anony-man

[anony-man]

Clear Your Plates (illustration)

this is the illustration of anony-man’s Drabble found here.

Here we have the 2 gestalt leaders battling it out… with how much they can eat. Did they overdo it? Who knows…. Read and find out!

I did rework an old piece of art, but put a new twist on it- tried more of lineless aspect to it. Gah, this was def fu. To draw and def a treat to colab with anony man again!

[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.”

[anony-man]

Change of plans 💖

Original post deleted, disregard any updates on that. Drabbles will be back to posting on Thursday… and before that, the secret little project will drop Wednesday!

Happy readinggggg 💪

[anony-man]

"You're preaching to the converted. We aim to maim!"

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #243!

Characters: Blitzwing & Bumblebee (TFA)

Word count: 1.6k

Blitzwing could prove to be a lot for the average bot to rein in. The whole three-in-one personalities thing was a stretch without throwing in a voracious appetite and a strange habit of kidnapping his feeders for a little bit of fun when they least expected it. However, every big scary beast had its weaknesses, and Bumblebee had figured Blitzwing out fairly early on. He all but had the triple-changer wrapped around his finger now, appetite and all. The mech was nothing more than a needy (and, at times, very temperamental) puppy begging for his attention anymore, and Bumblebee couldn’t be more pleased.

…well, okay. If he could change anything, he certainly wouldn’t mind changing one thing, but with a mech like Blitzwing—and a silly personality who worked on a whim outside anyone’s understanding—Bumblebee had to learn rein in his own desires somewhere. The kidnapping was a bit much, especially when he was in the middle of something important when it happened... which was every time.

Blitzwing was giddier than giddy by the time he’d hauled aft and dragged poor Bumblebee off to somewhere a little less crowded and a lot more stocked. The jack-o’-lantern smile and bright red visor-for-optics were telling, even if the whole “kidnapping on company” time thing was already a given. He was in a mood that day—a hungry mood, a needy mood, a silly mood… he was in all of the moods, but above all, he was in a Bumblebee mood.

Bumblebee had guessed his day would involve a bit of unscheduled fun when he heard the telltale cackle coming up on him from behind, but he did still have a job to do. It was why he was so adamant about getting the scolding part out of the way first before they dared had any fun. He had to keep Random’s attention, after all, just as he had to tell Blitzwing off in general for pulling the typical ‘Con snatch-and-go deal on him.

“I was in the middle of a recon mission, Blitz!” he said, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs straddling Blitzwing’s big, grumbling belly. “Obviously you’re hungry, and obviously I’d much rather be doing anything else than scouring the perimeters and playing cat-and-mouse with Starscream but…”

But priorities. Work came first, and play came second. Unfortunately there wasn’t much point in talking sense into a mech whose thought process relied on his fuel tank’s capacity levels, so Bumblebee trailed off with another dramatic huff and his arms uncrossing and crossing again over his chest. Blitzwing, for once, had the decency to stare back at him in silence, but the goofy grin and bright, excited visor-optics remained.

“Oh, you,” Bumblebee sighed with a servo slapping against Blitzwing’s belly. “Okay, okay. Fine! We’ll eat first, then I’ll lecture you for the umpteenth time on why I prefer your random kidnappings to be less random and more predictable, ‘kay?”

It was the best he could do. His day had been boring as is. A little fun with Blitzwing’s freaky side was exactly the kind of thing he needed to spice up the monotony.

The most unpredictable side of the triple-changer always seemed a hell of a lot less unpredictable when he was wriggling under Bumblebee’s weight and waiting to be fed. It was something they had both discovered on accident, in fact, and it was something Bumblebee still tore himself apart over indulging. Alas, it was the kind of thing you simply had to keep coming back for, and for a mech with his standing, being able to wrap a big, scary ‘Con around his fingers and have him lapping fuel from the cube he held was a pretty slagging big accomplishment.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that Blitzwing was pretty fragging hot… and it sure didn’t help that Blitzwing also found it pretty fragging hot to get under a mech like Bumblebee for a little bit of fun.

The biggest bragging rights came from taking one of the scariest sides of Blitzwing and taming him down until he was begging for fuel and purring under Bumblebee’s lap. Bumblebee took more pleasure than he cared to admit from laying Random out and stuffing him so full of fuel he was no better than a drunk and subby version of himself. It was immediate satisfaction every time, just like the satisfaction from being dragged back here, and sitting atop Blitzwing’s belly, and feeling him swell up with fuel…

Bumblebee grinned as he watched Blitzwing chug down one cube after another. The ‘Con’s belly was visibly swelling beneath him, and with one servo sacrificed to holding up the cube for Blitzwing to drink from, Bumblebee used his other to stroke at the stuffed, taut surface. It was a few cubes at first, then several cubes after that. Before he knew it, he was stuffing the ‘Con past even Bulkhead’s limits, and Blitzwing was still hungry for more.

“There ya go,” he said, one servo rubbing at Blitzwing’s belly while the other reached for the stack of cubes sitting at the ready right next to them. Blitzwing was always prepared when it came time for stuffings, and Bumblebee loved it. It meant he didn’t have to move from his perch atop the growing, sloshy belly. “Feeling it now, I bet.”

Blitzwing didn’t respond, having gotten himself too caught up in drinking to care. With their steady groove going, Bumblebee chanced the attempt at fitting a few extra cubes into the ‘Cons tanks, just for progress’ sake. He pushed cubes while Blitzwing was still a giggling, happy mess, and he continued to push cubes even after that cackling face twisted into something a little more stunted. The smile never left, but the belly grew, and with it, the ‘Con’s appetite waned.

They were twenty cubes in, then thirty. Bumblebee was shuffling them around by the thirty-five mark and sliding down to sit himself down in Blitzwing’s lap and forcing the ‘Con to sit upright to make room for the last few containers. Blitzwing was groaning by that time, and Random was struggling to stay motivated. It was a test of resolve just as much as it was a chance for Bumblebee to take charge and stuff the mech silly, and as always, the little scout was slowly winning out.

Bumblebee had tossed aside the fortieth cube into the empty pile of containers and reached for his next one when a small, pitiful sounding whine paused him. He snickered in return and dropped the cube back onto the table, his attention returning to the massive belly spilling over Blitzwing’s lap and hiding the ‘Con’s face from view.

Success yet again. Bumblebee couldn’t have been more smug if he tried.

“You good, Blitz?” Bumblebee said, his helm poking up over the curve of Blitzwing’s belly as he pawed at the taut mesh and tried to push it aside. He couldn’t quite see Blitzwing’s face, but he could hear him… and from what he could hear, he could tell they were heading back into comfort-and-chastise territory. “Didn’t bite off more than you could chew again, did you?”

Bumblebee’s view was obstructed by a massive servo cupping the belly, but this time around, he got a real answer.

“Ohh… bested again by the little Autobot scout, heheh,” Blitzwing giggled, his voice tinged with pain. “Owww, my tummy...”

“Oh yeah,” Bumblebee said, “yeah, you’re done, big guy. Come on, lie back down so I can help you out.”

With a belly as round as a bowling ball and bigger than Bumblebee entirely, Blitzwing had no choice. It held him down as he fell back against his berth, and the gurgling satisfaction of a big, full meal groaned from the inside as the small Autobot climbed his way to the top. Perched above, he was able to get a clear view of Blitzwing’s face… and yet somehow, by the powers of his strange third’s personality, the mech was still grinning ear to ear.

“You ready for that scolding yet, or should I wait for your meal to settle?” Bumblebee asked, teasing and snarky as he patted Blitzwing’s belly with both servos. At the noisy sound of stuffed tanks in response, Bumblebee raised a brow and moved on to rubbing. “Geez, mech, you sure polished it off today… guess you really couldn’t wait.”

He could have… truthfully, he could have, but there was no fun to be had in that. Recon missions were boring as is, and Bumblebee liked a little side of fun with his danger—not that there was anything dangerous about a stuffed and purring mech all stretched out beneath him, but still. The stories deviated far from the experience, and by the time he managed to head home, he’d have quite the tale concocted in his head.

The important followup to stuffing his ‘Con silly was the belly rub while Blitzwing snoozed, and as Blitzwing’s optics slipped shut and his wide smile turned to snoring, Bumblebee made himself comfortable atop the big, rumbly belly. This really was a hell of a lot better than recon, he admitted to himself, and scoldings or not, he couldn’t deny how much he liked the aftermath to his unplanned and unprompted kidnappings.

The biggest ‘Cons made the sweetest berthmates, as he always said, and to his further surprise, the scariest ‘Cons made the best mechs to stuff. It was all about catching one’s interest… and from there, catching one’s appetite.

[anony-man]

Another thing fandom needs to start doing more of is projecting on tops.

There are delicious amounts of psychological distress you can inflict on that guy once you get into his head. The brainworms of forcing agency and initiative on someone who genuinely is Not Fucking Ready For It are exquisite.

[anony-man]

@siberat

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #242!

Character: Starscream (TFP)

Word count: 1.2k

It was constant. The fuel, the anxiety, the fuel to stop the anxiety… it was a never-ending cycle, and he wanted to stop, he needed to stop, but he couldn’t stop.

The Nemesis had become a feeding ground for fearful interactions and anxiety-inducing discussions. No matter how hard Starscream tried to keep his struggles concealed, he just couldn’t stop it. He was nervous and on edge, constantly waiting for the next blow to strike while struggling to keep his fears contained in closed quarters. He couldn’t admit to the weakness, of course, but he couldn’t shake the creeping sense of dread that followed him down the halls and into the command room.

Starscream was already wringing his servos and rattling off the list of cubes concealed in his quarters when he rounded the corner and scurried far, far away from Megatron’s sight. There were big plans on the horizon—big plans and bigger opportunities, which meant he was being counted on just as heavily as he was being watched. His latest schemes had become the focus of Megatron’s latest interest, and though Starscream wanted nothing more than to stockpile and save as much as he could, his leader had grown… er… suspicious. Again. What else was new?

He couldn’t stop it. Truthfully, he couldn’t. He couldn’t help himself, as all his other aids had failed him yet. Snacking between shifts had become cathartic, and from there the sticky downward spiral was only growing more and more intense. He found comfort in fuel, and he found safety in the sensation of a warm, full belly. It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t good in the long term, but it helped. It stopped the fears, it soothed his anxieties.

His nervous habit was getting out of hand. Knock Out saw it. Breakdown commented on it in passing. Soundwave had watched him from afar, and Megatron was onto him—not onto him onto him, but… suspicious. He knew something was amiss, and he knew something was going on behind his back. It wasn’t good, and it sure as slag wasn’t ideal, but it—it… it helped.

Fuel soothed his fears and calmed his mind, but there were downsides to the habit. It put a dent in their rations like nothing else, and it clung to his frame like there was no tomorrow. He could see the changes from simply looking in the mirrors, and he could feel the added weight squeezing into place when he transformed. It was there, noticeable and growing, drawing attention from the outside and impacting his anxieties… and that, in of itself, was what kept the cycle going.

Starscream kept his helm down and moved quickly, his gaze fixed on the floor and his focus on getting to his quarters. He could see his reflection in the shiny walls surrounding him, and he could hear the rhythm thrum of his pedes clacking against the floor—louder anymore, louder than before, louder due to his weight or louder due to his fears—as he headed for the stash of fuel waiting for him.

“I have plenty of fuel stored out of sight,” he murmured to himself, his voice wavering as he turned another corner and headed for his door. “If I ration it out for tonight, I can… no, no, there won’t be enough. Unless I were to keep three for the morning, after our meeting…”

He hadn’t refueled yet that day, which meant there was plenty waiting for him just beyond the door. Starscream punched in the code and rushed inside, taking care to shut it tight and lock it down behind him before he dared to settle in.

In his quarters, away from the world outside and away from Megatron’s control, he was safe. Sound. Secure. He was hungry though, and still so very rattled. He headed straight for the berth and dove right into his energon stash, taking one cube, then two, then three…

“There are only so many here,” he spoke aloud, “maybe just one for the night, to ease my nerves… or two, perhaps, or maybe—maybe three…?”

He paused for a moment, his servo outstretched while the other held a few cubes close to his chest.

“Bah!” he finally spat as he reached in and scooped up the entirety of his stash. “Why not take them all? I can get more tomorrow. The vehicons will survive without a cube here and there, and Knock Out won’t mind if I drop by for another special order.”

Nothing beat stuffing himself until he was sore and swollen. Feeling bloated and achy was the goal, and in order to get there Starscream knew he had plenty of rations to drink. He settled in the center of his berth and held the cubes close, taking his time in polishing them off one after another.

His relief was immense, and the comfort was instant. Megatron’s threats and the prying stares of onlookers melted with each sip, and though Starscream dutifully ignored the mech staring back at him from the mirror positioned across from his bedside, his contentment was unrivaled. He was finally calmed, freed, and relaxed again. As always, the fuel did the trick, and his indulgence proved to be the perfect buffer.

“No one will mind a few extra cubes missing from the pile come morning,” he said to himself as he drained the energon one cube at a time. It was sweet, rich, and so warm in his tanks… the perfect solution to easing his mind. “No one will care, and if they ask? Hah! Good luck getting an answer out of your superior.”

Finally, he was back to his usual self. Confident, comfortable, and full… not at all ignoring the reflection glaring at him, either. Not at all. Starscream sniffed as he snatched up the last of his stash and took a sip, glancing out of the corner of his optics at the mirror standing against the wall beside him.

“And what are you staring at, hmm?” he sneered at its reflection, his servo dropping to rest the cube in his lap. “This is for the greater good! We need this. It helps us.”

As always, silence answered him. Starscream’s sour expression faltered as he caught sight of his frame in the mirror, slouched and curving and plumping up in places he couldn’t imagine. It was always a bad thing to observe himself from the berth, he reasoned, but the image remained the same no matter his position.

Sitting, standing, huddled in front of the mirror with his face hidden by his servos… it was all the same.

He sniffed again, then lifted the last cube to his lips. His servo shook; he was back to feeling anxious.

It was a vicious cycle, and one he knew he’d never fall out of. The fuel helped, though… it did. It really did. He could turn to it after Megatron’s worst punishments and find himself soothed by the very taste, the weight in his belly, and the comfort of something waiting for him in his quarters. Even now, as he struggled to look at the face staring back at him—his own face, the one softened and soured by fuel and anxieties alike—he found comfort in the cube he held.

It helped him. It fixed him. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #241!

Characters: Drift (& Sideswipe & Minicons - RiD)

Word count: 1.3k

The trap was set, and the plan was simple. According to Sideswipe, all of the small details that went into making this great prank take place were already settled. He took the brunt of the workload, as he had claimed—the minicons need do nothing more than back him up and make sure everything went accordingly.

Jetstorm had jumped at the opportunity to play a good prank on their mentor. It was foolproof and harmless according to the vague details Sideswipe had given them, which made it the perfect setup for a few good laughs. Slipstream, who had also been eager and excited at first, slowly found his resolve waning the longer they sat hidden out of sight and watching for Drift to return from practice.

So far, things were on the right track. Sideswipe had put together a special elixir mix of fuels—something he had vehemently refused to share the details of with the minicons, as that was supposedly apart of the “big reveal”—and left the unassuming cube in the minicons’ clutches. He had decided on distracting Drift with some intense training for the day while the two small bots prepared the setup to look as natural as possible, and now, as their mentor and leader of the fun little prank came into view from the distance, the two scrambled to get into position.

Training was rigorous, and Drift always made a habit of refueling afterwards. It was what Slipstream had said while Sideswipe snickered over his strange and unnamed concoction, and it was what Jetstorm agreed on as the third mischievous mech of their crew solidified the plan. Now things were in motion, and all they could do was watch, wait, and listen… all after they gave their mentor the energon, that is.

Jetstorm had stood up from his crouch and was reaching for the cube when Slipstream stopped him, a servo extended and his face twisted in a nervous frown. He had been second-guessing this whole thing from the start, but now that it was time for it to begin, his worries had grown.

“Hey, wait,” he said, his arm the one thing blocking Jetstorm from reaching for the cube. “Don’t you think this all seems a little, uh…”

“What?” Jetstorm nudged right past him and snatched up the cube. Drift and Sideswipe were getting closer. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now, Slipstream. It’ll be fine! It’s just a harmless little prank.”

Slipstream frowned a little deeper. “Yeah… right. Harmless fun, that’s all.”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. After all, it was just a bit of fuel. Maybe Sideswipe had made it taste funny, or maybe he’d switched it out with engex, or… or maybe—

“Heh-hey, guys!” Sideswipe called out to them with a wave. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long! We just got back from the training field.”

Drift was silent as he walked in sync with Sideswipe’s casual pace, but his smile was warm as he waved his minicons over. That was the second part of their plan falling into place—they couldn’t join him for a sparring session that day, but they did have something special in store when he returned.

“I hope we haven’t kept you waiting for long,” Drift said once they had stopped, “and I am sorry to hear that you couldn’t accompany us. However—“

His smile grew as Jetstorm lifted up the cube for him to take, and he took it happily, much to Slipstream’s disappointment.

“—I am grateful to have you both here to accompany me again. Training is important…”

“But refueling is more important,” Jetstorm nodded. “Well, drink up, Drift! Me, Slipstream and Sideswipe made it up special for you.”

Sideswipe could hardly contain his snickering as he moved to stand beside the minibots. “That we did,” he said between chuckles, his amusement far from discreet.

The two minibots waited in anxious anticipation as their mentor tipped the cube back and drained it in one go. He finished without a sound and without a grimace, acting as though there was nothing different about the fuel at all. They had expected a foul taste, or maybe a dramatic disappearing act, or perhaps something out of the ordinary that made Sideswipe so eager to keep the prank a secret, but from the looks of things, nothing was amiss—nothing at all.

There were no signs at first. Nothing seemed wrong, and nothing had happened. The calm didn’t last long, however, and after the first moments of relief had passed, Drift’s contented expression soured.

It was hardly noticeable at first, save for the sounds of creaking metal and Drift’s groaning. He looked confused, then panicked, then… swollen. His gasps turned into muffled sounds stifled by his cheeks puffing up around his face, and his servos cupping his belly were thrown aside as his middle rapidly expanded. It was his face first, then his belly, then his arms and his thighs drowned by swollen mesh and too-tight plating that popped at the seams and warped around his rounded frame.

Both Slipstream and Jetstorm were frozen in horrified shock at the sight of their mentor ballooning up until he was as big as Grimlock and rounder than a berry. His servos still waved frantically as he wobbled in place, and his pedes—covered by the mass of mesh swelling up and bloating outward—were hardly visible until he was falling backwards and trapped on his back.

Sideswipe was bent over his knees and cackling up a storm at the sight. It was perfect—everything had gone according to plan, right down to the fearful looks on the two minibots’ faces as they scrambled to right their mentor and babbled apologies between their pitiful explanations.

“We’re so sorry—!” Slipstream cried as he clung to Drift’s servo and stared up at the sight. “We didn’t think—“

“We didn’t mean for this to happen!” Jetstorm cut in between running back and forth around poor Drift as he searched for a vantage point. “Sideswipe had said—“

“And the fuel—“

“And then we thought it was just a little prank, and—and—“

Both minibots wailed in unison as they clung to their mentor, who was still struggling to right himself. Sideswipe had fallen to the ground in a heap of laughter nearby, but between the tears and the hiccuping snorts, he, too, managed to say his piece.

“You should all see your faces right now!” he cackled, a trembling servo lifted to point at the sphere-shaped mech and his two panicked mentees. “You—you guys look so scared, I—ah, I just—I just can’t take it, it’s too funny!”

“It won’t happen again,” Slipstream stammered.

“We won’t ever play pranks on you ever again!” Jetstorm said as he clung to Drift’s other servo. “We’re sorry, Drift, we’re so, so sorry!”

Drift tried to speak, but with his face covered in chub just like the rest of him, all he could muster was a few muffled sounds. It was just enough for the two minibots to understand, though, and the damage was already done. He was swollen up like a cyber-berry and was looking just the part. With any luck, the effects would wear off by the end of the day… if not later.

“Got you two good, didn’t I?” Sideswipe chuckled after he had gotten his bearings back. Both minibots looked back to him with dread as Drift muffled something unintelligible, but it only served to make him laugh more. “That oughta teach ya to prank with me! If you can’t keep up, don’t bother trying!”

It was true—two lessons had been learned that day. For one, they knew never to play pranks on their mentor that they couldn’t back up. For another, well… never play pranks with Sideswipe, period. It could only end messily, or in this case, with the poor bot on the other end of the prank ballooned up and blue in the face from some strange fuel concoction.

[anony-man]

cooking up a Onslaught piece…. Not revealing much other than a cropped helm shot… and to tell you all onslaught got himself into a pickle… again… ;)

[anony-man]

It’s time

Scribbled something short, horrible, and freakishly erotic down for future me to flesh out in a secret story and of course it has everything to do with texaid. Is this not their dynamic

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #240!

Character: Sky Lynx (G1)

Word count: 1.2k

With one swift motion of his helm, Sky Lynx was launching another energon cube into the air and watching it fall with his jaws spread wide. It twirled once, twice, then thrice before landing right into his mouth to be swallowed in a similarly smooth and swift action. Perfection as always, and a grand display for anyone who was watching… which was no one, of course, but still, Sky Lynx knew he must have put on quite the show.

It didn’t matter much to him that the ground around him was cluttered with crushed cubes and stains of untouched energon, just like it didn’t bother him that his chest bore the brunt of the many attempts at downing his fuel with dramatic flair. He was pretty impressive, but the feat was difficult to get right the first few times. He couldn’t be blamed for the mess it left behind.

His pompous attitude had bled into his refueling habits as of late, too, which would explain the messy appearance. It also explained the massive belly he sported, and the selfishly hoarded pile of fuel far bigger than what an average mech like him could tolerate in a day, but then again, he was no average mech. He was a glutton through and through, and he bore that reputation proudly.

It was a slow, creeping realization that had turned him from the boastful mech with a slim and sleek frame to the same boastful mech who carried enough weight to triple his original size, but as Sky Lynx’s appetite grew, so did his ego. He realized here and there how much wonder he brought to the table, and he considered on and off how little he was actually getting in return. It was often up to him to set things straight, and apparently this was no different. If he wanted the world to see him for the important bot and great ally he was, he simply had to do some of the footwork for himself.

Gluttony was the answer. Excess fuel, rest, recaps of his greatest feats while he tossed whole cubes into the air and crunched around the container after swallowing down the fuel. Lounging with his belly exposed and his laziness bared for the world, Sky Lynx finally found the perfect balance. He demanded a whole lot more than what anyone could give him, so why not take it for himself?

The rumors quickly spread, all of them vicious and cruel, but Sky Lynx happily basked in the attention drawn his way. He was growing far too fat, they would say. He looked a slob, mechs muttered. His appearance was dwindling, and his arrogance was becoming greater than his appetite. All of it was true, of course, and all of it was accurate.

Sky Lynx was happy to hear his name tossed around so flippantly. Even more, he was eager to see just how far his reputation took him. It was a strange satisfaction to find in fattening himself up and allowing for the slobbish appearance to stay, but he liked it. By Primus, he liked it, and he was going to make sure it stuck.

After spending so much of his refueling lounging on all fours, his distended belly was aching for relief. Sky Lynx drew himself up and slowly fell back against the rocky ground beneath him with a long, drawn out sigh of contentment while his sticky, energon-covered claws moved in to scratch at his belly’s swollen surface.

It was such a shame no one else was here to accompany him, he thought to himself between drawing his tongue across his lips and scratching idly at the mesh of his belly. He made such a beautiful sight anymore, all plumped and pampered and bearing the brunt of his meal. Where the rest of the world saw sloppy gluttony, Sky Lynx saw long-overdue contentment. He was finally getting his rightful rewards for all that he did to aid the Autobots.

He was a gem of an ally, unique in shape and extraordinary in abilities. Now, he was simply cashing in on his part of the deal. No mech could ever argue with that, no matter how they may see him.

Sky Lynx yawned and stretched, another dramatic show of flexing his chubby frame before he settled into a more comfortable slouch. The idle belly scratching had slowly morphed into belly rubbing, and the belly rubbing turned into scratching at the drying energon on his front.

It was such a messy ordeal, treating himself to a well-deserved break. His spark warmed at the sight, however—the messier the better. It’s what got his reputation circling the base, and it was what made him feel so satisfied in a job well done. He knew he had treated himself to a good meal when it was dribbling down his chest and filling out his frame. The rest of the Autobots would soon figure that out too, he supposed, but for now…

A curious face graced his presence, and the mech it belonged to stood awkwardly in the entrance of Sky Lynx’s abode. Sky Lynx stopped scratching at his belly long enough to tilt his helm and try to assess the reason for the interruption, but as always, this particular visitor was never here for him—only for what he could do.

“Sky Lynx,” Ultra Magnus said, gruff but uncomfortable. “We need your assistance this evening with another very important task.”

Sky Lynx made a thoughtful sound. As he scratched at his belly and watched Ultra Magnus’ attention drift from his sticky face to his sticky abdomen to the sticky remains of empty containers littering the ground around him, his amusement grew. Finally, an audience.

“Of course,” he said, “I’ll be more than happy to offer my grand assistance in whatever little problems you ‘Bots are facing.”

Ultra Magnus shifted in place, his expression strained. “Very good,” he said, “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to prepare. But Sky Lynx…”

If Sky Lynx could look any more smug, he would have. Alas, the especially unique form he boasted was not the most expressive. He still gave off a very smug vibe, he hoped—one that matched the slobbish appearance he so proudly boasted.

“My downtime is valuable, especially after the great things that I have done for our faction,” he said. “I’m afraid I will again have to decline a cleanup before we begin, Ultra Magnus.”

Ultra Magnus stuttered then stopped, his shoulders sagging with defeat. Sky Lynx had won again, and he was proud of the fact.

“Noted,” he said as he began to turn away. “I suppose we’ll make do then. Thank you, Sky Lynx.”

“Yes,” Sky Lynx said with a toss of his helm. “I suppose you will.”

They had before, and they would again. After all, if there was anything Sky Lynx was proud of, it was his newfound satisfaction in his ability to “pig out,” as they would say, and indulge himself to his spark’s content.

Oh, how he loved it. Nothing was greater than the sticky energon and the big, round belly, nor the impressive belches that crept up on him and rattled across the rocky walls. Sky Lynx was a spectacle through and through, and no change in appearance would ever change that… unless, of course, it was a change for the better.

[anony-man]

pick a char to chub- and describe what the evening would consist to be a wonderful night. Location, foods, company.. atmosphere…. Ect. 🤭

It took me way too long to answer this amazing ask. Mainly because I was savoring but also because I’m torn lmao

Grrr making me choose… but I’m definitely saying Blast Off. Give him a nice restaurant, an indulgent menu with the prices hidden behind a just-hand-me-the-receipt sort of practice. Eight courses, nine courses, ten courses… all of them sweet or savory or salty, he wants balance and QUALITY.

Just like I love my big fat shuttle indulging, let him indulge allllll night. Small portions but several platters, it all adds up. Let him be comfortably full and content with every last detail of the night, right down to his companion…

…which of course would HAVE to be Onslaught, teehee. Maybe he’ll make Ons get the bill, maybe he’ll spoil himself? Who’s to say? Time will tell >:]

(Pssst. Read it here)

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #239!

Characters: Megatron & Professor Sumdac (TFA)

Word count: 2.1k

First, they had begun like always did, with Megatron on his throne and Professor Sumdac occupying on of the armrests. Then, through a swipe of a servo and some strange comment on how difficult it had become to see the man over the swell of his beastly belly, the professor had ended up sprawled atop Megatron’s belly as he struggled to regain his bearings and find his balance. But even then, it wasn’t enough. Even then—

“You’re so very small in comparison,” Megatron said, his optics narrowed with the sharp smile he wore as he sat with his helm propped against his servo. “I could so easily gobble you up right this instance, and you could do nothing about it. Isn’t that strange, Professor? To consider how small you really are compared to me?”

It was the first time he had ever considered such a thing, let alone heard it from Megatron. All other situations would have pointed out the dangerously suggestive undertones to his strange question, but in this situation, the professor was none too concerned. They had come here to discuss paperwork, after all, and their alliance, and that had hardly anything to do with sudden snacks.

Professor Sumdac merely scratched his chin and hummed allowed, drawing an ever-widening grin from Megatron for his prolonged silence. The big belly beneath him had even started to rumble with the beginnings of a light chuckle before the professor gave a final shrug.

“I have yet to dwell on that thought,” he said as he crawled closer to make up for the space he had slid down Megatron’s front, “but I suppose—“

“It could work, yes,” Megatron quickly cut in. He lifted his helm and made a dismissive gesture with his servo, then went right back to leaning propped against it and staring the professor down with a narrowed and unreadable gaze. “But please, carry on.”

Happy to do just that (and a bit relieved, if the small sigh he uttered was anything to go by), Professor Sumdac was quick to dive right back into his slow and steadily narrated process of untangling the kinks in their longterm plans. Megatron, in return, sat idly… and he watched him closely.

His experiences with the human world outside of the professor were slim, and his understanding of their biology in comparison with his own was even slimmer. Still, Megatron had seen the opportunity for what it was, even from the start. He had caught an easy one, a slow one, a mastermind that could always be counted on to become the last person ever truly aware of his nefarious plans. It was perfect. Professor Sumdac was perfect. He was everything Megatron needed, right down to the tiny hands and the incredible brain.

He was also rather tantalizing, Megatron slowly determined… and the more Megatron grew in his secret sedentary lair, the more he realized it.

Being returned to his rightful body had its ups and its downs, as did his lengthy disappearance from the world in its entirety. Most didn’t know he was here, lurking beneath their feet. Hell, most didn’t realize he was even alive again, online and back for his revenge. It made the perfect coverup for building his army and rebuilding his strength regardless of the awkward turn his latter goal had taken. Megatron was growing powerful again, and it was thanks to his cunning success and immense luck in finding no one other than Professor Sumdac to assist him. And yet…

It was easy to lure the professor away from his workspace and into his lair. There was a sense of trust there, just as there was a great bit of naivety. Megatron had no trouble beckoning him closer and closer until he was perched on the edge of the throne’s armrest, then resting atop Megatron’s belly—thus coming face to face with the beast.

He could hardly see the chubby human from past his giant frame anymore, anyway, and he loved to hear Sumdac prattle on about the things he believed Megatron to be planning. It gave him a satisfaction of a job well done and a reminder that his plans were still secure. Lately, too, it had given him a strange, curdling sense that started deep inside his belly and grew the longer Megatron stared.

He was watching now, but he wasn’t listening. He was staring, but not observing. He was, however, salivating. His belly rumbled beneath the professor, just barely startling him out of his long-winded and slow-moving work recap. Megatron bared his teeth in a full-on grin as he chuckled, watching with twisted glee at the way his belly jiggled and shook the human perched atop it.

“Forgive the interruption,” he said with another casual wave of his servo, his gaze dropping down to his belly. “I must have forgotten to take my fair share of my fuel rations earlier this morning.”

He had, in fact, done just that. It made it easier to imagine the things he wanted so desperately, like… like lifting the professor up between two digits and holding him in the air, letting him dangle and sway and searching his face for any signs of recognition. It left him to fantasize about holding the professor up by his lab coat and letting him hang there as the saliva pooled in the back of his throat before opening his maws wide and lowering the chubby human down, down, down—

Megatron shifted ever so slightly, leaving Professor Sumdac to stare back with curious eyes and hands instinctively gripping the rolls of fatty mesh starting to form around his chest. His belly rumbled again—not from hunger, nor from laughter, but from a deep, long hum that started low in Megatron’s throat.

“I hate to deter us from our discussion,” he said, gently reaching out to nudge the professor forward just a little more, “but I can’t seem to help but think about how perfect a specimen you would make for settling right into my tanks… such a strange thought, hmm?”

As the professor gathered himself up to stand, only to stumble forward and catch himself on Megatron’s chin, Megatron found himself fiercely resisting the urge to snap him up and swallow him right then and there. He settled instead for opening his jaws ever so slightly and drawing in a long, deep intake before he continued to speak.

“You make a fine companion, Professor,” he said, his optics fixed on the professor’s gaze as it drifted from Megatron to Megatron’s mouth and back again. “I could never indulge such wild fantasies, but… I suppose one can entertain the thought, can he not?”

His breath was hot against the professor’s face as he drew closer, his attention drawn to the massive row of shiny teeth and thick, sharp fangs dotting each corner. Megatron remained silent but coaxing, and he kept his servo behind the professor, barring any attempts of escape. There was no point, of course, not once a bit of interest had been struck.

“Of course,” Professor Sumdac said as he reached out to graze the tip of a finger across the point of Megatron’s fang. He drew it back slowly, his gaze fixed on the bright red spot of blood beading to the surface. “You know I understand, Megatron. As a scientist, I cannot help but be intrigued by most things…”

Gently, the pressure around his fang grew. Megatron tensed, his frame going still and rigid as the professor carefully stepped over the row of teeth on his lower jaw. His feet were planted in a small pool of saliva building at the front of Megatron’s mouth, but he seemed unbothered—if anything, he didn’t say a word.

“The more you suggest the idea, the more concerned I become,” he said, his voice echoing through Megatron’s mouth, “and yet… I, too, am rather curious now.”

The biolights lining the top of his mouth were dotted down the length of his throat, highlighting the flexing chute that drew his attention. There was no uvula, no fleshy mesh hanging from above… but there were teeth, rows and rows of teeth. There were thin panels of metal shaped and formed together, too, and the perfectly distanced row of lights illuminating his path.

Everything was sticky with saliva. Almost everything was soft to the touch, too. The ground beneath him was plush and squishy, like aluminum wrapped around a hot, melting roast. The professor kept his hand on Megatron’s fang at first, then on the walls of his mouth, and from outside, Megatron was entering into pure bliss.

Megatron’s optics had drifted closed as he tuned his senses to the feeling of the professor’s touch—his hand, his feet, the weight of something so heavy and so slow sitting in his mouth and standing atop his tongue. He fought the reflex to swallow, and he fought the desire to switch his intakes back to breathing through his mouth. His vents puffed out hot, steamy air, and his systems sighed for him as he relaxed into his seat.

He could swallow him now. He could throw his helm back and swallow, force him down with a few well timed gulps. Megatron was half-tempted to. The professor had already crawled into his mouth, and he had already begun feeling out the walls and admiring his teeth. He could imagine his curiosity seeing the pulsing gape of Megatron’s throat, the valve opening and closing around nothing but air. It was the enticement before the swallow. All he had to do was lean back…

But he didn’t. Not yet, anyway. With a final long sigh and a servo reaching into his mouth to draw the professor out, Megatron sat back up in his chair. He did leave Professor Sumdac dangling in the air just for a moment, just to grant him that tease of something dark and dangerous, but in the end, the professor was planted right back atop his belly.

His tanks rumbled at the sight of saliva clinging to the professor’s clothes. Megatron’s optics grew wider as he watched the man wipe himself down. It had been so easy… he could do it again, if he’d liked.

“Well?” he drawled, the word catching in his throat as he watched Professor Sumdac settle back atop his belly. “Your conclusion?”

“You have a fine mouth,” the professor simply stated.

Nothing more, nothing less. Megatron sunk deeper into his chair, his helm coming back down to rest against his servo—the same servo that had held the man up in the air. His mind was racing now, but the professor seemed satisfied. Unbothered. Uninterested.

It took him a moment to realize the drone of speaking was Professor Sumdac returning to his monotonous lecture about paperwork, plans, and the like. Megatron had forgotten all about it in the wake of such excitement, and truly, it was now all that he could think about.

The feeling of a human crawling across his tongue… the sensation of fingers wrapping around his fangs… the sight of the professor dangling in the air and covered in Megatron’s saliva was a captivating one. Maybe one day, if he were lucky, he could make something more out of it.

Maybe one day, he could…

“You’ll have to excuse my absentmindedness, Professor,” Megatron interrupted, “but I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere at the moment.”

Professor Sumdac paused in his refresher and glanced up at Megatron, his head turned ever so slightly to the side. For a moment, there was something questioning, something curious… but it left as quickly as it came, reducing him back down to the same naive genius Megatron knew him to be.

“I understand,” he said, having already begun standing up from his seat and making his way down Megatron’s belly. “There is much to consider and much to think about. If things are to change—“

“I am sure you will inform me, yes,” Megatron nodded. “Thank you, Professor. You may go.”

Professor Sumdac did just that, leaving Megatron to stew in his thoughts and to think of his future plans. Megatron’s gaze followed him the entire way, his attention fixed on the wet saliva stains darkening the man’s lab coat, his mouth watering at the thought of the weight of the human resting on his tongue.

Not now, he reasoned, but soon… soon, he could explore. Soon, he could turn meaningless taunts and suggestive phrases into action. It would be then that his belly would finally be satiated, and it would be then that these lingering thoughts clouding his mind would finally settle.

Megatron shifted again, his free servo coming to rest against his massive, round belly. He grinned wide, his lips drawn back and his tongue poking out to lick at the tips of his teeth. Professor Sumdac made a fine ally, but he would make an even finer meal… and Megatron simply couldn’t wait.

[anony-man]

Ons

[anony-man]

-rattles tin can- pls... First Aid... spare a dime of First Aid...

Woe, First Aid be upon ye

[anony-man]

He’s PERFECT

Long and rough day made better by my little arrival coming in the mail today… my excitement is through the roof 👁️👁️

Anyway if you chubformers folks want some chub merch, I highly highly highly recommend visiting @siberat’s Redbubble page because there is some damn good stuff on there. Chubby Aid. Chubby Vortex. Chubby everyone. All the fat bots.