrects her posture, “I should have looked where I was…” She stops abruptly as her vision focuses, zeroing straight in on the face of her savior. Long eyelashes, thick mascara, and heavy eyeshadow…surrounding golden brown eyes. Clouds of blush applied around the cheeks…with grey fur with black stripes. And thick, glossy, pouting lips…framing an insufferable smirk. Carmelita’s fur bristles, her ears perk up, and her eyes widen for a moment before her brow furrows and she blurts out, “Cooper?!”
November 17, 2025 at 10:10 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Throwback pick: Ottsel Tess from Jak 3

Hard mode pick: Ayre from AC6 in the form of the ECHO AC
November 17, 2025 at 9:58 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
November 14, 2025 at 7:53 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Moonscape?

Motorcorn?

Sunbirth?

And stackstream?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“Hmm…” Luna hangs in the air above where she believes Canterlot should be. There is no sign of it, however—not the royal palace, not the gleaming marble city, not even the peak of Mount Canter. There is only a black ocean, a void which stretches out to the horizon where it meets with the starlit sky. With careful flaps of her wings (augmented by magic to assist in buoying her bulk), the alicorn descends and alights upon the midnight expanse. Her hooves sink into the swampy morass, down past her knees, so that her gut rests upon the smooth surface as well, and her huge breasts, spilling over her midsection, aren’t much farther behind. The material is cushy and pliant, covered in a coat of short fur, and a sweltering warmth exudes from within it, warding off the night’s chill. Under ordinary circumstances, it would be far more expedient to simply keep flying, but she knows that the effort she exerts doesn’t truly matter. Turning around, Luna starts to wade across the dark, fleshy mire. She enters into the shadow of two mountains which rise even higher than the rest of the expanse, a range which extends far to either side. This valley between them is the only avenue of approach. The moon hangs heavy in the sky overhead, a luminous eye looming over the world. Euphoria steps outside the cottage and promptly stops. The fields of gilded grass stretch out before them to a distant treeline, and the rest of the dreamscape extends beyond that. They could move as swiftly as the wind and cross that distance in the span of only a few heartbeats, bounding across the wilderness to wherever they feel like going. Their yearning to explore knows no limits. The unicorn holds in place there for a while, humming to themselves, before they step back into the cottage. They stroll toward a door that hadn’t been there when they walked past earlier and open it to find a dimly lit room on the other side. It’s cooler in here, a space that isn’t entirely insulated from the elements, and the smell of gasoline lingers in the air. Instinctively, they reach to the wall and press a button which prompts an automated grinding as a sliding panel door rises up from one wall, letting in the light from outside, gleaming off the sleek metal chassis of a car. They smile as they place their hand upon the hood and stride around it toward the driver-side door. When they touch the handle and the locks automatically click open, they become aware of a weight inside their pocket: a wireless key fob. The white mare stumbles to her hooves and looks back just once. She thinks she sees movement through the trees, flitting shadows, cruel blades glinting. And she sees the warrior clad in fur and armor, ready to face them and whatever else should dare to appear before her. Desperately clutching that image, believing in her sister’s strength, she turns and runs up the slope. The ascent is no easier than it had been before, and the thought that the summit is already close does little to alleviate the strain upon her. The snow steams around her, melting beneath her hooves, her gravid gut hanging heavily before her and casting its heat upon the frozen earth, but the thaw isn’t quick enough to keep the drifts from being a hindrance. Her progress is glacial, her breath misting as it comes huffing out from her burning lungs. She clutches at her midsection, partly in an effort to keep it steady, and to feel the gently churning warmth which rests within it. “I am sorry,” she thinks, the words wailing in her skull, “this is all my fault…I should have been more careful…but I shall not let them take you…I can still do this one thing right!” Dimly, an ethereal embrace caresses her, hands which are so small and yet so very strong. Putting her all into her climb, trudging through the snow and past steadily thinning trees, the white mare endeavors not to think about anything else. About the guttural, monstrous shrieks. About the roaring battle cry of a furious fighter. About the clashing of steel. About the rustling branches and leaves. About the muffled scuffling of snow. The webcam shows a bedroom painted in pastel greens and yellows and pinks. One may scarcely discern the top of a head on the lower periphery of the view, a coral mane and the tips of yellow ears. “Um…hello, everypony,” says a voice that’s scarcely audible even with considerable audio boosting. “Today, we’re, um…gonna be playing…Avian Crossing.” The center of the stream displays a title screen, ambient music playing as it scrolls over autumnal landscapes with cartoon birds flitting about. Messages scroll past on the chat playback. “And we’re gonna, um, have a…a special guest today!” The ears perk up slightly. “She’s running a little…late, just a little, I know she’s, um, really busy, she told me she’ll be here—” A ping plays over the background music and then an image appears in the background, behind the webcam and game capture, a sprawling field of dark blue with broad, sloping contours. On the side of the screen, visible in the epicenter of the swollen folds, there is a mare’s face, clouded by a starry blue mane, expression stern despite the flab which swallows her features. “Oh, she’s here! Say hi to Princess Luna everypony!” “Fluttershy.” The mouth of the blob pony opens statically alongside the new voice that speaks, firm and stern. “The stream cannot see you.” “H-huh? What do you mean?”
November 14, 2025 at 3:36 AM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Familiar faces?

Bunbarian bone battle?

Malephoria?

And burger date?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“Oh Non!” Alice calls out with a playful lilt as she pushes open the door in her closet. “I hope you’re ready for a surprise visit!” But on the other side of the aperture she discovers another cramped closet, scarcely large enough for her to fit into. There’s yet another door beyond that, and when she opens this one she sees a hallway. An extremely familiar hallway. If she looks back over her shoulder, she can see the same hallway reflected behind her. The passage from her home leads back into her home. “Non?” she calls again as she steps forward, brusquely forcing through the closet and into the hallway. It’s exactly the way she remembers—the same squeaky floorboard right outside the bathroom, the same scuff marks on the walls from where she’s brushed against them a little too often. With her behemoth breasts jutting ahead of her, she’s at least prepared to ram into anything that appears in her path. There’s no response, but she can hear something sizzling in the kitchen and smell the smoky aroma of cooking meat. Rounding the corner, she sees a Garchomp standing by the stove. A Garchomp who has to turn to the side so she can reach past her bosom. A Garchomp with chestnut hair and violet tips on her horns and fins. A Garchomp who is herself. “What?” Alice blurts out. The other Alice looks back to her, freezing in place, a look of terror in her eyes. “This definitely isn’t the way I came before,” Aster mutters under her breath. Moist grass crumples beneath her feet, but she can hardly even see the ground—and not just because of the jutting shelves formed by her body’s curvature. The mist which fills the forest clings low to the ground and wreathes around her in a clammy embrace. The trees which surround her are tall, looming shadows, and she can scarcely see the brightening sky through the canopy overhead. It had seemed like a good idea to set out before dawn, but now with the sun still below the horizon she can barely tell where she’s going. It's a good thing that her long, sensitive ears make it easy for her to be conscious of her surroundings, even the slightest rustle in the distance. She can tell that there’s nothing nearby, though she’s still kept her war hammer at the ready since she entered the mist. She holds it resting over her shoulder and bosom, the cool metal weight offering a sense of familiarity and comfort. The trees gradually thin ahead on the path, and the ground turns soft and squelchy. The smell of earth is strong here, the stench of decay. It’s starting to grow brighter, and the sun’s warmth begins to chase away the mist, but it’s still murky enough that the rabbit can’t see anything until she’s close. Something emerges from the mist ahead: a crude stone cairn. She looks about, and she can see a few more of these squat markers in the vicinity. She must have stumbled upon am old gravesite. Old, yet not entirely abandoned, as the soil beneath her feet shakes. When Euphoria opens their eyes and looks down, they see the blankets covering their form. There should be a body under there, their body, and yet they don’t feel particularly conscious of its sensations. There’s no need to be concerned with things that they can’t see. Without physical constraints, this can be whatever they want. “Hmm…what am I feeling like?” they ask themselves. Then they pull the blanket off, sit up on the edge of the bed, and inspect themselves anew. They find that they can see their stomach for once: a flat surface beneath the layer of fur, and when they press their hand upon it they feel the defined abdominal muscles. That hand is attached to a slender yet toned arm, which itself meets with the shoulders and the gentle swells of pectorals. And they have a cock and balls out already, resting in their lap. They curiously prod the dormant genitalia before slipping their fingers beneath it, between their thick thighs, but they find no slit in that dark crevice. “Masculine today,” they murmur, unconsciously stroking the goatee which dangles from their chin, unfazed by the slightly deeper pitch of their voice, and they chuckle. They stand and look for a mirror (since few things stay in the same place for long in the cottage) so they can observe their reflection. Many would call the unicorn they see in the glass a stud, a powerful and virile figure who could effortlessly woo whomever they choose. Their form is slender but distinctly toned with musculature, with lusciously curvaceous thighs and a plump rear. They feel this body is made for flaunting, so they hold their arms up behind their head and slowly sway their hips from side to side, phallus swinging between their legs. They laugh to themselves as they turn, their curiosity sated—the focus upon that being the only reason they were able to stave off the urge to gaze longingly into their reflection for hours on end. “I feel that we’re grossly overdressed for this establishment,” Chrysalis mutters while looking around the dining room. She thinks that she stands out even more than usual, dressed in a shimmery dark pine gown that hugs her figure, a formal gala dress in stark contrast with the casual garb which the patrons are wearing. Although, on the other hand, her curvaceous form is far less extraordinary in the presence of so many exaggeratedly large creatures delivering meals, dressed in black and red, cruising precariously along the lanes between tables. It is an obscene display of wobbling, gelatinous flesh, but Chrysalis finds that she must regard them with begrudging sympathy as she carefully navigates her path while managing her sprawling double shelf of a bosom. “There is no such thing as making too good of an impression, Chrysalis,” Luna replies, and she winks as she glances back at her. The changeling grimaces as she observes a patron taking a bite out of an enormous hamburger which squirts out a gobbet of sauce over their shirt. “As long as you don’t mind hoofing the bill for the drycleaning after this too.” Luna chuckles in that infuriatingly nebulous manner that alicorns are far too fond of, before she announces, “Ah, here’s our table.” The empty booth has an awful lot of space for two people. For Chrysalis, though, as she sidles in on one side and settles into place, there’s enough room for her bosom to rest comfortably ahead of her without bumping into the edge of the table. Not entirely conducive, since she still has to reach past the black globes to get the utensils and napkin, but it allows her to be comfortable and breathe a sigh of relief. She’s thankful, at least, that the ambient clamor of the restaurant is muted somewhat here.
November 11, 2025 at 11:35 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Wanting you for Christmas?

Pizza appeal?

The importance of self-care?

And dancing bugs?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
The bouncy sleigh bell beat of the music is accompanied by a percussive rhythm of meaty claps. “It started as an overplayed radio thing because pop music has been driven into the ground over the past few decades,” Euphoria explains, huffing lightly with each breath, “then people made it into a meme and they just keep bringing it up every time the season comes around.” “AND THEY SPEND TWO MONTHS LISTENING TO IT?” “Or thinking about listening to it. Ear worms are kind of a big deal.” “MORTALS WOULD NOT BE SO GLIB ABOUT THEIR IDEAS IF THEY KNEW HOW THEY MANIFESTED.” Euphoria hums to themselves and observes the scene of the two of them candidly, two unicorn-turned-reindeer clapping their gargantuan ass cheeks along to the tune of Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You. “I don’t know, I think this would entice a lot of people to try manifesting them harder.” “You know what you need, Chryssy?” Discord declares as he suddenly pops into existence with the sound of a wet fart, leaning against her and reaching around her shoulders in the manner of an acquaintance trying to be far too personable. Chrysalis—who has, for better or worse, grown sufficiently accustomed to the draconequus’s appearances that she hardly bats an eye at his presence, even while she’s presently standing outside a Ponyville home waiting for the recipient of her delivery to answer the door—grimaces and flatly replies, “An ancient magical artifact that will allow me to throw off the shackles of my imprisonment and exact my wrath upon my captors?” He snorts and waves his talons. “No, silly!” He tousles her mane, mussing the stringy teal strands. Chrysalis ponders how much damage she could do by swinging her delivery pack at him. “What you need is sex appeal!” She just stares at him and holds her hands out, tracing around the sides of her sprawling bust, barely kept decent by a blue bikini top. Discord sighs melodramatically and rolls his eyes (they come up snake eyes). “No, no, Chryssy, that’s so basic! Anyone can do the slutty big-tit pizza delivery look!” With a snap of his fingers and a puff of smoke, now Discord himself is dressed the same way as Chrysalis, with a dyed mop perched on his head and balloons filling out his top. “I would think that a master of disguise and deception such as yourself would know how to optimize your look to get the most satisfaction out of your audience!” Applejack loosens her grip just enough for Chrysalis to relax, but still holds onto her to keep her steady as she hobbles through the living room to the kitchen. Apple Bloom holds out a chair for her to sit upon, and it creaks ominously when she sets her weight down, rump filling the seat in its entirety, but remains intact. While she’s catching her breath, chest heaving and falling, the younger mare hands a tall pitcher of water to Applejack, who in turn holds it up to Chrysalis’s mouth. “Drink,” she commands, and the changeling does so, putting her hands on the glass to steady it but letting her do the holding. This goes on for a while, Chrysalis drinking long gulps of cool water, stopping for a breath, Applejack patiently asking if she needs more, then continuing, until the pitcher is more than half empty. “Any better?” the farmpony asks while Apple Bloom hauls the delivery pack into the room. Gasping, hoarse and wet, trickles of water trailing over her chin where it dribbled from her lips, Chrysalis nods again. “Good,” Applejack replies. Then Chrysalis mutters, “Go…gotta go.” “Go?” The changeling’s head languidly turns and she looks at her pack. “More deliveries…gotta go…they’re gonna…gonna report me if I don’t—” “No you ain’t,” Applejack interrupts, shaking her head, “you’re gonna stay right here ‘til you feel better. I don’t care if it takes all night, I don’t care if all those pies go cold, you ain’t settin’ one hoof outside this house.” The dancers each spin in a pirouette before they bow, and the Prince bows back, as is the tradition that precedes a bout. They are clearly modeled after a Verdanian, but in place of noble viridian shells they are comprised of crude bronze, and upon their heads they bear spiny diadems that mark them as products of the Citadel’s Architects. No matter how they look or behave, they are nothing more than imitations. As one, the Prince and the dancers twirl into motion, circling around the chamber. They step in time with the tick-tock of the cogwork which pervades the Citadel’s core, which matches the rhythm of Verdanian courtship dances. The dancers start directly opposed to each other, moving perfectly in sync as they step and sway. The Prince stands at an awkward perpendicular axis to them, with no partner across from him. Gradually, as the circle tightens and they come closer together, their positions shift, evenly spaced between them. When the dancers are finally close enough to swing at him, one high and one low, the Prince deftly leaps and threads between them, coming within a hair’s breadth of their sharpened razor claws. It is exactly the move which he would have done. Which they would have done.
November 6, 2025 at 8:00 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
New drabble selection uploaded.

Featuring rats, mirrors, spirits, hunger, and barbarians.

www.furaffinity.net/view/62879027/

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw #hyper #fat #inflation #transformation
November 4, 2025 at 5:30 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
See a back, post a back

Everybody wants the back

(I ought to get more shots like this)
November 3, 2025 at 1:11 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Bunbarian TF?

Fan mail?

And candy witchcraft?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
He warily turns a corner and walks into a study. Shabby curtains are drawn over the only window, limiting how much light can come into the chamber, yet it’s bright enough that he can see the shelves of books lining the walls, the desk and tables covered with miscellaneous objects of presumed research. He looks particularly out of place here, a tall, broad-shouldered figure with sparse armor that leaves much of his muscular frame exposed. His objective should be in here somewhere, though—he doesn’t know what it’s needed for, but the price had been enticing enough to drag him out here to the wilderness. And it looks like he’s found it: a small totem that’s perched on one of the tables. It’s made of pale soapstone and appears to be some kind of curvaceous figure, a fertility idol presumably. Its hair is odd, though, two long tufts that point straight up from the scalp. And it’s awfully dusty, like so much of the rest of the room. Leaning over, Aster blows on the statuette, which kicks up a cloud of dust motes that seem to specifically target his nostrils. He sneezes and hacks and coughs, stirring up yet more dust all around him until he’s just about engulfed in it. Partway through, the pitch of the coughing inside the cloud abruptly turns higher. “Oh, blast,” says a husky yet squeaky voice, “that better not have been a curse.” A clattering from the front door gets Alice’s attention. She stops stirring the pasta she’s been tending to and begins the arduous process of extricating herself from the kitchen. The narrow passage hemmed in by counters and cabinets on either side has only become narrower over the years as she’s continued to grow. She was already turned to the side so she could reach the stovetop and the boiling pot on top of it, now she has to turn again and shuffle sideways out of the corridor and shove herself out the open doorway. It’s not much better in the foyer beyond, and when she shuffles to the door she has to turn once more while she leans over, breasts resting heavily on the floor before she’s able to reach far enough to pick up the stack of envelopes that got pushed through the mail slot. The letters get tucked into her cleavage while she hobbles back to the kitchen. Once she’s settled beside the pot and stirring again she picks out the paper parcels and starts sorting through them. It consists largely of the typical daily drudgery. An electrical bill. An ad for a roofing agency. A trial credit card from a bank that doesn’t operate in Goldenrod. Unsolicited spam. There’s a tempting urge to stick them into the stove and let the fire consume them. But one letter in a blue envelope shows promise. Unlike all the targeted advertisements, this one is a bit smaller, not a size catered to a taller Pokémon like her. The return address lists not a faceless corporation but a name—a name the Garchomp doesn’t recognize, but a name nonetheless. She slides a claw along the seal and pops it open, removing the letter inside. It’s printed in neatly inked handwriting, albeit with a few smudges. “Uh-huh.” Bea stares at her flatly. “You can go do that, and I’m gonna just…stand over here and watch.” She leans against the corner, as far away from the circle as she can get. “Fine, more candy for me,” she replies, sticking out her tongue. She puts her hands on the edge of the circle, and for a few long seconds she just stares expectantly at the chalk markings. “Uh…I gotta do…something,” she mutters, “you gotta say something, like a…an incarnation.” “Incantation,” Bea interjects, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, that.” Mae raises her hands and says in a dramatic tone, “Oh…great forces of Halloween…give us candy!” Bea gives a snort of laughter. “That’s the best you’ve got?” “I think the sentiment is more important than the words, not everyone can be so fancypants with what they say,” Mae says, maintaining her pose with her tail twitching languidly. “Mae, these things—assuming they’re even real—are a precise craft, you can’t just call for the spirits of the underworld at random and expect—” The room suddenly shakes. Bea staggers and nearly falls over herself while Mae stays in place and gasps. The lines of the chalk circle start to glow with an eerie green light before they suddenly peel away, forming a gap in the floorboards. A susurrus of whispers curls around the two of them. “See, I told you it would work!” Mae cheers.
November 2, 2025 at 6:23 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Experiencing the realization that I haven't gotten much butt-centric content for a while
November 2, 2025 at 4:29 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Gives you an smooches
Two bimbocorns with huge lips
November 2, 2025 at 1:39 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
www.furaffinity.net/view/62832385/

And here's a scene in which Euphoria goes to get water late at night and nothing weird or scary happens. :)

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw #hyper #inflation
October 31, 2025 at 7:39 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
www.furaffinity.net/view/62831488/

This is the individual scene I wrote for SCUZZ, in which a piece of candy corn invokes a profound sense of horniness.

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw #hyper #bimbo #transformation
October 31, 2025 at 7:39 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Evil queen gotta do an evil laugh.

She's just so happy that her fit came together.

Nightmare Moon as she appears in the Onyx and Ivory series.

Comes in multiple flavors of bulge and boobery (the first is canon).

Original art by @pinkpalooka.hyper.wang

#nonuberart #furry #nsfw #clop #hyper
Horny anthro Nightmare Moon with hyper boobs and bulge, wearing some fancy regal clothes and doing a dramatic evil laugh. Horny anthro Nightmare Moon with hyper boobs, wearing some fancy regal clothes and doing a dramatic evil laugh. Horny anthro Nightmare Moon with hyperer boobs and bulge, wearing some fancy regal clothes and doing a dramatic evil laugh. Horny anthro Nightmare Moon with hyperer boobs, wearing some fancy regal clothes and doing a dramatic evil laugh.
October 31, 2025 at 7:33 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Sumo breathing?

Snow musing?

Coommersion?

And late-night thirst?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“GREETINGS, BIG MAN,” Pneuma croons in a deep thrumming tone, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME?” “A game?” He gasps, eyes sparkling, chest full of excitement, his confusion immediately forgotten. “Coocoo, I’d love to play a game! We can play hide and seek or freeze tag or snakes and ladders or guess who or—” “IT SHALL BE A GAME OF SKILL AND THRILL,” the unicorn interrupts, grinning with insidious intent. “IT IS CALLED SUMO BREATHING.” They snap their fingers, a crisp note that reverberates in the air. The two giants stand on a raised platform, made of the same cushy padded mats that comprise the rest of the Cuckoo’s playroom, but with a circle inscribed upon it. There are rows of squat benches with flat cushions on the sidelines occupied by other nestmates, though most of the lucid ones are visibly confused as to why they’re here. The sound of absent drums echoes around them, beating in rhythm. The Cuckoo feels something itchy around his undercarriage, and he scratches at himself and realizes that he is wearing a golden mawashi, wrapped around his girth and between his legs. He clucks and frowns in discontent, for he can’t help thinking of it as a diaper, something that a big man like him would never wear, and he tries to shimmy it off but it’s firmly wedged in place. Snow falls upon the field, tamping down the golden grass and blanketing it over with white. The sky, too, is paler, smothered with thick clouds that have been releasing their frozen payload upon the world for the past few minutes. There is distinctly less light, and yet it appears brighter outside than it would any other night; the white coat reflects even the slightest hint of illumination far better than grass or dirt would. The light from within the cottage spills out across the field in a long cone that gradually diminishes, fading into the gloom. “I thought places in the Dreamscape weren’t supposed to change on their own,” Euphoria murmurs, looking out the window at the landscape they created. The building’s interior is kept warm by a fireplace, but cold still seeps in through the window as snow accumulates around the edges of the frame. A pale figure resolves from the snow, a monstrous visage peering out from the blizzard. “YOUR IDEAS ARE AS MALLEABLE AS ANY OTHER,” Pneuma hisses as they press against the glass. They show no signs of being put off by the cold even though they’re completely naked. “STORMS OF THOUGHT ROLL ACROSS THE DREAMSCAPE AND DROWN THEM IN A DELUGE OF NEW IMPETUSES.” For a moment, an enormous pale figure looms over the cottage in the field, too vast and inchoate to be comprehended, swinging one giant appendage forward as if prepared to crush the minuscule building. Then a unicorn steps toward the front door, a towering figure who is too tall for the entrance, but certainly of more reasonable proportions. Pneuma wonders what is so important that Euphoria saw fit to block their ability to manifest directly within the cottage. And they don’t know how to feel about the fact that the young unicorn has figured out how to do that. They open the door and promptly mutter, “OH.” The other side of the aperture is full of white gunk. The thick ooze, faintly translucent but too murky to see the floor beneath, stands higher than Pneuma’s knees. Chairs and a lampstand and a cupboard by the entrance rise from the surface like islands pushed up from the seafloor. Despite the door being open, however, the white wall remains suspended in place, refusing to pour out of the cottage. The smell, though, heady and potent, is extremely apparent. From within the building, Euphoria calls out, “Hey, come in and shut the door! It takes concentration to maintain a seal like this, you know!” They twist to the side, looking toward the window and the moon hanging in the sky. But there is something closer, between them, a shape which is faintly transparent at first until they focus upon it. “Oh,” they murmur to themselves, feeling that their mouth and throat are parched, as they sit up and reach for the glass on their nightstand, only to find it empty, and they repeat, “Oh.” No big deal, they think as they toss the blankets aside and stand, only a little wobbly as they walk out of the bedroom with the glass. The bedroom isn’t especially dark thanks to the moonlight, but as they advance into gloomier chambers they find that the ambient golden glow of their horn and halo provides a gentle illumination to their surroundings. The light chases away palls of black from chairs and tables as they walk through to the kitchen where— The anachronistic fridge with built-in water dispenser is no longer present. In its place is a doorway, one that is itself out of place, framed by old grey wood and covered with a panel that rests slightly askew. Euphoria hums to themselves as they pull the panel aside—it squeals loudly on rusted hinges—and peer into the darkness beyond, which proves to be far more resilient to their light. The pitch is absolute and inscrutable, a shadowy void. The only identifiable feature is a staircase leading down into the abyss, and only the first dozen steps or so are visible before fading away. “Have we ever had a basement before?” they muse with a chuckle before they take the first step into the gloom, and the wooden plank creaks beneath their hoof. A musty smell promptly becomes apparent, seeping into their nostrils and taking residence like a squatter.
October 29, 2025 at 7:03 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
posted without context
October 27, 2025 at 9:28 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

High society rules?

Stock supplanting?

Porno mimicry?

And horse bug horse?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“EUPHORIA.” But more than just the unicorn turns to address Pneuma when they manifest from the ether. Even though they should be imperceptible, the whole crowd filling the ballroom turns to face them. They sense the change in the carefree and posh atmosphere like the raising of hackles. The partygoers in suits and dresses express disdain for them, huffing and scoffing and swooning melodramatically. There is movement in the rafters; statues molded into the buttresses stir, flexing stone claws and wings, eyes opening to reveal glaring red lights. “Uh oh.” Euphoria, looking up at Pneuma, can only express concern alongside a sheepish chuckle. “You’re breaking the rules of the party.” Pneuma squints back at them and demands, “WHAT RULES?” There are a few shouting voices now. The guardian gargoyles are rising from their perches. “Come on, we’re gonna have to do this in private.” Euphoria reaches and takes Pneuma’s hand (more gripping one of their thick fingers). When they move, shifting into a brisk jog that dodges swiftly through the throng of dapper gentlemen and ladies, they pull the other unicorn along in a manner that is not entirely physical. It might superficially look like they’re pulling Pneuma behind them, but in reality the two are inextricably bound together, meaning that one can carry the other purely within their thoughts. The unicorns’ path terminates in a quiet and claustrophobic chamber, and Euphoria closes the door behind them. “We should have enough time before the guardians find where we are,” they remark calmly. “What’s this?” Larry mutters to himself as he picks up a bottle from among the pile of stock he’s shelving. He’s hardly memorized everything in the store, but he has enough of a cursory recollection of most of the products he’s handled that something completely new will stick out like a sore thumb. The bottle of pills is made of opaque periwinkle plastic and the label reads “BeauTech Aesthetic Enhancing Supplement”. “Guaranteed to make you look three hundred percent flashier,” he reads off the packaging, dubious, before he scans the barcode on his mobile assistant and it turns up an error message, and he frowns. The Leafeon looks along the shelves of vitamins and thinks, “Well…it’s gotta go here somewhere, right?” He puts the bottle in an empty slot for the time being and then looks through the rest of the stock in his cart waiting to be sorted through. When he picks up a bottle of vitamin C and looks at the shelf again, he sees nothing but BeauTech labels filling the entire aisle. The light glinting off the periwinkle plastic creates a faint blue luminescence. His heart thumps loudly in his chest as he looks at the bottles in his cart and they’re all aesthetic enhancers as well. Even the bottle in his hand changed while he wasn’t paying attention to it. “What the heck?” He’s too distracted to hear the commotion in the grocery store: a storm of footsteps tromping in, pushing past carts and knocking over produce, the din thundering above the ambient pop music bopping through speakers across the warehouse, closer and closer. The thing looks down at itself and quickly finds that this poses a problem. The mounds projecting from its chest inhibit its ability to see below. This strikes it as a bizarre evolutionary decision, limiting the female’s perceptive capacity. But the pictures don’t lie; these males must have placed a great deal of significance upon this feature. Perhaps the real reason the females evolved this way was to gain favor with males. It cups its slender palms to its chest, holding the fleshy sacks. These are a mammalian feature, it understands. It is, of course, naked, having not redressed since finishing its scouring of the ship, so its nipples are on display. Prodding one of the light brown caps yields a tingle through its nervous system. This is an autonomous sensation coded into the DNA it has absorbed. Arousal. The males primarily associated it with their genitalia. The thing tries to stimulate its new internalized anatomy, groping fingers into the fleshy crevice between its legs, and this produces a sharper shock that elicits an involuntary gasp. It promptly goes still at the sound of its own guttural voice, which doesn’t feel particularly appropriate for this form; it modifies its vocal cords to produce a higher pitch. The thing struggles to cope with this information. It is a hunter, accustomed to violence and subterfuge. This female form appears to be built for something different. If it is capable of drawing in males merely by pushing its breasts out, however, is it possible that the thing can use this as a new manner of capturing prey? What is the best way to do so? Unfortunately, the pictures cannot tell the thing anything about how to act as a female. It can only draw conclusions based on what it can observe. If the females evolved these larger accumulations of fat, then their size must be what’s so important. “EUPHORIA, WHY ARE WE ARTHROPODS?” Pneuma demands. “Scolipedes, more specifically,” Euphoria responds while they look over themselves. Their elongated neck makes it easy to crane about and get better angles, even with the thick armor plates that clash with each other. The golden segments line their back and sides, down the neck and along the torso. They can even see past their breasts by leaning farther to the side instead of pushing them aside, getting a glimpse of their rounded gut. The dark flesh is smooth to the touch, completely devoid of hair. “THIS DOES NOT ANSWER THE QUESTION.” Pneuma’s growling is still deep and threatening but doesn’t carry the ominous aura that would be inherent to them as a unicorn. The crooked antennae which extend from the top of their head may have the same disconnected floating shape as their horn, but they do not bear the same power. “Sorry, I just can’t help thinking about them sometimes,” Euphoria says with a giggle, “I’ve always thought they’re so perfect!” A mental image manifests in Pneuma’s mind, sliding across the metaphorical table. They picture a Scolipede, a quadrupedal creature with a thick, armored body, sturdy legs, and a long neck, crooked zigzag antennae sprouting from its head and the end of its abdomen. Its black and magenta and purple colors are what the species normally looks like. Then a simulacrum of Euphoria strolls into the picture and hugs the Scolipede, wrapping their arms around its thick neck. The creature hardly reacts, eyes half-lidded, disinterested.
October 21, 2025 at 5:20 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Nightcap whenever you talk to him as Nokko
A meme in which the Solaris Nightcap sits in his room depressed until the Warframe Nokko comes in and he springs to attention and says "omg Nokko hi!!!!!"
October 21, 2025 at 2:56 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Funny squeezing?

Angy lizard?

Sleepless cravings?

And nightmare hunger?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“Here’s one of my favorite toys!” the Cuckoo chirps, grinning with excitement. “Uh…” The skunk can only stare, dumbfounded, rooted in place by astonishment. The mouse manages to blurt back, “Bruh, that’s a snake you got there.” “Yeah?” The giant bird blinks back and tilts his head, as if there’s nothing unusual about the enormous serpent that he’s holding. “Holding” is a rather generous way of describing it, though; he has his wings out and the golden snake is tangled around them and his shoulders and chest and dangling over the side of his belly. Its head rises up in the air, bobbing over the Cuckoo. Its beady black eyes are set upon the two playmates. Now the mouse is staring, exasperated and confused, and the skunk picks up by asking, “This is a toy?” “Yeah!” He coos and he pats the snake’s length. “It’s real funny. It’s really good at squeezing things. Here, just watch!” He whispers to the snake and it starts to move, wriggling around and slipping through his grasp. It wraps about his midsection, looping around three times—which is a lot of circumference to cover—and starts to squeeze. The Cuckoo titters in amusement, even though he speaks with greater strain as his rotund belly compresses, flab bulging between the snake’s coils. “It’s like a big hug all over!” he exclaims, smiling despite how hoarse he sounds. The Reptile knew that it hated the Bird from the moment it first laid eyes on him. This should not come as a surprise, since the Reptile was filled with an unfathomable reservoir of hate for all things, but this was a special kind of hate. There was a panic when the Reptile first appeared in the Bird’s realm. Smaller creatures were scurrying around a brightly lit room, shrieking in terror. They reminded it of the pathetic creatures of the Foundation who attempted to understand its nature and to find a means of ending it. And there were other creatures who were different: bigger, twisted, and in some way tainted. Some of these, lolling about in a daze, do not seem to notice its arrival, but they do not appear to be capable of movement anyway. The Reptile should have taken this opportunity to lash out at some of them, agitated as it was, to maim and eviscerate, but it was taken by alarm in its own manner. It did not understand where it was or how it had come to be here, only recalling a gut-churning lurch and then it was no longer in its loathsome cell. It growled and cursed at the pastel colors all around it, too bright for its eyes. It clawed at the cushy padded floor beneath it and thrashed with its tail. “Coocoo, who’s this? A new nestmate?” said a loud, obnoxiously cheery voice, giving the Lizard a singular point to focus its anger upon, and it saw the Bird. He towered above the puny cowards, bigger even than the Reptile, but that was not enough of a deterrence to it. It did not think that such a fat and cumbersome thing could pose any meaningful threat. It estimated that it would only take thirty-seven seconds to tear him open and rip out his beating heart. Nightmare Moon sits up on the edge of the bed and focuses on the empty space within the capacious room. Her horn ignites with cerulean moonlight and produces a bright flash as a figure manifests, producing a loud thump when her hooves hit the floor, rattling the bed and the nightstands beside it. Rarity stands as calmly composed as ever, though the wrinkles around her eyes betray her own lack of sleep, and her mane and tail are loose and she wears a gauzy nightgown draped over her voluminous frame instead of her uniform. “Do you require pleasure, Mistress?” the mare asks in her obedient tone, and she already has her hands upon her belly, prepared to lift the heavy globe for a view of her plump nether lips. “No,” the alicorn replies promptly, though her loins quiver ever so slightly. “I desire…calm. I need to be able to sleep.” Rarity blinks. In the low light, only one with acute vision like Nightmare Moon would discern the thoughtfulness in her expression. She is aware that this is a matter that requires a more complex solution and that she must devote herself to it. “I see,” she murmurs, and her arms move over the top of her bosom as she taps her chin. “I believe that there are some herbs from the Everfree which could be combined into a potent sedative. I could confer with our herbalists and determine what the proper dosage would be.” But Nightmare Moon grumbles petulantly, tossing her head back. “That would take so long. I wish to sleep now!” Rarity’s lips purse into a thin frown. “Do you desire alternative methods to induce slumber?” The costumed civilians scamper away one by one, but Luna keeps her veil held over herself long after she is the only pony left in the clearing. She stands and waits, certain that there shouldn’t be any more visitors this late into the night. The moon hangs high overhead, a lone eye shining upon the world, filling the open space with silvery light. In the Everfree Forest, however, the dark does not allow mere light to beat it into submission. A piece of night peels off from amongst the trees, a hulking mass of pitch that rises taller than the statue of Nightmare Moon. Heavy hoofsteps thud across the earth, each followed by a wet sucking and popping. Something drags over the grass and dirt. Its form is too dark to discern any anatomy save for a maw that starts to yawn open, ringed with jagged teeth and dripping saliva, lowering closer to the pile of candy in front of the statue. Now Luna strikes. The veil falls and reveals her, gleaming, immaculate, rearing back as she spreads her wings. Her horn sparks with a flash of light that washes over the dark hulk, and it writhes, howling in fury. “Foul beast!” she declares valiantly, “Thou shalt torment the ponies of this land no longer!” Only now does the creature’s shape become clear as it stands in the illumination of pure moonlight. It is a huge, swollen thing, only vaguely in the shape of a pony, swallowed up by vast folds of flesh. Its skin, though, is sticky, dripping with an inky tar, with the shape of crescent moon on its haunches. The idea of movement with its bloated limbs seems absurd, and the ragged wings which extend from its back couldn’t possibly lift it into the air. Its face comes into focus, but it is hardly equine, bloated cheeks and neck folds offsetting the elongated, snaggletoothed snout, cold eyes with slitted predatory pupils.
October 16, 2025 at 6:13 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
Are you interested in:

Continued fitting struggles?

Mom technology?

Guardian spirits?

And chaos investigation?

These topics and more explored in drabbles available through my Patreon.

www.patreon.com/user?u=273837

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw
“You look great, Spike!” Twilight Sparkle remarks with a smile. “Thanks, Twi, I feel great,” he replies, beaming back. This is mostly true, so long as he disregards the anxious butterflies in his stomach (for a dragon, they must be volcanic fireflies). He certainly likes the way the qipao looks on him now that it’s been refitted, and he likes the silky embrace of the fabric draping over his scales. It hugs to his broad, jutting chest, emphasizing that aspect of femininity, but the open sleeves and the slit along the side show off his toned masculine physique (not to mention the conspicuous way the skirt falls over his meaty groin). His own feelings, however, are not as easy to sort out as those of other ponies, and there are a lot of ponies at the gala tonight. The feeling of so many eyes upon Spike is something that he’s not used to, having avoided the spotlight for much of his life. It must be hard for anyone to miss him, since he stands over a head taller than just about any other creature present at the gala. His stature brings his chest to just the right height that anyone can see his bust rising above the crowd like a breaching whale. He can only imagine what the social atmosphere would be like if he were tall enough that his crotch was in that position. “I’m glad you were able to get things working with Rarity despite my, uh, miscalculations,” the mare mutters sheepishly. It had, of course, been Twilight’s calculations regarding Spike’s rate of growth that assisted them with making projected measurements for the dragon’s clothing. “I didn’t anticipate such a sudden exponential increase!” In the gloom, however, the slightest form of illumination becomes drastically amplified, making it not so hard to see the faint glow that emanates from a door that’s cracked slightly ajar. “Hmm…” Vanilla’s motherly intuition tells her that Tails must be doing something in secret, and she doesn’t exactly want to pry, but she can’t just go home emptyhanded while her streaming services are still barred to her. She goes to open the doorway and finds herself standing at the top of a flight of stairs, fluorescent light filtering up from below. “Tails?” she ventures again, echoing down the stairwell. Once more there is no response, though she can faintly hear some metallic clattering. There is someone down there. Once more Vanilla considers turning back, maybe leaving a note. But how will she bear going to bed without checking SpinTok first? Heaving a weary sigh, she starts making her way down the steps. She moves carefully since it’s difficult for her to see the steps beneath her feet. It’s a rather tight fit for her as well, though she understands that a small fox like Tails wouldn’t exactly need to build his workspace for one of her stature. Maybe the loud thumps of her descent will be enough to get his attention. As she comes to the bottom of the stairs, one more time she says, “Tails? I’m sorry if you’re busy, but I’d appreciate if I could speak to you!” Still no response, but her long ears perk up when she hears something, a hushed mutter: “Should it be…?” The shrine is quiet, save for his own hoarse, shivering breath. Fu understands that these are simply traditions, but he had quietly hoped for some kind of sign to indicate that a blessing had been conferred upon him, that the spirits were in favor of his decision. He is still left with the same uncertainty that has plagued him since he formulated this plan to leave home. All he can do is hold his breath as he bows his head low to the ground. No sooner does Fu’s nose touch the floor than there is a sharp CRACK of thunder, a blinding flash that washes into the shrine. He flinches, but still he remains steady. What instead causes him to rise is when a heady warmth starts to waft over him. He looks up and sees white smoke filling the shrine. The idea of a fire flashes in his mind—started by a lightning strike, or worse by his own carelessness—but the smoke mystifies him. It’s warm and hot like breath, with a bitter tang that cloys in his sinuses. The misty clouds billow all around him, a cloud front swallowing up the shrine’s interior. Then he becomes aware that he isn’t alone. Something pads through the mist, heavy footfalls. The noxious smoke prevents him from smelling anything, but he can hear the low growl that rumbles around him. A shadow resolves from the ether, striding closer and closer, growing implausibly larger. The shrine is small, hardly more than ten feet across, and yet within the white cloud all sense of space is completely obliterated. When the shadow stands above the dog, it towers over him, seeming to fill the whole world. “Hmm…this certainly is the result of entropic corruption,” Sunset remarks as she inspects the first tree. Each of her eyes reports a different detached perspective, observing her subject from multiple angles and in varying spectral lenses to isolate the facets of its makeup, physical and magical and spiritual. In some angles, she can see herself, swollen top-heavy form standing amidst the orchard, dwarfing Applejack beside her. It isn’t necessary to go into this much detail to know that something is plainly wrong, but she prefers to be thorough. The apple tree before them twisted and gnarled and distended. The bark of the trunk bulges grotesquely along its crooked length, blackened as if scorched by fire, leading up to a crown that looks like a huge knot like a clenched fist, looming over the grass. The only branches that extend from it are short and stubby with sickly yellow leaves, drooping from the overgrown, misshapen fruit that hang from them. Sunset plucks one apple and holds it up before her, feeling it with telekinetic sensors; the yellow-orange rind is firm and unblemished, but there is a distinct warmth to it that a fresh apple shouldn’t have. Another flash of her horn and the apple slices cleanly in half, revealing flesh that glows faintly and, for a few seconds, seems to roil like magma before cooling. “Twilight and I will have to run some tests to determine the exact nature of this transformation,” she declares with grim authority, enveloping the split fruit in a net of compartmentalized void matter. “Suffice to say, these apples should not be considered safe for consumption until then.”
October 11, 2025 at 4:15 PM
nonuberis.bsky.social
New drabble selection uploaded.

Featuring ice cream, parasitism, milking, pink, and apple.

www.furaffinity.net/view/62561980/

#nonuberstories #furry #nsfw #hyper #fatfur #inflation #transformation
October 8, 2025 at 7:19 PM