#POINTS AT THE ART GUYS IT’S ME!!!!!!!!/silly

[dontshootmespence]

A Whole New Meaning

Pairing: Non-enhanced Bob x Reader

Summary: After a long day at the art studio, Bob returns home to find a surprise from his wife.

Author’s Note: This has been rolling around in my head for days. In this world, Bob is a regular guy with similar traumas to Thunderbolts, but no super serum. Also, Bob is a bit of a dippy himbo in this, but we love him for it. This will definitely have some follow-ups, but if you have something you'd like me to cover, leave me an ask! 

Warnings: Bob being a himbo for a second, COVID mention, fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v.

Word Count: 1664

—--

The inky black and blue of the night sky washed over the neighborhood as Bob parked the car in the driveway, stars guiding him home. Moonlight bathed the front door in a hazy sheen, welcoming him back after a long day. Although his head was buzzing with all the things he needed to do tomorrow, he took a deep breath and grabbed the door knob, the touch of cool metal bringing his head back to where he needed and wanted it to be.

On you. The scent of citrus on your skin. The sound of your laughter when he cracked a joke. The soft give of your body underneath his touch. 

As he stepped inside the house, the thick, warm scent of Indian spices hit his nostrils, and the chill of the night slipped away. He inhaled the scent, smiling. Before he could close the door, you ran up to him and wrapped your arms around him like you hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“H-Hey,” he laughed, groaning when you pulled him in for a kiss that grounded him back in reality and what really mattered. “What was that for?”

“I missed you,” you replied, kissing the corner of his mouth as he smiled. Your kisses tasted like sunshine. 

Bob chuckled and leaned down to kiss you again, his index finger resting underneath your chin. “You saw me this morning.”

For a moment, the two of you got lost in each other, hands roaming over each other’s bodies like you were discovering something new, something pure. “Still,” you replied. “I always miss you when you’re gone. Doesn’t matter for how long.” He felt so lucky. 

Bob stepped back and drank you in. You were wearing his favorite dress on you and he hadn’t even noticed until now. “What’s this for?” He laughed, grabbing you and pulling you close again, fluid, like a dance. He nuzzled his head into your neck, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder. “The dress? Dinner?”

“That’s not all,” you said, smiling as you clutched both his hands and brought him into the kitchen. “I took off today so I could do this for you.”

Glancing around, Bob drank in the picture before him. You’d set the table with your wedding china and lit candles, soft and flickering in the dim light of the room. On the stove was his favorite meal, the first meal you’d ever made him, and in the refrigerator was the cake he’d obsessed over since he found it at a local bakery a few years ago. “Why’d you do all this?”

“Because I love you, silly.”

You’d been married for two years at this point, but he never tired of hearing you say you loved him. Never tired of the warmth that flooded through him. 

Sighing happily, Bob hugged you and placed a kiss on your forehead, hands curling into the back of your hair. “I love you, too. So damn much it hurts sometimes.” He combed his hands through your hair and sank into another searing kiss that had you both wondering whether or not to postpone dinner.

You pulled away, grazing your teeth over his bottom lip. You could stay like this forever, just vacillating back and forth in his arms. Forever wouldn’t be enough. “I’ve got one more surprise for you,” you whispered. “It’s on the bathroom counter.”

His eyebrows knit in confusion, but he began walking toward the bathroom, his hand slipping from yours.

From across the house, you heard him call out. “Are these COVID tests?” He asked, shocked. “Babe, you know I have to go to work tomorrow. Why would you kiss me?”

When he returned from the bathroom, he was met with you in a fit of giggles. 

“These are positive. Are you feeling okay?” He quickly stepped toward you and put the back of his hand on your head. “You’re not warm or anything. Why are you laughing?” He chuckled, confused as hell. 

“Look at the tests again, baby,” you breathed. Your smile fell as he took a second look at the tests in his hand. “I don’t have COVID.”

For a few moments, he stared at the tests before it finally clicked, his mouth dropping open and eyes wide with awe and maybe a little bit of panic.  “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” you laughed, gathering your hands to your face.

Bob punched the air with both fists. “You’re pregnant?! I’m gonna be a dad! Seriously?”

You lost yourself in a fit of laughter as Bob ran around the living room. He was bursting with too much energy and nowhere to put it. He essentially had the zoomies. “You’re gonna be a dad,” you replied, holding out your hand to him. “The best dad.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you and placed his hand on your stomach. “And you’re gonna be the mom,” he said, reverence filling his voice. You were his everything before. But now? Everything took on a whole new meaning. Resting his head against you, he continued, “You’re going to be the best mom in the world.”

When you tipped his head up to meet your gaze, he had tears in his eyes. “I’m so fucking happy,” he cried.

Standing up, he cradled you in his arms, peppering your face with kisses like his life depended on it. “I love you,” he breathed, his hands roaming down your sides and coming to rest on your hips. The hips that would help cradle his baby. 

Then a smirk bloomed on his face. “You think maybe we can put dinner off for a little bit?” He asked with a shy smile, his fingers slipping over the soft fabric of your dress.

You gave him a quick peck on the lips before running to the kitchen to turn off the stove. Bob cackled as you ran back and jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carried you down the familiar hallway to your bedroom and plopped you on the comforter. “I can’t believe we’re gonna have a baby,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your clothed stomach. 

Bob reached down to your ankle, his fingers grazing over the cool expanse of your skin like it was the first time he’d ever touched you. As he hit the hem of your dress, his breath hitched, his skin heating to the point of it being unberable. He rucked your dress up and saw you wet for him already, your panties damp with the evidence of your arousal.

As he kneeled on the floor in front of the bed, he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you close, reveling in the small, almost silent moan that fell from your lips.

You whispered into the room, so full of memories and life. “Bob, please.”

That was all he needed to hear. With two fingers, he pulled your panties down and around your ankles before taking them off completely and throwing them behind him. “I’ve got you, baby.” He licked at your pussy from back to front, groaning so hard at your tensing body that you felt it in your chest. “You taste so good.” 

“Need you,” you said, practically choking on your words. “Please.”

Bob’s fingers fluttered at your entrance, ghosting over you like smoke on the wind, barely touching you. “What do you need, baby? Talk to me.”

“Your mouth, your fingers. Need all of you.” Your entire body thrummed with need, your skin prickling under the heat of his touch.

As he sunk two fingers into your core, you groaned, arching up into the impossibly damp air of your bedroom. His touch was like fire. Slowly, he moved his fingers in and out, pulling moans from you before he brought his mouth to your clit. “You look so beautiful when you’re needy,” he laughed, the feeling rolling through you. “Sound like heaven.”

His tongue rolled over your clit in waves. Each swipe over your aching core coaxed him forward, like a man starved. “Come for me, honey,” he said, his fingers sliding over that sweet spot inside you. With a few quick taps of his fingers, you came with a cry into his waiting mouth. You were always beautiful, but now, pregnant with his baby and coming under his touch, he couldn’t handle it. “Need to fuck you, baby,” he breathed. 

When he stood, Bob slipped your silk dress over your head and threw it to the side before quickly removing his own clothes. He slipped inside you like it was where he was meant to be, groaning at the feel of your walls clenching around him. “Fffuck. Baby, you feel so good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in close, reaching up to bring him down on top of you. You needed to feel the weight of him as he fucked into you. Whining, you scratched your fingers down his back. He pumped into you harder and placed his hand on your lower stomach. “Can you feel me, baby? How hard and desperate I am for you?”

“Y-y-yes,” you moaned, struggling to get your words out. “Don’t stop, p-please!”

Bob licked and kissed at your neck, lips roaming over soft skin. A coil tightened in your stomach, your release just on the horizon. “Gonna come, baby. Come with me.”

Grunting and rutting into you, he reached between your bodies and tapped at your clit, watching as your mouth dropped open and a cry left your lips. Watching you come undone beneath him put him over the edge. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

As you both came down, breaths steadying into normalcy, Bob pulled himself from you and came to rest with his head on your stomach. “Hi, baby,” he whispered, kissing your stomach. 

Smiling, you snaked your hand through his hair. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Either. Both. Doesn’t matter.” He kept caressing your stomach. “Just can’t wait to watch this all unfold.”

[lucy-literates]

Hello, this week is crap so I would love some silly Arthur please 🥹

You’ve only been seeing Arthur for a bit and you’ve not really been round Monaco (either newly moved or just not from around there) so he decides to take you on a tour of his own. He is showing you round Monaco and saying true things but then he just starts saying these ridiculous or elaborate “facts” about stuff to see if you will believe them whilst trying to keep his voice serious and not giggle.

Then later you are both out for dinner with his friends and Charles and you are repeating the facts to the group and he just can’t contain his laughter because they’re all too polite to outright say you’re wrong (and they know what he’s like) but are also like - are you sure? And eventually Arthur is just giggling in the corner absolutely losing it (and doing that cute nose scrunch) and Charles is like are u ok bro? And he is laughing so hard he can’t even speak and then you figure it out and yell at him (but laughing too and you’re not really mad) and he is still just giggling so much he is practically crying. Chaotic, silly Arthur is my fave. Thank you 💙

A/N: I'm so sorry for the inactivity, I've been busy with work struggles. I haven't written in a while so hopefully this is alright.

Local Tour Guide (Certified Liar)

You’d only been in Monaco a few weeks, still getting used to winding alleys, overpriced espresso, and the constant hum of fancy engines on the streets. Arthur had promised to be your “guide”—which, in hindsight, should’ve set off warning bells.

At first, everything seemed normal. He pointed out the Prince’s Palace, the old town, his favorite bakery.

“This is the bakery I went to every Sunday as a kid,” he’d said sweetly, hand warm against your back.

But then…

“And that statue there,” he gestured to a sleek, modern piece of art near the waterfront, “is actually a tribute to the first person to successfully rollerblade across the entire length of Monaco… blindfolded.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Mmhmm,” he nodded solemnly. “Very brave man. They say he still rollerblades at night. Spiritually.”

“…Okay.”

You should’ve known then.

But he kept it up the whole day. Earnest voice, hand-holding, walking you through scenic views like he was Monaco’s proudest son.

“That yacht belonged to a guy who tried to turn it into a floating racetrack. For tortoises.”

“That church there? Built overnight. By nuns. Using only elbow grease and vibes.”

“That pigeon?” He pointed at a very ordinary looking bird. “That’s Jean-Pierre. He’s in the pigeon mafia.”

And you? You believed him.

He was just so convincing, okay? You didn’t want to sound rude by questioning Monaco’s culture. Or Arthur’s strange childhood memories. Or… Jean-Pierre the mob boss pigeon.

Cut to dinner that weekend.

You, Arthur, Charles, and a few of their friends gathered around an outdoor table at one of the prettiest restaurants in the city. Wine poured, laughter bubbling. You were animatedly retelling what you’d “learned.”

“I still can’t believe that statue is for the blindfolded rollerblader guy,” you said, sipping wine. “Arthur told me they hold a memorial race every year.”

The table went quiet.

Charles blinked. “They what?”

You nodded. “With tortoises too! On that yacht that was turned into a floating racetrack?”

Arthur was vibrating. His face was red, eyes wide with effort, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. He made a squeaky sound. Like a kettle.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Bro… are you okay?”

Arthur broke.

He exploded into giggles, head ducking, nose scrunching up adorably as tears sprang to his eyes. He tried to talk—got halfway through “tortoise yacht—!” and just wheezed.

You looked at him in horror. Then back at the table.

The others were trying so hard not to laugh. But the façade was crumbling.

“Wait,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Wait.”

Arthur was clutching his stomach now.

“You made all that up?!”

He nodded, face in his hands.

“You absolute—Arthur!”

“You believed me!!” he managed to gasp. “Jean-Pierre! The pigeon mafia!!”

You were laughing now too, even as you hit his arm. “You’re insane! I was trying to be respectful of your culture!”

He was full-on crying with laughter. “You were defending the tortoise yacht to Charles!”

Charles was filming it now. “This is going on your wedding video.”

“Shut up!” you laughed, face red, half-mortified, half in love with the chaos of it all.

Arthur leaned over, still giggling, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Best tour you’ll ever get, bébé.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, grinning.

“Jean-Pierre would agree,” he whispered dramatically.

You never trusted another “fact” from him again.

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

[shellsstardew]

you made me ship shelliot so hard it's not even funny 😭 like normally im not super into rarepairs bc it seems ppl ship them just to ship them but i legit see where you're coming from, especially in the same context as your comic where their story begins after elliot moves in. i actually love your comic i cannot wait for the next part (not trying to pressure you obv). ive never gotten too many hearts with either of them but your characterization just feels so accurate like i feel like I could see your story with their dialogue happening in the game and it wouldn't feel out of place at all. and also finally (oops ive been rambling), your art style isn't overly detailed but the facial expressions/body language/like perspective i guess of the characters, especially shane and elliot on the dock is so well done, the small changes in positioning work so well to communicate the change in their body language and its just really impressive.

sorry i yapped or if it was weird or something i promise i was not trying to come off weird 😭😭😭 i just really admire good fanworks such as yours and it's important to tell authors/creators that they're doing well and yeah

also if you (or anyone else) has any shelliot fic recommendations i would loveee to hear them :>

No but seriously it's so funny that your like "I hope I'm not being weird" meanwhile I reread over and over your super thoughtful message to keep me going 😭

YOU GUYS DON'T REALIZE I NEED THOSE HYPER DETAILED COMPLIMENT or my stupid brain will go like "Okay time to think you're worthless and that what you're doing doesn't matter"

No I can point at the screen and say "See? 👉📱 SEE?! 👉👉📱?" and it's putting another coin in the machine hehe

Anyway, thank you so much 😭

AND YES I HAVE FICS TO RECOMMEND! ONCE AGAIN, @cutethulu you know the drill hehe

Camellia Station, by Awdrey (Explicit - but it's only one short smut scene in the last chapter for now)

Now it's still in progress (updating once a month) and they still didn't smooch yet, but that's what you get when you fall into the Shelliott rabbit hole, hehe, you can't be picky

It's really well written and the author and I have a lot of similarities in our interpretations of Shane and Elliott :) Go give it some love!

Also some one shots by @mongoosingisme that I really love :

Untitled Shelliott Ranch Project

Herding cats (Explicit - Shane/Elliott/fem!farmer)

And UHHH maybe you've seen it already but I wrote one about Shells, it's an alternate ending to part 34 (it's my first one and I'm really proud of it teehee)

Shells, alternate ending, by shells_stardew (Explicit)

Also @visionofthebees wrote this one for me on the same concept :

One Shell of a Night, by Visionofthebees (Explicit)

Be warned it's EXTREMELLY SILLY and she didn't even reread it before posting, but I love it with all my heart it's so so funny hahaha

I love her so imma also recommend her Clint x Elliott fic too (yes yes you read that right, she's 10 degrees further than me on the crack ship scene) :

Falling Ore You (Explicit) (46 chapters, completed)

LISTEN SHE MAKES IT WORK OKAY! SHE REALLY DOES!

And also, check my bookmarks! They are some non-Shelliott stuff that I absolutely love in there! (BUT always ALWAYS check the tags before reading, there is also some dark stuff haha)

Here you go, hope I didn't recommend all the ones you already knew about, as we all know this is not an extremely popular ship so this is what we get, quality over quantity hahahaa 😭

[zombiedoggs]

perpipi and a maskless phantom hc!!! im trying to start puttin my art out there for once HAGHAGAHFHUDWHW. me when i wanna do commissions but i am like....... the CEO Of Anxiety ms paint quintessence ghoul... i decided on kepler for a name [kinda like wolf 359. heh. heh. i think im funny]

i'll do some sort of backstory andd lorestuff later on, he's def going on my artfight page once hes done along w/my other ghost ocs that i'll post when theyre like... more complete

speaking of writing for him. oooooooh. im new when it comes to really... being active in fandom spaces or even really Perusing fandom content [esp. when it comes to ghost] and i literally lost it when i saw some of the fandom headcanon designs for the ghouls.. i def wanna make my own and do my own little like. anatomy hc stuff at one point. i kinda draw this guy more [stylized] humanoid but i like to believe that every ghoul just has a range of forms they can use [so i have an excuse to make all ghoul design hcs canon LMFAOWFAYAHGAHAHAHG]

my lil ghoul ocs who i have like. nothing for being silly.. I SHOULD REALLY FINISH RENDERING STUFF <- will never do this

i like to think that ghouls have a mostly human appearance [on-stage], the sneepyforms like drawn here, and then more like... monstrous warping forms. lots of teeth and vague, shifting shapes, spikes and claws. literal eldritch horrors. thats their truest forms. speaking of, one thang i drew up while thinking about that a while back . ghoul horrors yayy!! she's got a habit's veil on

i highly rec experimenting on mspaint sometimes nyall . i was yapping with my friend rory on this but its really like you can just drop that perfectionism mindset you automatically get into while on your Big Art Programs and feel more free to experiment. its also just good practice :3 you can get more textures n whatnot than you think if you lock in with the paintbrushes [also one has fucking pen pressure available??????? at least it vaguely seemed to work if you look in the top right corner. ive never seen that hsit in my life

ive got a ghoulsona in the works that im sooo excited to share. heeelll yeah

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip Whenever...

Tagged by @skyrim-forever and @silly-little-diary Thank you guys for tagging me. I'll be commenting soon :)

I'm a bit erg feeling atm (cold on top of migraine on top of medication side effects) so I've been sleeping on and off. I have gotten some art and writing done, however, so I'll post a bit of both.

Art!

Looks like Josh has some tattoos and finger pigments. Yay! Next on the list is scars and then hair and accessories. We're getting there.

Below the cut is a snippet of chapter 17 of Sleepers Awake, or Joshi's meeting with the Urshilaku Gulakhan goes exactly as well as you think.

Writing!

“There is no rule against seeking audience to speak about such practices,” Erra cut in, “If the Outlander wishes to ask about the Nerevarine Prophecies, that is his right. It is ultimately up to the Ashkhan to determine his worth. You know this.”

Zabamund leaned forward, a look that Teldryn could only describe as disgust-fuelled fury plastered across his features as he bared his teeth at Erra, “And you know that determining one’s worthiness falls to me, an’zil.”

Teldryn balled his hands into fists as he rested them on his knees, “I have given you gifts, I have stated my business clearly and I have observed your customs to the fucking letter. What more do you fucking want!”

The Gulakhan’s smile sent shivers down Teldryn’s spine as his attention switched back to him and his outburst. He could see the colour draining from Erra’s face as the two mer stared each other down, and he could see him slowly shake his head as he mouthed the words, ‘Please, no.’

“What I want, Outlander,” The Gulakhan spat as he pointed his axe, not at Teldryn, but towards Erra, “Is for the two of you la’sumu to get out of my sight!”

Teldryn straightened his posture, his left hand moving towards the hilt of his sword as he stared down the Gulakhan, “An I’m not leaving this tent without my audience.”

Zabamund flared his nostrils at Teldryn’s statement, his grip on his axe tightening further, “Which you will not have, Outlander. You will not bother the Ashkhan with such trivial matters. He has no love for outsiders.”

“Then we seem to be at an impasse,” Teldryn grimaced, raising onto the balls of his feet, he had the feeling he might need to move quickly. He rolled his shoulders as Erra reached for his arm. He looked down at his companion, who seemed to be in some distress.

“Please, no.” He whispered, his grip slacking a little.

Teldryn sighed and looked back towards the Gulakhan, whose face had started flushing a little. Rage, most likely rage, he thought as he balanced on the balls of his feet.

“Do you know what you are asking, Outlander?” The Gulakhan taunted as he leaned back in his seat.

“I know that you’ll accept an honour challenge,” Teldryn stated, raising his brow a little, “I’ll duel you for the right to meet with your Ashkhan.”

The Gulakhan grinned at him, leaning forward once again, “You wish to duel me, Outlander? Are you sure?”

“Teldryn, no—”

“I said I will duel you for the right to speak with your Ashkhan,” Teldryn repeated, glancing quickly at his guide. He apologised to the mer under his breath and stood, his grip firmly on the hilt of his wakizashi as he stared down the Gulakhan, “Until first blood, it will do me no good killing you.”

Zabamund raised an unruly brow at him as he stroked the thin beard that grew from his chin, “Very well, Outlander, if that is what you wish.” He stood, using his axe to steady himself. A leg injury, maybe? Something Teldryn could use to his advantage. The Gulakhan rolled his shoulders as he spoke, “Weapons only, and we duel to the death.”

“Until first blood, I’m not fighting past that,” Teldryn shook his head as he stood his ground, “First blood and no magic.”

The Gulakhan smiled, slowly approaching Teldryn, though his gaze seemed focused on his companion, who was only just getting to his feet, “I will enjoy slaying your companion, an’zil.”

Teldryn withdrew his sword ever so slightly, though he remained firmly in place as he stared down the Gulakhan. Zabamund certainly was walking with a limp, something he knew he could easily exploit if he played his first moves right. He just had to wait for the bastard to strike. Teldryn took a deep breath and readied his stance. If his goal was to knock Zabamund on his ass, he needed to start with a strong stance, “Never agreed to a duel to the dea—”

Zabamund swung his axe towards Teldryn’s face, and he acted quickly, unsheathing his blade and parrying the attack away from him. He quickly rolled to his left, away from the mer as he regained his bearings.

Teldryn landed on his feet just in time to dodge yet another swing from the Gulakhan, leaping instead to the mer’s right as he swung forward. There was power behind the mer’s swing, far more than what Teldryn was capable of, but he was slow, and his war axe was better suited for the open battlefield. Teldryn’s wakizashi was better suited to this sort of close-quarters combat. It’s why he’d chosen it when he was browsing Suran’s markets — he usually got into fights that required something more personable. Plus, he liked the balance of it…he’d even recently redecorated its hilt to match its scabbard. The bright blue tone made him smile, and he’d always been a bit of a show-off.

It was kinda what he was doing here, he wanted to show his guide just what he could do. Something about the mer’s comments that morning made him determined to prove him wrong. Of course, that was far easier in his head when he was puffing on a fucking cigarette. He’d made this plan without even seeing the guy. He’d gone off his usual style of fighting that he’d picked up whilst in prison and tried to merge with the swordplay he’d been learning since his release. The aim was to tire his opponent out early and disarm him quickly. He knew he would never stand a chance of attacking outright; he simply wouldn’t have enough power behind his strikes to do enough damage. This method had served him well since he was a kid…only he’d mostly been fighting guys who were about as malnourished as he was.

[anony-man]

We’ve got another collaboration here with my good friend Siberat, who also made some AMAZING artwork for this piece. I’m sooo excited to share it with you guys!

Under the cut is a fun little 6k story featuring Scrapper, Onslaught, and a ridiculous challenge given to them by Megatron: finish a nine-course meal or settle their silly feud. How will things turn out? Who knows! Read below to find out, and be sure to enjoy!

Siberat’s page | Illustration only | Ao3 link

(Credits for the cover art and the idea behind this story go to @siberat. Thank you for joining me in another awesome collaboration!)

It was the combiners who had their own thoughts, their own feelings, and performed their own actions based on such. It was the combiners themselves, Onslaught claimed, that made the problems happen, and it was the combiners in nature, Scrapper would argue, that got them all into the sticky situations that they so often encountered (or, more accurately, made up). One thing was for certain though, and Megatron knew it just as well as the two quarreling combiner team leaders—the heart of the problem wasn’t within their fused forms, but within the the quarrel between themselves.

There was no arguing with Bruticus when he was on a rampage, nor was there any reasoning with Devastator that didn’t involve the big, belligerent mech turning tail and running right back to fight with his sworn combiner enemy. The only solution was to solve the problem at its core, and with his new last-ditch efforts, Megatron was hoping to do just that.

The leaders were the problem, and the leaders would be the solution—however, said solution was tricky to find and even trickier to implement. The Decepticon leader was nearing his limits dealing with the two petulant giants and their petty rivalry, and with no end in sight, he had almost begun wishing he could simply let them fight it out and end things through equal death and destruction. Alas, the price of finding enough competent components was far higher than his annoyance, no matter how great, and Megatron knew it simply wasn’t that easy.

Onslaught made a fine strategist and an even finer pawn in Megatron’s little games. Scrapper, too, showed great prowess and even greater usefulness to Megatron’s needs. Both were important, and neither was expendable. It was difficult, and it made things tricky.

Megatron had learned early on from trial and error that there was no easy way of pitting the two against each other and coming out of the fiery aftermath with a new set of skilled mechs finally willing to work alongside each other. He had also learned that neither Bruticus nor Devastator was anywhere near the level of competence and compliance needed for him to form a temporary alliance, which was, of course, all due to their lead components inability to even share the same space together, let alone the same battlefield. It made things difficult when he was shouting orders over the sound of blasters firing and straining his fuel lines from the anger of watching two overgrown beasts going at it like a pair of underdeveloped sparklings, but this, to his surprise, would end up being his ticket to success.

Finally, there was a compromise. Finally, there was a way to pigeonhole the two mechs responsible for this mess… and to think that all he had to do was scream obscenities as loud as his vocal chords could support until the two battling buffoons stopped to listen.

“Bruticus!” he spat, his fist flying in the air as he beckoned them over with bright optics and a furious face. “Devastator! Come here, NOW!”

It felt all too much like watching two of his own offspring turning to look at him before cowering low and coming crawling back for their punishment. Megatron’s face flushed hot at the thought, his expression darkening. Childish beasts they were, and all because of a little fight between their lead components.

Bruticus was the first to try to speak, his battered arm spraying sparks as he raised it to point at Devastator. Megatron cut him off before he could do so much as utter a word, let alone a sound, and both big bots flinched back in surprise at the sound of their leader’s anger.

“You fools,” he said, glaring them down one at a time, “what in Unicron’s name do you think you’re doing over there, wasting Decepticon time and resources yet again? And don’t tell me you were fighting!”

Devastator was the first to break the silence, though Bruticus was quick to interject. Between the two of them, a stream of jumbled and confusing words followed—most of them unimportant, most of them more fuel added to the fire of contempt building in Megatron’s spark.

“Devastator make Megatron proud—“ one said.

“—Bruticus show Megatron how strong Bruticus is! Bruticus better than Devastator!” the other cut in.

“No!” Devastator snapped, whipping his helm around to glare at Bruticus before giving him a rough shove. “Devastator is the better combiner. Bruticus cowers under Devastator’s power.”

Bruticus shoved back. “Bruticus make Megatron proud!” Another servo around Devastator’s neck and the battle was rekindled. “Not Devastator! Devastator disappoint Mega—“

“Enough of this nonsense!” Megatron roared, a stomp of his pede and a shot fired into the sky putting a temporary end to the troublesome two. “You are both acting like sparklings! How many times have I told you to stop this nonsense!”

He stepped closer to the edge and found them watching him with every move, their fight forgotten. Good, he thought. It was about time they finally listened to reason.

“If approval is what you want…” he said, pointing at Bruticus, then at Devastator, “you’re going about it the wrong fragging way. I don’t tolerate foolishness from the best of my troops, and I certainly won’t be tolerating foolishness from either of you!”

“Bruticus is sorry!” the big brute burst out, “Bruticus will not let it happen again!”

“No,” Devastator added with a rough nudge, “Devastator will stop the fighting. Devastator will make Megatron proud!”

“Devastator is foolish,” Bruticus sneered, his visor narrowing. “Bruticus will—!”

It was where Megatron found his wit’s end. There was no reasoning with them in this mindset, and there was no solving the animosity between the two leaders. He huffed and growled and shook a fist in the air, putting another stop to the budding fight before it could begin again.

“If you both insist on acting so foolishly,” he said, his voice rising with every word, “then you can both prove your loyalty by acting in other foolish ways! Bah!”

It was meant to stop there. He couldn’t handle any more ridiculous arguments or petty dramas fought by petty leaders acting through their bigger, stronger counterparts. He wanted to turn back and call it quits, leave the two to their devices and hope for the best. He wanted them to tear each other apart once and for all and simply leave him the pieces.

He wanted peace. He wanted an end to this. But somehow… some way… he got both.

“Yes,” Devastator said, nodding slowly. “Yes… yes! We will do it! We will prove ourselves!”

“Bruticus will prove loyalty to Megatron,” Bruticus said, “Bruticus will show Megatron Bruticus is loyal!”

“No,” Devastator growled in turn, “Devastator will prove loyalty. Devastator will defeat Bruticus!”

“Bruticus will defeat Devastator!” Bruticus shouted, the ground shaking as he stomped a massive pede. “Bruticus will fight!”

“Devastator will fight!”

“Bruticus will rest!”

“Devastator will rest!”

Bruticus paused, his slow processor struggling to keep up.

“Bruticus will…” he paused, his helm tilted to the side. “Bruticus… will eat.”

Devastator’s engine rumbled as he stomped too, shifting closer and closer with inching steps forward. The two stood chest-to-chest and chin-to-chin as they growled back and forth, their gestalts’ plans solidified by the silly words of their combined forms.

“Devastator will eat,” Devastator said, “Devastator will eat more.”

From there, the problem practically solved itself. Megatron figured out what he was going to be doing for the next few days, at least, and at the top of his list was finding a way to gather Onslaught and Scrapper together for a long enough period to ensure their combined teams followed through with their plans.

It was foolproof—combiner-proof, he should say. The solution practically produced itself from there on out. All he had to do was sit back, set the scene, and watch the feud crumble.

— — —

Coming back out of the combined bond was always worse than post-coital clarity, especially when you knew your combined self had gotten up to embarrassing and regrettable actions… and especially when you were now forced to sit across from your (unofficially) sworn enemy and expected to follow up on the ridiculous plans made by the big mechs out on the battlefield. It was a first for both Scrapper and Onslaught, who hoped and prayed through begrudging side-eyed stares and huffy growls that this would be the last time they were forced to act upon the foolishness of poorly thought out plans from their easily influenced counterparts.

Neither leader had been all too pleased about the plans when Megatron had announced them, and they had been even less pleased when the instructions on arriving involved coming alone, not with the aid or company of their gestalt. It meant nothing good when a thought brewed from the minds of Devastator and Bruticus was involved, and it was even less pleasant when they were forced to sit together and wait in uncomfortable silence to see if Megatron really was going to follow through on his plan to make foolish things from foolish minds happen.

An eating competition. Of all things the two could have come up with, it just had to be an eating competition.

Megatron came in to interrupt the silent brooding fest just a minute too early for the real arguments to start, and he dragged along a buffet-style cart behind him. The smells were enough to make Scrapper’s scowl soften and Onslaught’s repulsion grow, but neither curiosity nor disgust lasted very long while they watched their commander lining the table in front of them with rows and rows of dishes hidden under silver domes. They were here for a lesson, not a meal, and the only emotions that lasted long enough to settle on their faces were grim acceptance and steely determination.

Megatron braced himself up with both servos planted along the edges of the table and let the silence draw out for a few moments longer. Neither Onslaught nor Scrapper dared to speak before he did. They had gotten themselves into enough trouble as is—they didn’t need to make things worse while he still held it over them.

“I’m sure both of you gentlemechs know why we’re here today,” he said, nodding to the silver trays and their domes concealing the food inside. “Regardless, I will be going over things again… and just so we’re clear—“ he paused, staring each of them down before he continued— “you and your teammates are not off the hook if petty fighting continues between Bruticus and Devastator. Understood?”

Scrapper turned to stare at Onslaught with a cool, unreadable gaze. Onslaught’s jaw hardened as he stared back and sighed, his vents huffing out air in the mildest show of displeasure he could afford.

“We understand,” Onslaught said.

Megatron nodded his approval. “Good. This is not anywhere close to what I had imagined I’d be dealing with when it came time to end this ridiculous animosity, but I’ll take what I can get. Now, listen closely.”

He reached for the knob of a dome and lifted it into the air, revealing a lavish spread of food underneath. The smell was heavenly, and the sight was enough to win even Onslaught over, who had leaned in to savor the sight alongside Scrapper.

“There are nine dishes in total,” Megatron said, dropping the lid back down onto the tray with a noisy sound that left both leaders flinching back in surprise. “Nine dishes each—all the same underneath. You will both eat your fill, and you will both come to an agreement. If no agreement can be found, then one of you will be expected to finish your plates…” under his breath, he muttered, “if you can bear to finish at all.”

Onslaught leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. His dissatisfaction was expected; Megatron knew he would be the more difficult of the two to convince.

“And if we don’t?” he said, his helm cocked to the side as he studied Megatron carefully. “Our feud runs deep, Lord Megatron. I don’t see it coming to an end so easily.”

“You have no choice!” Megatron snapped. “You are either to come to an agreement or finish your plates—no exceptions.”

He pushed himself up off of the table and stood over them for a moment, studying them with a critical eye.

“You two are at the root of the problem,” he said, “which means the solution is to be found between the two of you. Follow my instructions or don’t, but one thing is for certain.”

He turned away and headed for the door, glancing only briefly over his shoulder to glare them down a final time.

“There will be no second chances.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the two hungry mechs sitting alone with their thoughts and their appetites. They returned to the begrudging silence and uncomfortable air for a time, but after their task had been given to them, there was little point in remaining still or silent.

Onslaught was the first to speak. Grumpy and annoyed, his arms dropped, and his servos fell into his lap.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “All of this effort, just to treat us like sparklings.”

Scrapper grunted in return. “It’s true… but.” He tilted his helm. “You act out of line, you get the iron fist brought down on your back.”

“Don’t speak as though this isn’t your own doing, too,” Onslaught quickly snapped, his mask retracting to reveal the snarl underneath. He reached out for a tray and tugged it close. “This is as much your burden as it is mine.”

“Indeed,” Scrapper said, “so let’s tackle it like competent leaders and get this over with.”

The food smelled heavenly, and the platters were piled high from what they could tell, but things were not going to be easy. The challenge was daunting no matter which way they approached it. It was either stuffing themselves until they burst or coming to an agreement, but neither Onslaught nor Scrapper seemed quite ready for the latter. For now, at least, they could make an attempt at proving Megatron wrong and earning a place in the hierarchy for their combined selves.

Eighteen dishes were arranged in two rows on either side of the table. It was nine mystery meals for both mechs, and though they had brought the first plate close, neither seemed all too keen on lifting the dome and revealing what was underneath. Onslaught regarded the sight with a wrinkled nose and uncertain look, while Scrapper’s mouth remained set in a firm line.

“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” Onslaught said with a shake of his helm. “It’s ridiculous.”

“The combiners are ridiculous,” Scrapper corrected, “but yes. Unfortunately, I have to agree.”

He lifted a servo then paused, his fingers hovering over the lid. Onslaught joined him, and with a shared nod, both gestalt leaders lifted the domes and revealed their first meal.

“Oh, for Primus’ sake,” Onslaught muttered.

“And here I thought things couldn’t get worse than they already are,” Scrapper said as he tossed the lid aside and stared down the dish. “I stand corrected.”

It wasn’t a bad dish, per se. It was merely… unexpected. Messy. A little unprofessional. Thin and colorful noodles with enough sauce to cover three portions of the dish sat heaped up on both plates and topped with a healthy serving of four small, purple meatballs. The dish covered the plate from one end to the other, and its mere size was enough to leave both bots wincing in anticipation of the heavy and full feeling that would follow.

So much for their first meal. Onslaught couldn’t imagine choking it all down before it got cold, let alone polishing it off without making a mess of himself. There was silverware, at least—one pair for each of them. Megatron had been generous.

“It’s so…” Onslaught began, reaching for a fork to stab into the behemoth of a plate. His fork went right through the sauce, right through the noodles, stopping only once it reached halfway up the handle. “…big.”

“It could be worse,” Scrapper said with a shrug. He had already begun scooping up mouthfuls and shoveling it in, his technique sloppy but his seat still clean. “Start eating. It’ll go by faster.”

The fork went slack in Onslaught’s grasp. He stared down at the pile of spaghetti with a frown, his tanks twisting at the thought of polishing the entire dish off.

“This is unnecessary,” he said as he took another stab at the dish. He got a meatball this time, and the bright purple ball balanced perfectly on the tip of his fork before falling back onto the plate with a messy splash of sauce. “It’s disrespectful. Megatron should be mediating, not taunting.”

“You’re not going to get anything more out of him than he’s already given us,” Scrapper said, pausing his forkfuls to glare back at Onslaught. “Eat the food, mech. Get it over with.”

He knew he shouldn’t have expected anything more than icy hostility from Scrapper, but a bit of agreement on the matter would have been nice. Still, Onslaught roped in his ego and sat tall in his seat, taking care to polish off the dish one bite at a time compared to Scrapper’s rapid devouring.

It was a challenge for the first dish, and by the time they had finished, both mechs were feeling the pressure. Noodles were as filling as they were fattening, and with a plate piled high and a few hearty helpings of sauce to go with it, the challenge became that much more difficult. Onslaught was scooping up the last of his spaghetti while Scrapper finished off the last meatball left, but when their plates were finally, the relief was immense.

One down… eight more to go.

Curiosity got the best of them, which led to peeking under one dome, then two. Onslaught had found a row of perfectly seasoned and deliciously drowned ribs on his first plate, and Scrapper had discovered a plate evenly balanced with the dinner trio meal Megatron had briefly revealed to them earlier—thick slabs of meatloaf sat atop an assortment of various greenery sourced from various planets, and to top it all off, a hefty spoonful or two of bright blue potatoes mashed and creamed with the thickest purple gravy drizzled over top to round it out.

It looked good. Slag, it looked great. The worst thing about it? It was a hell of a lot of food, and that was covering the next two dishes for both of them.

“Mm,” Onslaught hummed aloud as he shoved the next dish in line aside and pulled his spare ribs closer. “I’m going for the ribs first. If we’re going to get through this disaster, we might as well enjoy some of it.”

“Good choice,” Scrapper said with a snort, having already stuck a fork into the tower of mashed potatoes. “I’ll let you know how much trouble you’ll be in when you get to this plate, then.”

In terms of flavor, there were no troubles—no troubles at all. Everything was rich and savory, warm and indulgent. It left them feeling good for the time being. In the inkling of their mind, it almost left them feeling warm like the food, hungry for reaching out and desperate to bond over a pleasant experience they knew would quickly turn. Alas, egos and rivalries won out, and neither leader dared to speak on what they knew to be the ultimate weakness. There was a reason for their animosity, even if they couldn’t quite remember why.

One dish worth three or more servings of food was enough to stuff the average mech, and though they were still thoroughly enjoying their food now, the gestalt leaders could feel the pressure brewing. Onslaught stifled belches behind each bite and secretly wished for something to wash it all down with, while Scrapper had fallen back into the silent and brooding mood as he huddled over his food and shoveled each bite in with less enthusiasm than before. One dish was enough, and two dishes was a lot. Three dishes would be too much, and four dishes…

Onslaught sighed as he tossed the last of the bones onto the plate and pushed it aside. The ribs were perfect, and the sauce was sweet, but his tanks were hurting, and his appetite had disappeared. He could barely think about what was under the next tray, especially not after seeing the second heaping plate taken on by Scrapper right next to him.

In a rare show of vulnerability, Onslaught groaned, a servo falling to clutch at his bloated belly.

Scrapper paused, glancing his way for a moment. He reached for his next plate and lifted the dome, revealing a similar dish of prime ribs drenched in sauce and seasoned to perfection underneath.

“Start with the greens,” he said, nodding to the next plate in Onslaught’s row, “then the potatoes. The meat will go down easily. It’s the best part of the dish.”

Despite his discomfort, Onslaught managed to chuckle. He raised a brow, his visor expressing his interest.

“Good meat on that plate too then, hmm?”

Scrapper was back to picking at his third plate and nibbling at the ribs. “Mm. It all has been. The rest? Not so much.”

Onslaught grunted in return. “Agreed.”

Slowly, steadily, they worked through their third dishes. The spare ribs were the easy part. The potatoes, the greens, and the meatloaf, however… not so much. It was a full plate and a big meal, mild in flavor and heavy in the belly. Scrapper had been right to finish it off first, Onslaught realized, but from the strained determination his opponent had as he worked through the ribs, he, too, had been right to savor those first before things became too difficult to enjoy.

By the time either mech had managed to settle from the agony of stuffing three massive meals into their tanks, the thought of lifting the fourth lid and discovering what was underneath seemed far too daunting. They couldn’t even harbor the simple anger towards each other, let alone keep energy up towards overcoming the impossible challenge. Their goal now was to struggle, survive, and make it out alive.

Scrapper, leaning back in his seat and breathing slowly as he massaged his middle, glanced over at Onslaught, who was still struggling to hide his discomfort behind an awkward grimace and discreet belly rubs. He didn’t want to think it, let alone speak it, and yet—

“Would you like to do the honors?” he said, gesturing to the next domed meal in line, “or should I?”

Onslaught swallowed hard as he pushed himself upright again and reached out with a shaky servo. He seemed just as unwilling to continue as Scrapper felt, but both mechs knew they had no choice. Not unless they gave in… not unless they made up.

“Let’s get it over with,” the Combaticon grunted as he lifted the dome and braced for the sight. He paused for a moment, confused by the food underneath. Then: “please tell me that is not…”

Scrapper, who had lifted his own dome and now scowled down at the pair of identical hot dogs lining his plate, nodded grimly.

“It is.”

It was the last thing either mech would want to eat, and here it sat—not one, but two. Two identical hot dogs, purple and plump, lined by a thick drizzle of sauce on either side and nestled in fluffy blue buns. The condiments were in excess, and the hot dogs were massive. Scrapper reached out for the first of the two, but Onslaught remained still, repeatedly shaking his helm.

“I can’t do it,” he said, “I’m not eating that.”

Bad moods and bellyaches made lashing out a whole lot easier, and though Scrapper didn’t nearly lose his temper with his gestalt as often as he knew Onslaught must have, he still found himself pausing mid-bite with a twinge of annoyance.

“Of course you are,” he harshly replied. “We’re both eating it—both of them.”

Onslaught watched with poorly concealed disgust as Scrapper brought his first hot dog to his mouth and took a bite. It was a mouthful, and his discomfort did not go unnoticed, but after three more big bites torn off of the dish, he was halfway finished.

“Th—urrrp—there,” he said, panting between words and bracing himself against his chair. “Simple. Finish the dish, Onslaught. Do as I do.”

Onslaught held out for a moment longer before his resolve broke, and with a defeated sigh, he reached out for the first hot dog. Scrapper was already polishing off his second by the time Onslaught had maneuvered his way around the first bite, and while he finished off his plate and tossed it aside, a quick glance out of the corner of his optics left him in poorly controlled hysterics.

“What are you doing?” he scoffed, his shoulders shaking with discreet giggles. “You’re not going to finish it off like that, Onslaught. It’s not going to bite you.”

Onslaught growled, his efforts ceased as he glared back at Scrapper. “I am trying, but your interruptions certainly aren’t helping.”

“No?” Scrapper asked, his irritation twisting into an amused smile. “Very well then. Maybe this will.”

Scrapper leaned in, and Onslaught leaned back, visibly confused and very horrified. The first of the two hot dogs was snatched from his fingers and shoveled into his mouth in a quick, fluid motion, and aside from the startled sound and muffled mmph! Onslaught managed to utter, he could do nothing to fight back and nothing to stop it. His only choice was to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.

“Mmnk—guh,” he gasped, wiping at his face and staring back in disgust at Scrapper, who was already reaching for the second hot dog. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“We’ll get nowhere if we don’t cooperate,” Scrapper snapped. “Believe me, I despise this just as much as you do, but revolting against the situation we’ve gotten ourselves stuck in will do no good.”

He lifted the last hot dog, and Onslaught grimaced.

“Giving in is what he wants,” he said, his servo gently rubbing at his taut belly while Scrapper held the hot dog and beckoned for him to take a bite. “It feels wrong to give in.”

“And yet the only other options are giving in or finishing off our plates,” Scrapper said. “I, for one, do not see either option as feasible.”

“And I suppose that means we ought to try anyway, right?” Onslaught asked.

“Exactly,” Scrapper nodded.

For the time being, it was a comforting thought. Onslaught knew just as well as Scrapper that there was no possible way to polish off all of the dishes, but right now, while finding a middle ground seemed just as impossible, he knew it was better that they at least gave it a try.

The hot dogs were the most difficult dish by far, and after the struggle of working down the second one, Onslaught dreaded what came next. He left Scrapper with the pleasure of revealing their tanks’ next torment, and when the lid came off, he was relieved.

Sleek, silver, and slim, the little cyber-fish lay baked to perfection atop a bed of thin greens. The smell was a strong one, as was the flavor, but it was a pleasant sight to follow up the miserable experience of choking down two disgusting and dry hot dogs.

At least Onslaught thought so. He was so consumed by leaning in and savoring the smell of his own dish that he hadn’t immediately realized Scrapper was back to cowering in his chair with his gaze averted and a servo covering his nose.

“What?” Onslaught said, his confusion morphing into a smile similar to the one Scrapper had been wearing only a few moments prior. “Can’t handle your fifth dish?”

Scrapper glanced his way, but the servo stayed covering his face. He didn’t dare look back at the fish. The bright yellow eye staring back at him was far too realistic for his taste, and the smell was appalling. He could do nasty—he practically lived off of nasty—but this? This was pushing it.

“You’ve complained about repulsive dishes,” he said, nodding towards the small catch on his plate, “but the real repulsive dish is right there. Ugh… I don’t eat fish.”

Onslaught gave a rude snort and shook his helm. His own dish was dissected and ready for eating. He could barely manage to take another bite, but the fish was small, light. It was manageable, at least.

“Choke it down,” he said with a shrug. “I managed to finish the hot dogs. You can finish the fish.”

Scrapper hesitated for a moment longer, his straight face twisted ever so slightly into a disgusted frown as he lowered his servo. It was a feasible dish, judging by the way Onslaught so meticulously worked around the bone structure.

Slag, there was hardly anything there. He could manage that, surely.

“…fine,” he said, scooting his chair in and reaching for his fork, “but only because the other option would be forfeiting.”

Onslaught hummed his agreement. “Yes. And we are nowhere near that desperate just yet, right?”

No answer followed—only the sounds of cutlery and angry bellies grumbling pitifully in the background. The feast was impossible, but neither mech was anywhere near ready to call it quits. They could keep trying… they were nearly halfway there already.

Their determination was great, but the challenge was difficult. The fish was polished off quickly enough, and after a quick break in between meals to let their angry bellies settle, the two mechs continued on.

Meats, soups, and sides galore followed, each dish growing harder to swallow than the last. They chomped their way through turkey legs and chugged down thick, warm soup, and they powered through the next three dishes while their bellies groaned and sloshed beneath them. The challenge was getting harder, and the end seemed nowhere in sight, but Onslaught refused to call it quits, and Scrapper was determined not to be the first one to suggest giving in.

The more they ate, the fuller they became, and the fuller they became, the tighter their plating felt. The sounds of slobbering mechs throwing tact aside in favor of finishing off their punishment as soon as possible was highlighted by the sounds of their bellies protesting the massive amounts of food being packed inside, but the longer they went stuffing their faces, the more precarious the background noises became.

By the eight dish, their pace had slowed dramatically, and their bellies had ballooned out across both of their laps. Onslaught had taken up panting for breath and gasping through the tremors rolling through his swollen and taut belly as he struggled to polish off the second half of his plate, while Scrapper’s strong and steady pace had slowed down to constantly chewing the same bite for minutes on end so he could put off reaching for another piece. Their frames were dwarfed by the massive domes pinning them in place, and the silence between them had been replaced by the constant and angry sounds of their tanks fighting valiantly against immense amounts of food stuffed past their sore jaws.

The chairs creaked. Onslaught groaned, his servos scratching against warped plating as he powered through another painful spasm in his belly. Scrapper sighed with relief, his mouthful finally swallowed. For a time, neither mech moved. Neither mech spoke for a time. It was too difficult, too painful. The balance between focus and success was already precarious, and they feared any distractions may be the end of it altogether.

Scrapper was the first to break their latest silence. He shifted in his chair with a grimace, his belly whining in response to the slight movement, then pounded a fist against his chest and winced through the painful belch that came up from his efforts.

“urrrrrrup! Urgh…” he groaned, the fisted servo moving back to pawing at his bloated belly. “So much food left to go…”

Onslaught groaned in return, his frame sagging with the sigh that followed. “So much eaten already. It’s never ending.”

Scrapper shrugged as he leaned forward and reached for another bite. It was a simple dish, cheap and greasy like the hot dogs. Eight cheesy slices of pizza had been hiding underneath the dish, and so far, he was about to start on his fifth.

“There is an end in sight,” he said, glancing at Onslaught as he took his first bite. The mech had hardly finished off two slices—he was still working through a third. “We can finish off what we’ve got here, or—“

“No,” Onslaught growled. “We are not calling a truce.”

Scrapper shrugged. “Then keep eating.”

It was that simple, really. He just had to reach out, pick up a slice, and finish it off… times five. Onslaught shuddered at the thought. He could hardly manage to pack what he had eaten into his belly, let alone stuff anything else in there, but he had no choice. With new resolve, he shifted into a slouch, reached for the next slice…

…and promptly jumped back in surprise at the rattling sound of his belly plating popping free and flying across the room.

“Scrap!” he spat, his visor wide and his servos thrown aside.

Scrapper, startled by the sound, nearly dropped his half-eaten slice of pizza as he whipped around to stare at his opponent. “The frag was that?”

“I…” Onslaught began. His cheeks grew hot as he stared down at the mess it left behind. “My plating. It…”

It was gone—popped off of the hinges and halfway across the room. The relief was immediate, but the effects were embarrassing. It felt weird, watching his belly sag into his lap and melt around the edges. Swollen mesh was rounded out and perfectly curved, firm to the touch but still soft and squishy around the edges. It gave him some breathing room, at least, but it didn’t make a very pleasant sight—and Scrapper apparently agreed.

The amusement was instant, their pizza forgotten. Scrapper’s belly jiggled with every choked intake as he roared with laughter, and the servo not still holding a slice slapped against his side.

“Slag, mech!” he barked, his words sputtered between snorts and chuckles. “You popped your fragging plating off! Hah! Didn’t realize you were that stuffed!”

Onslaught sat and silently fumed, his face hot with embarrassment and his own servos hiding the aftermath.

“You have no place to laugh,” he scowled, his fingers melting into the mesh of his belly. “You’re more the glutton between the two of us, stuffing yourself so easily.”

“Maybe so,” Scrapper snickered as he stuffed the last of his slice into his mouth and reached for the next piece, “but at least I still have my plating intact and my ego—“

An ominous creaking followed—not the plating on their frames, nor the table under their weight, but the chair beneath Scrapper. A moment later and it was crumbling beneath him, leaving the poor Constructicon sprawled out on his back and pinned in place by the weight of his belly.

There was no laughter that time. There was no struggling, no reaching for the next slice of pizza in hopes of coming out on top. Onslaught was far too busy nursing the massive blob of burbling mesh and angry tanks that his belly had become, and Scrapper was trapped by his own gluttonous mistakes. Their appetites were far past lost by then, and with it, their determination. Only embarrassment remained, and with the embarrassment, realization.

The silence was louder than ever before, and both mechs were stewing in their own personal shame. Onslaught had turned away as he rubbed at his belly, and Scrapper had given up on trying to sit upright, let alone roll onto his front. They were quiet, awkward, and still, until…

“Truce?” the Constructicon asked, soft and hesitant.

Onslaught didn’t respond at first, but the slow, eventual nod he gave was plenty enough. “Truce.”

[egophiliac]

missed the mark by (looks at calendar) uhhh. hm. but I really wanted to do something for the 5th anniversary! happy five years to these idiots 🎉

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[phykoha]

Sigh... Mikey won the poll...... Guess I am cursed to forever be Mikey....... /silly fhdgjfds

[cobaltfluff]

goro picks up a clingy nyakiren

[iknowicanbutwhy]

@chipper-smol I couldn't get the thought out of my head of dragon loop flying on unfamiliar wings away from their problems because obviously that's why they have them haha ha ha

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

wizard enjoyer!!! Have you ever played tactical breach wizards? it’s a turn-based video game about wizards going on heists; to me it’s a little bit like if all the pieces on a chess board had psychological issues and their own special gun. asking because i think your safety wizard would absolutely loathe steve the traffic warlock (who sucks)

I don't know what's funnier to me; the implication of him being a warlock, or the fact his name is Steve.

[yes-asil]

Take two on designing game!agent Stone for fun

[artuurle]

ends of the earth

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

oh, how you drive me crazy!!

[benevolenterrancy]

Swords pining for each other's cultivator is my new favorite type of pining. Love your NieYao content! <3

I don't suppose we could get Baxia or Hensheng throwing a tantrum while Jin Guangyao / Nie Mingjue are away, leaving their owners to deal with the embarrassing aftermath?

Also, do you have any recs you'd recommend with these two?

this is the exact moment Nie Huaisang realised he was going to have to start meddling in his big brother's love life (con't: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

Hensheng, on the other hand, doesn't throw tantrums but WILL sulk...