cyanomorphlabs

[cyanomorphlabs]

Imagine your friend leaving just a s m i d g e of highly-infectious berry virus inside your drink, as a little prank. She's walking around you when the two of you're taking a stroll, just going about your day. It's only until you're inside an elevator does it actually hit, and boy does it HIT.

Your form shifts, your entire body a midnight blue hue. The sound and smells are impossible to ignore, all while your friend is recording all joyfully, giggling. But it doesn't stop. Her shit-eating expression goes from gremlin to terror as your body's not stopping, pressing the button over and over to get the damn thing to open. It's only by a miracle do the two doors slide, your belly's pressure popping her out of the elevator entrance like a zit.

But you. Oh you're stuck. The metallic walls pressing it's sharp edges against your expanding hide, the pressure going from an embarrassing tingle to a painful string of pulls and pushes. All while your friend's camera lands right between her legs, pointed at you. The berry who grew too big, in something way too small. The berry who's remains put an entire floor out of access.

The Haz team's gonna have a day with you, huh.

I don't have to imagine shit, I've done this to like four people.

There's a reason that the halls here have cameras every ten feet.

There's a reason the hazmat team has such a high turnover rate!

There's a fucking reason that the all elevators have six-inch iron spikes on each wall!

[cyanomorphlabs]

*blows 20 massive holes through a paper target 5 feet away with dogshit grouping and less than half go through the vaguely person-shaped outline drawn on it and of those none hit anything near a uterus*

*racks another clip of hollowpoint eggs into my illegal full-auto robovipositor*

[cyanomorphlabs]

*read the tags first please*

Baby... it's for your own good. Please try to understand that.

I know what you would do. If I left you to your own devices, you'd find some way to swell up and... and... and explode blue juice all over the fucking neighborhood or something . Then I'm down a wife and I have to talk to the cops. No fun for me.

Look, this way I don't have to worry about you! And you still get what you want! Look at yourself! You're pumped full of eggs, you've got milk dribbling through your top. I know you love it, I can see how red your face is.

I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. This is the only thing keeping you from being a danger to yourself and others.

Don't look at me like that, it's a win-win! I get to keep fucking you full of eggs, and you get to be a swollen, infinitely-breedable cow. Pout all you want, I know you're loving this. And we never have to pay for milk! Or eggs! You're like a one-woman dairy farm. That's such a good thing to have in this economy, you know?

Why are your arms tied together? Baby, I just told you... you can't be trusted. I'm sorry, but you know it's true. I can't have a blueberry for a wife. I don't have the time or energy to roll your sloshing ass everywhere, and you don't fit through doors and... and... look it's just not socially acceptable. I'm sorry. At least this way I can take you out and show you off! And once you can take a big enough load, I won't have to tie you up. You'll just be too heavy to get up to mischief.

Are you feeling a little woozy, babe? Yes, I know it's kind of, like, problematic, but the eggs are gonna make you a little... docile. I can't do much about that. I think I like you like this, though. You're so much more obedient, and that's a really nice change of pace for me. Don't get me wrong, you're so cute when you're a brat, but I need all the help I can get here.

Yes, I'm sure you're hungry. You're eating for, like, a thousand and one now. Let me find you something to snack on...

[cyanomorphlabs]

*racks another clip of hollowpoint eggs into my illegal full-auto robovipositor*

[cyanomorphlabs]

Sim 2

[ for @driftingaway342 who should be allowed to fill herself with as much as she wants ]

"Alright, dog. Get ready for round two."

The voice in her earpiece belongs to her Nephilim, the biomechanical war-giant to which she has been bound. It's name is Fenrir, and like her, it has had a short, difficult life. They are lucky to have found each other.

She's panting, hard. The mouthpiece in her helmet can provide air, water, basic caloric sustenance, and any sort of pharmaceutical compound she might require in the field.

Still, sometimes what a pup really needs is a moment to breathe with her own body.

The giant knows her better than her handlers, better than she knows herself. Their bond, when complete, will be synaptically intimate, inimitable in any other context. They will be two halves binding each other into a whole, striding through oceans of death.

In order to achieve that synchrony, though, they must practice.

"Simulation two in thirty seconds. Get ready, dog."

She's not truly a pilot, in the traditional sense. She's an organ, a gland. A small but still vital component of a greater being. She processes information and mediates the complex alchemies of her host's living mind, and through her, it becomes truly alive.

T-minus fifteen seconds, and, like clockwork her mouth drops open in anticipation. Her mouthpiece grows to fill her oral cavity so completely that her jaw aches. The conduit at the back of her skull kicks as the neural connection re-warms, ready to relay data and dopamine back and forth.

"Five..."

Just a little late, her abdominal conduit kicks. It's a custom job, a haphazard adaptation of the standard performance-reinforcement circuit. By the time they actually deploy, it will be refined to perfection.

A preemptive warmth touches her belly. It reminds her that she will have so, so much to gain, if only she can orchestrate perfect slaughter.

She and Fenrir were, quite literally, each other's last chance. A Nephilim that could not satisfy its pilot, entwined with a pilot who could not be satisfied.

"Two... one... zero."

The growl in her ear is lost in the roar of the scenario, another advance assault mission where they appear to be taking point. As one, they race toward the front line, titanic claws gouging the rocky terrain.

The display in her helmet notes potential targets, dropping a bright green reticle over the nearest: a bulky humanoid, hunched forward like a grappler, hands at the ready.

They scythe toward it, watching the glow in its chest brighten until-

"Beam," Fenrir rumbles in her ear. She has anticipated this, though, turning faster than her prey can track. The light lances safely past them, washing them in heat.

"Good girl," it growls. Her abdominal conduit jolts, forcing a hydraulic reward into the pit of her belly. She moans, unconsciously, and Fenrir savors the serotonin she releases.

Though the combat is simulated, her gratification is very real. Deep inside Fenrir, her belly grows.

On the field, they make contact. Together, their jaws wrench their prey's leg from under it, and it topples. They use their momentum to roll through a somersault, severing the giant's leg at the knee. Though wholly unnecessary, she compels Fenrir to bite clean through the stranded limb, soaking its lips in more gore. For this, it loves her a little more.

She was made for this, and that's why her superiors gave her that last chance to bond. She started sharp, and with Fenrir as her whetstone, she has honed herself to a razor's edge. Every choice is perfect, efficient, delicious in the eyes of a dog of war.

Fenrir has no choice but to give her the only credit it can.

Her abdominal feed writhes with the continuous delivery of fluid. Through her cranial link, she tastes salt and copper, savoring with Fenrir as it gluts itself with the arterial bounty from their prey's throat.

"Have some more, dog," it growls.

Tied into Fenrir by her flayed brain stem, she has no need of manual controls. Instead, as it fills her, her hands caress her own belly, trembling as it balloons slowly outward, forcing them apart. Fenrir shivers as she shares the feeling, knowing well that her hands will remain there for the rest of the sortie.

The pressure welling inside her commands her to grow more, and so, she and Fenrir raise their head, scanning for their next victim.

There are many. Their backup will arrive soon, and her greed and hunger bid her to gorge herself as much as possible before she must, inevitably, share with their comrades.

"Ready, dog?" it asks, already knowing the answer.

She howls in her helmet, a hoarse shriek deformed by her mouthpiece. Fenrir is silently proud. It calls her "dog", but it knows well that she is almost more lupine than it.

They fly down the line of foes, tearing throats, ripping bellies open, crunching though bone and sinew. She gushes serotonin and dopamine, each slice another offering on Fenrir's altar. A loving god, he injects her with more and more, filling her until she begins to compress against the walls of its own belly. Her flight suit splits down the middle. Her bare flesh spills into Fenrir, creating a moment of union unique to their bond. It fills her as she fills it, entwining their nerves in perfect harmony.

"You're getting heavy, pup," it purrs, brushing the edge of her thinking mind.

She gnaws ineffectually on the mouthpiece, working her jaw in time with the ebb and flow of the ersatz blood bloating her into blissful oblivion. It's a vicious feedback loop: the more it gives her, the more they both crave.

As they dance, their thrill becomes outwardly visible. Fenrir itself begins to swell, its belly pressed outward by her own. Unbeknownst to her, it adjusts itself in the hangar, giving her room to balloon further.

One of the few secrets it keeps from their handlers, and ever from her, is the raw need it feels for her hunger. It feeds her so much, and she only wants more.

The heat between her thighs burns like a star as the charred nerves fraying under the sheer weight of her load beg for more, more, more. She cannot release herself, she will not allow it, not when there's so much more left to swallow into themselves.

Howls break around them as their compatriots arrive, breaking the remainder of the enemy line, obviating the need for their gluttony.

In her helmet, bitter tears of frustration well up and run in rivulets down her cheeks. She knows, deep in her spine, that she can be faster, deadlier, hungrier. All she needs is another chance, please. She begs, silently, blunting Fenrir's ecstasy. Please, she cries, her nerves singing. I need more, don't make me stop, I'm so hungry.

"Easy, pup," it whispers. It releases gentle sedatives through her mouthpiece. It hates this moment, when it must rob her of her war-spoils.

She relaxes, still conscious but dulled, hands still slowly rubbing every inch of her belly that she can reach. Fenrir begins the loathsome process of pulling the fluid back out of her, venting it into the hangar around them. Petulant, it feels that if they will not let her keep what she has earned, it might as well get to make a mess on their floor.

Still, it thinks, they're a match made in hell. Someday soon they'll get to eat their fill, and keep it.

[cyanomorphlabs]

Anyway, fun fact:

Some berries display a sort of "placebo" effect if they blow up often enough! I haven't quite got the technique perfect, but in some specimens, you can set up a sort of Pavlovian trigger such that they don't even need a juice-inducing substance! You can literally clicker train certain berries into blowing up!

I think it works with other inflatable organisms too, but for some reason the balloons I've tried it with keep slipping their tethers and floating away :\

[cyanomorphlabs]

Specimens:

[under construction, please pardon our dust. and blood.]

Sim 2 - A pilot-in-training and her wolf-mech run a simulation together. Minimal, simulated gore, "blood" inflation, good times.

Honey - Second-person - A partially psychic three-way between you, a sexy bee lady, and the hive-mind she's integrating you into by stuffing you with honey and then making you cum it into her... I guess??? Look, however weird this is to read, I swear it was weirder to write. I think I may have been possessed.

Gut-Plug - Third-person - Yes, this is goofy, and yes, I wrote it based entirely on a dumb pun that's not nearly as funny as I think it is. Regardless, I'd pay sooo much money for a weird little sex toy that blows people up like this.

[cyanomorphlabs]

Turn back while you still can~

This is a fetish blog. If you're a minor, get the hell out.

I'm (once again) Murk (she/her): cyanomorph queen, mad expansion scientist, and certified bursting doula~

I write stuff, and sometimes it comes out... strange. Those pieces will be contained here, where they will float in big tanks of glowing green liquid to keep them sedated. They can be found here: Specimens

The more docile specimens may be found, roaming free, here: @cyanocophrenic

There will also be toppy in-character bits and blurbs. If you're looking for the subby one, she's @popmepopmepopme, but... don't tell her I sent you.

It's entirely possible that what I post here will be weird, strange, upsetting, and just possibly a bit horny. I dunno either, man, I just need it out of my head. I got things to do.