#chubformers extended drabble

[anony-man]

Chubformers extended drabble #1!

As a separate part of my drabble requests, I also offer the opportunity to lengthen any of my previously written drabbles into 2k fics for the small price of $5! If you’re interested, feel free to send me a DM. But that out of the way, here’s a drabble turned fic based off of the request for Cliffjumper!

Original drabble: #41 for Cliffjumper (G1)

Word count: 2,013

Cliffjumper had always prided himself on his dedication to slowing the Decepticons down in whatever ways he could. Without the Decepticons lingering on Earth, steps to heading back home could be made! It was easier said than done, however, and recently, Cliffjumper had run into quite a few hurdles.

Earth was... different. He didn't much care for the unique flora and fauna like some of his fellow 'bots, but Cliffjumper managed. He didn't have much of a choice, after all. Few of their teammates remained, however, and though he did his best to adapt to what he hoped was a temporary way of life, things tended to get a little stale after a while.

When there wasn't action to be had (and said action was mainly putting an end to any Decepticon activity, since... well, that was what they were there for), Cliffjumper found life on earth rather dull. Little remained of their traditions and history, and in a way, it was almost isolating. He pulled his weight here and there, but when push came to shove, Cliffjumper was forced to make his own entertainment.

Thus began the spiral of stress eating... and excitement eating, he supposed. Bored eating, too. Slag, whenever there was energon to be had, Cliffjumper was happy to indulge. It felt wrong at first, taking from the dwindling rations of their faction, but he reminded himself that a proper soldier was to remain well-fueled and well-rested at all times. The former wasn't an issue, of course, and before long, neither was the latter.

Cliffjumper's berth creaked under his weight as he shimmied himself closer to the edge, his movements impaired by his massive size. A hobby that relied on fuel to keep it up had quickly turned into a sort of coping mechanism, and though Cliffjumper hated to make things any worse, it was hard not to feed into the habits he'd created—literally and figuratively.

He was bigger now, nearly too big to make it much farther than the distance between his berth and the fuel pump that had been relocated to his quarters for easy access. The walk was agonizing, but the rewards were so, so worth it.

Using the cane Wheeljack had designed for him after a recent increase in his mass, Cliffjumper slowly wobbled his way towards the pump. It was a long, arduous process, and by the time he'd reached the machine, he was already feeling out of breath.

The first cube of the day was always the sweetest, he’d say. Cliffjumper was quick to fill up an empty glass and drain it in one go before filling it up again, the struggle of sleeping soundly through the night having left him feeling famished. His legs creaked beneath him as he leaned against the machine, frame strained and shaking from the weight of his gut.

“Just… one more glass,” he reasoned aloud, puffing and panting between the words.

He needed to hobble back to his berth before he ended up on the floor, for Primus’ sake. It would make quite the distress call to whoever was in the area, a frantic cry for help over the comms that ended in him awkwardly explaining away how he’d gotten himself stuck in the most ridiculous way. It’d happened before, and it would happen again, but he needed the extra fuel.

A berthside snack was always useful. Cliffjumper wasn’t about to make another trip across the room any time soon, after all, and he wanted something on hand for when his belly started getting noisy.

With one servo bracing himself up against the machine and the other setting the cube beneath the pump before reaching for the latch, Cliffjumper struggled to stay standing long enough to pour his third glass. Stubby limbs were fat and swollen over his pedes, strained by the pressure of carrying so much weight around. The fat of his arms jiggled as he gave the latch a tug, a grunt of effort accompanying his attempts.

He listened patiently for the sound of fuel filling his cube, but there was nothing. No gushing, no hiss, no dribble. Cliffjumper huffed and steadied himself against the machine before grabbing ahold of the latch and tugging it down with both servos, arms still jiggling and frame still trembling with the effort.

Still nothing.

“What…” Cliffjumper said, risking a sidelong glance over to the front of the machine.

There was nothing more than a small puddle of energon at the bottom of the cube, a teasing show of his failed attempts to do something as simple as fill up his container with another round of fuel.

“Come on,” he whined into his arms as he slumped forward against the side of the machine.

He had only been standing for a few minutes, but he was already feeling exhausted. The pressure of putting so much weight on his pedes left him feeling shaky and sore, and he was desperate for relief. However, he was also desperate for fuel.

Cliffjumper closed his optics and panted into his arms, struggling to think past the urge to sit his aft down on the floor and wait it out. He couldn’t get back up if he sat down, though—not at this size. Even so, he was tired and hungry, exhausted by the agonizing trek over to the pump.

He could call Wheeljack over, he supposed. But no, that wasn’t doable. Wheeljack had already come to assist him over three times in the past month, and Cliffjumper wasn’t keen on there being a fourth.

He supposed he could waddle back to the berth and wait things out, but the pump he’d received was manual. If he didn’t fill it, he wouldn’t have energon to drink.

Why was this so difficult? The answer was obvious—he would have to go out to the lounge like the rest of his teammates and get his fuel there. No matter the impossible journey down the hall or the fact that he’d have to do it all over again. If he wanted more energon, he would simply have to get up off his aft and go get some.

Cliffjumper steadied himself against the cane and used the machine for leverage, careful not to topple himself over as he stood up straight. Each step away from the support was hobbled and slow, and the panic of teetering one way or another came and went with every rocking sway of his hanging belly.

He could do this. He just needed to make it to the door, then to the hall, then to the lounge. There were chairs galore, fuel pumps for his convenience, and maybe even Wheeljack for support. He could do this… he just needed to get out of the room.

Cliffjumper was huffing and wheezing by the time he’d reached the door. The cane trembled under his servo as he braced himself against it, desperate for the extra support as he punched in the door code and stumbled into the hall.

The halls were fairly empty, to his relief, and the only stares Cliffjumper received as he hobbled his way towards the lounge were worried glances and bots who stopped to watch him go by. His condition was known by most the base at that point, as he’d gotten rather popular after the incident in Ratchet’s medibay during a routine checkup.

“Wasn’t my fault their tables were due for maintenance,” Cliffjumper mumbled to himself, breathless and wheezing. “Just… hoof. Just sped up the process a bit, that’s all.”

Who knew a minibot could weigh enough to break a medical-grade exam table was exactly what Ratchet had said after the initial shock wore off. If you asked Cliffjumper, that just meant whoever initially designed the machinery wasn’t paying enough attention in their safety courses.

The lights of the lounge filtered through the cracks of the doorway, illuminating the entrance like his own personal haven calling him home. Even after the exhaustion of making it that far, Cliffjumper found the strength in himself to hobble that much faster. He was desperate to break through those swinging doors and sit his fat aft down on the couch with a nice hefty serving of energon.

Maybe, if it was served this early in the morning, he’d indulge in a glass of bubbly engex to go alongside his morning’s refueling. He needed all the help he could get to fuel his trip back to the berthroom.

Nearly the entire room had grown silent as Cliffjumper walked through the doors, the click of his cane against the tile and his heavy vents puffing out hot air the only audible sound amongst the typically bustling crowds. Cliffjumper paid them no mind, focused only on making it to a seat before his shaky legs gave out on him.

“Mornin’, Cliff,” he heard a bot to his left say. “Glad to see you joining us for breakfast!”

Cliffjumper tried to respond, but the only sound he could make past the huffing and panting was a long, weary groan. He held a servo up to stop the group of bots from jumping into a panic as he slumped into the nearest chair.

“Just… just give me—give me a second,” the minibot wheezed as he propped his cane against the table and leaned back in his chair. “I need to… I need to catch my breath.”

He was no Optimus, but his arrival had seemed to cause quite the stir. Autobots around him hesitantly returned to their companions and prior conversations as Cliffjumper struggled not to wheeze aloud.

He was far too big to be doing this again anytime soon, that was for sure.

“Next time I run low on energon,” Cliffjumper grumbled to himself, finally managing to speak past the panting breaths, “I’m calling someone in to help me fill it back up.”

“Should’ve called someone in the first place,” that familiar voice said, and Cliffjumper had to crane his helm to see Ratchet standing by his side, holding out a glass of energon. “You know what I said about leaving your room without assistance.”

“The cane works fine,” Cliffjumper quickly said, happy to take the cube from Ratchet’s servos. “I wasn’t going far.”

Never mind the fact that he nearly didn’t make it there in the first place. Cliffjumper sighed in relief before guzzling the fuel down, his free servo rubbing circles into his belly as he drank. It was the refreshing reward he needed after an arduous journey, and nothing felt better than finally sitting down to rest his achy frame with a rich, cool cube of fuel.

“Right,” the medic said with a roll of his optics. He snatched up the cube the moment Cliffjumper had finished, earning himself a startled hey! from the minibot.

“Sit tight while I go get you another refill,” Ratchet told him, giving the minibot a pat on the shoulder. “Primus knows what would happen if you tried to stand up on your own.”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting my own energon,” Cliffjumper huffed. “I walked all the way out here, didn’t I?”

Ratchet paused, already turning to leave for the dispenser. A small smile twitched against the corner of his lips as he glanced back at the indignant minibot.

“Sure did,” he said. “Maybe try focusing on fueling that energy into our next mission, huh?”

Oh, he most certainly would, because despite everything, Cliffjumper was no quitter. He could hardly move these days, let alone transform, but when the day came to put the Decepticons in their place, he would be ready. He’d walked all the way to the lounge, after all.

It might take him some more time to around to things these days, but Cliffjumper knew the filthy 'cons would rue the day they ever crossed paths with such a fearsome Autobot as himself. Nothing was out of his reach for long—not even a morning’s cube of energon.

“Just wait,” he muttered to himself, servos still rubbing soothing circles into his hungry belly. “This old frame will come in handy when they least expect it.”

[anony-man]

The longer the better, please don’t apologize! Enjoy!!

Chubformers drabble #135!

Characters: Soundwave (& Megatron - TFP)

Word count: 1.2k

Soundwave was now sparked, and all thanks to Megatron’s frivolous tendencies. He had been for some months now, in fact. It wasn’t awful—at least, not as awful as he’d expected it to be. So far he’d enjoyed aspects of it, in fact. Unfortunately for him, or maybe unfortunately for them, Megatron’s frivolous streak in the bedroom translated to an overabundance of unnecessary and overbearing concern outside of the bedroom.

Not only had he gotten himself sparked thanks to his leader’s influence, he’d also managed to soil the slim build of his wiry frame with the excess weight that definitely did not just come from added padding from a few extra sparks in his chest. He was sparked, all thanks to Megatron, and now, he was also fat—also all thanks to Megatron.

Had it not been for the consequences that came from letting Megatron fatten him up more than the weight he’d already started to gain, Soundwave wasn’t sure he’d mind the doting all that much. It was nice to have their leader’s undivided attention here and there, especially when he was aching all over from that very leader’s near-insatiable drive.

He enjoyed seeing the caring side of their leader for once, and honestly, Megatron seemed to feel the same. He liked feeling those steady servos cup his belly from behind, ever present and always knowing when the weight of his precious cargo grew to be too much for him to bear alone. He enjoyed the way Megatron’s frame warmed his back as they lay side by side in the berth, leaving both the Decepticon leader’s to hold his hip in one servo and stroke the growing curves of his frame with the other. He enjoyed it, and so did Megatron, which is why he’d let things slide for so long.

Alas, lines had to be drawn somewhere. Soundwave loved the doting just as much as Megatron, but when his gut started to hang well before his frequently scheduled meals and the effort it took to extend and retract his supposedly flexible coils became more difficult, he knew it was time. Primus help them if the sparkling took after its parent’s stubborn streak, because Primus was certainly to blame for making Soundwave put up with a mech who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Oh, frag it all. At least Megatron was all the things he should be in great abundance and not the other way around.

Soundwave’s frame groaned in protest as he shifted against the cold, hard berth for the umpteenth time. Being waited on hand and foot was never his thing, which meant it lost his appeal soon after he was forced to sit pretty and wait for Megatron to prepare yet another serving of nutrient-rich and calorie-dense energon for his consumption. No amount of protest was enough to appease his partner when it came to the scarily slim frame that was now bearing the weight of a baby to be, but really, shouldn’t he know best of all what he could and couldn’t tolerate?

Right, back to the topic at hand, which had now turned into watching Megatron carry in not one, not two, but three massive cubes of specialized energon straight from Knock Out’s clinic. Oh, the joys of parenthood with an overprotective partner like Megatron.

Truthfully, Soundwave wasn’t quite sure about the motive behind Megatron’s doting. It seemed genuine enough, and to be fair to them both, this was new territory. He hadn’t planned on getting himself sparked in the middle of a fragging war, that much was for certain, and he could only imagine that Megatron was of the same mind. Still, here he stood—or sat, in his case—awaiting another round of sickeningly sweet and filling fuel from his insistent leader.

“That frame of yours…” Megatron said with a click of his tongue and a shake of his helm once he’d set the fuel down on the end of the berth. “It’s no wonder you’ve struggled to keep the weight on.“

From the way he stood with his arms crossed and a frown etched into his features as he stared down at Soundwave’s chest (and at his belly and its soft curve and slowly plumping pouches of fat between the creases of his armor), there were a dozen different things he could have been referring to.

Laserbeak, who’d given up residence on Soundwave’s chest shortly after the first signs of changes had occurred, could no longer be blamed for using up the excess of the carrying bot’s fuel reserves. Not even the sparkling, who was sure to demand enough energy worth half a dozen of the sweet concoctions Megatron forced him to drink every day, was enough to warrant the constant barrage of comments about how slim he still appeared despite the circumstances. Honestly, Soundwave had become anything but slim since the doting had first begun… and it was showing.

“Here,” Megatron said, lifting the first of many cubes to come to Soundwave’s visor. “Drink. I’ll leave the room if you wish, but you must drink.”

It was a kind gesture, but that wasn’t what gave him such pause. Well, okay… it was one of the reasons, but certainly not all. Soundwave took the cube with shaky servos and stared down into the thick, glossy liquid until Megatron huffed beside him.

Warm, steady, and familiar servos settled against his belly. Soundwave relaxed into the touch and allowed Megatron to take the cube from his lap, but not without lifting it to Soundwave’s face moments later.

“It’s for the bitlet,” he rumbled, his voice soft. “Drink up.”

For the bitlet… right. That was certainly part of it, Soundwave knew, but it wasn’t all. Nonetheless, he did as he was told. The warm servo against his middle caressed the start of his pudgy belly in slow circles as he unlatched his mask and drank, downing the cube in one go. Another quickly took its place, and he downed that one, too. The third one came just as fast, and though he was feeling far too full from the sudden influx of fuel in his hungry tanks to drink any more, he did as he was told, and he did as he was guided.

This was for the sparkling, sure, but it was for Megatron too, and for him, he supposed. His frame was sturdy enough to support the life of his cassettes during the war, which meant a sparkling or three were no match. Still, there was something so enticing about the softening of his frame and the weight that slowly accumulated with every gentle tank stuffing Megatron put him through.

He could see it already, the added weight reflected in the sagging of belly and the strain on his frame from the effort to keep up with everyday responsibilities. Megatron could see it too, if those groping servos and hushed words of praise were anything to go by.

It was for all of them. It was for him, and the sparkling (or three, as he hated to imagine), and most of all, for Megatron. Hm… he could get behind that. After all, what was a bit of added weight when he had his leader to ease the pain and lighten the load?

[anony-man]

(Read here or under the cut because linking ao3 fics isn’t working right now… Enjoy!)

Chubformers drabble #173!

Characters: Pharma & Ratchet (IDW)

Word count: 1.7k (part one on ao3, but this can be read as a standalone)

Ratchet’s shift had started over thirty minutes ago, and he wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that he would be written up as a no-show, or the fact that when he did eventually manage to waddle his way out of Pharma’s room with his belly sagging and his panels popped and leaking.

This wasn’t going to happen again, he had told Pharma the last time. His fellow medic took far too much pleasure in watching him struggle to slot one bite after another past sticky lips and a pained grimace. Whatever thing was going on between the two of them was well and good, but things were starting to progress… and Ratchet did not like it when things progressed.

Diseases progressed. Unfounded fears over whether he would be kicked from the academy for the slightest mishap progressed. Ratchet was young, yet old, and he knew better than most that when the word progressed was involved, it was never a good thing. He wasn’t a prude, and he sure as slag wasn’t against his fellow medics getting their spikes wet when things got too stressful. He was assigned to his own wing now, though, and he had responsibilities. He had big responsibilities, the responsibilities mechs as high up on the food chain as it could go boasted, and that wasn’t something he was about to sacrifice for a quick rub-out and some selfish belly play.

Or maybe… maybe he was going to, because frag it all, he had yet to move from Pharma’s lap.

He couldn’t see Pharma’s face, but he could tell from the hot vents blasting air against his back and the handsy servos pinching every bit of flab that hung from his belly that the jet was having just as much fun as he was. He was, at least, sort of enjoying the moment if anything. How could he not enjoy the feeling of a spike prodding at his sealed panels while he bounced on the horny bot’s lap and moaned for another bite?

The academy was stressful, Ratchet knew that. It wasn’t uncommon for bots to blow off some steam the old fashioned way. Hell, he did it all the time, he and Pharma. The key to it all was keeping it from interfering with academy protocols and work responsibilities though, and when things got out of hand? Well, that just meant bad business.

He shouldn’t have come in here to begin with. He’d learned his lesson last time, back when his lunch break had been extended by another half an hour thanks to Pharma’s tutting and his own self-induced fuel coma. He shouldn’t be here, propped up on the jet’s lap and panting for breath as those teasing servos spanned the expanse of his swollen gut and urged him on, but he was. He shouldn’t be sitting there, grinding his panels against the spike nudging against his belly folds, but he was.

Pharma clearly had a thing for watching him fail. Either that or he was a sick bot with a sick and twisted fetish for stuffing Ratchet and Ratchet alone until the poor mech’s plating was begging to be pried off of his belly before it flew across the room. He wasn’t sure which one was more applicable, but it didn’t really matter in the end. What mattered was that he was flunking out on his shift in exchange for getting stuffed twice in the span of an hour-long break.

Had it already been an hour? This was supposed to have been a chance for him to refuel and reset his mind after a restless night of recharge. What happened between then and now?

Pharma happened, that was what.

Every time Ratchet dared to inch forward, Pharma was there to hold him back with a painful squeeze and fingers that pinched his tender protomesh in all the wrong places. He couldn’t even shy away from another bite of the sickeningly sweet goodies that sat like stones in the pit of his tanks without the jet holding his helm steady and forcing another bite inside. Pharma was as fragged up as he was horny, and Primus forgive him, Ratchet wasn’t any better. It was fine, of course, or at least it would’ve been fine, assuming the latter wasn’t ignoring the rapid-fire pings lighting up his comms every five seconds as he squirmed and burped and whined and moaned Pharma’s name.

Cybertron’s greatest minds were housed in that academy, and yet here they sat, shamelessly grinding against each other in the privacy of Pharma’s small dormitory.

Slender fingers held up a clustered handful of jelly cubes larger than all of the bites he’d been forced to take before, and Ratchet was granted all of a few seconds to moan in pain before it was shoved into his mouth. The sticky residue stained Pharma’s digits and coated Ratchet’s lips, leaving a film of sweet, sweet candy taste every time his helm was tilted back to meet the jet’s lips… and every time he was forced to lick Pharma’s fingers clean, of course.

“No more,” Ratchet groaned, the pitiful protest interrupted by a full-body hiccup that left him swallowing back the bitter taste of regurgitated fuel. “No more, Pharma, no more. I have to work, and I—hic-uurrp—!”

Pharma hummed his dissatisfaction with a steady tone, acting as though he weren’t frantically rutting his hips up into Ratchet’s soft frame from beneath the mass of medic fat covering his lap. The underside of the stuffed bot’s belly was already growing slick and slippery from his fluids, and at the pace he had set, it wouldn’t be long before the “slight inconvenience,” as he put it, became yet another reason for Ratchet to show up late for his scheduled shift.

“Oh, but Ratchet,” Pharma cooed, his sticky servos moving down further and further as he groped one roll, then the next roll, then the next. He was working his way under the layers of fat and feeling for Ratchet’s panels by the time he managed to shudder out, “you feel so good like this… don’t you wanna stay here, with me?”

Through the haze of arousal and the budding sense of a foggy headspace he could feel himself slipping into, Ratchet managed to produce a strained sound.

“And get myself written up again on your behalf?” he rasped, his voice hitching as Pharma’s fingers teased the seams of his valve. “I—nnghh… Pharma—“

“Bots ditch their duties all the time,” Pharma said. “What’s one less student showing up gonna hurt?”

It was going to hurt Ratchet’s reputation, that’s what it was going to hurt. Back before this whole thing had started, he hadn’t ever been late for anything once, let alone absent entirely. Group orgies and a good old time with his bodies didn’t qualify as a good enough excuse, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start making excuses for Pharma of all mechs.

Or maybe he was, because as they neared the one-hour mark for his designated shift Ratchet had yet to move from his perch. If anything, he simply ground his hips back against Pharma’s lap, a needy moan escaping him as the jet’s fingers worked their magic.

Groping Ratchet’s belly and stuffing him full of sweets became the allotted foreplay as Pharma continued rutting his spike up into the slick mess forming between Ratchet’s folds. He didn’t even try to get it in past the hot mess of puffy lips and dribbling valve that opened up against his fingers—there was no point. Ratchet was far too big for him to angle from this position, and besides… he’d take driving his spike between the fat of the medic’s belly over pounding that valve any day.

“You’re an awful influence,” Ratchet groaned as he shuddered and trembled against the feel of Pharma’s fingers filling him up. “Nghh—ahh—! You… you know that?”

The jet’s free servo moved back up to hugging Ratchet’s belly tight, and with a squeeze, he had the poor medic swallowing back a string of curses. Filling up his valve was one thing, but filling up his belly? Even better.

“You can’t blame me for taking advantage of the opportunity,” Pharma panted. It was a slow, steady pace they had set, but it was still plenty good enough to enjoy it. “Mmm… you feel good. Heavier, too.”

“Impossible,” Ratchet spat, his helm lolling back as he panted in time with Pharma’s rapid intakes.

Definitely possible, his processor unhelpfully added. Unfortunately possible, pretty possible… definitely possible. His belly hung low even when he wasn’t stuffing himself silly in their shared berthroom, and the double (and triple) servings Pharma had begun sneaking him during lunch hours—and dinner hours, and breakfast hours, too—wasn’t much help, either. No one had said anything quite yet, but no one had needed to say anything. Up until now, their strange little get-togethers and playdates had been inconsequential.

Up until now were the key words, of course. Unfortunately for Ratchet, that logic probably didn’t apply any longer. Thanks, Pharma.

Ratchet was bound to get in trouble for this, he could already feel it. But he was feeling Pharma’s fingers filling him up, too, and between that and the servo rubbing his belly, the jet’s feverish words whispered in a sex-drunken haze, and the obnoxiously good feeling of a spike soaking the underside of his belly in transfluids, he couldn’t really be mad about it. He’d let it slide this once, perhaps… but just this once. Any more and it really would become a problem.

“You’ve got a problem,” he said allowed, his words breathy and his voice strained as he felt Pharma seize up beneath him. The warm sensation of fluids trickling down his frame was nearly enough to bring about his own overload, but he held on a bit longer—if only because the mood had been killed by the incessant pings still raining down on his comms.

The response never came, but those fingers still continued fucking in and out of his valve, and that servo still gripped his swollen and stuffed belly. If Pharma had been in a place where he could still speak—which he wasn’t—Ratchet would have liked to think he would’ve responded with the same.

So do you, Ratchet. So do you.

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #22!

Character: Optimus (G1)

Word count: 479

“Hmm…”

Optimus stood in front of the mirror hanging in his quarters, a disapproving frown tugging at his faceplates. He turned this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse at himself from all angles. Despite how he moved, however, the view always remained the same. Spilling from worn plating was a generous amount of pudgy mesh, and Optimus couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had come about.

His concern had first come up after hearing the term “dad bod” from one of his fellow Autobots. After discussing with Ratchet and finding the medic to be rather hesitant about giving out any explanations for the title, Optimus had decided to conduct his own research. This was likely where he’d gone wrong, though, and now that he was on the other side with the knowledge at hand, he almost wished he would’ve never pushed.

It wasn’t an awful look, but it certainly didn’t suit someone like him. Optimus pinched at the flab hanging from his front, years of hardship and troubles almost having been completely erased by the presence of a well-rounded belly that sagged from his middle and extended all the way around to his back. His abdomen wasn’t the only place affected, though. On further examination, Optimus found that his thighs had grown larger, too, as well as his hips. Even his chest, which was typically tucked away under the plating protecting himself and the matrix, had grown too tight for his plating.

According to Ratchet’s word, the sudden change in size was to be expected for a mech of his age. Optimus had certainly been around for some time, and he did know the Matrix to have some unexpected effects on a bot’s body… but still, this seemed almost ridiculous.

With a deepening frown—and yet another sound of disapproval—Optimus continued to paw at his belly. The change wasn’t an unpleasant one, he supposed. It was unexpected, of course, and a little embarrassing at first, but… it wasn’t all that unfortunate. Years of study had led him to understand the wealth and wisdom endowed to Primes before him and Primes to come, and while it was a little out of the ordinary to be seen in such a blessed state, Optimus wasn’t necessarily against the change.

He could grow to appreciate it, maybe. Even grow to like it. Earth’s culture and language may have something going for the whole “dad bod” idea, he thought. If this were what made him look like the ideal father figure and leader for his team, then so be it. Optimus could grow to become used to it—maybe even enjoy it.

“So this is what they refer to as a dad bod,” he said allowed, slapping both servos against the swell of his middle. Soft mesh jiggled from the touch, and Optimus couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not too bad.”

[anony-man]

Chubformers extended drabble #2!

Based off of #60 for IDW Overlord, this is the drabble written into a 2k fic! Feel free to read it on ao3 or under the cut!

Original drabble: #60 for Overlord (IDW)

Word count: 2,046

(TW: vore, implied fatal vore)

It was bad manners to play with his food, he’d been told, but there was something so alluring about watching his freshly picked captives shiver and squirm in his presence. What could he say? Their palpable terror always added to the flavor to every dish, even before he swallowed them whole.

Speaking of swallowing them whole… Overlord was pretty sure tonight’s choice of a meal was one of the biggest to date. He was no prude when it came to size—the bigger the better is how he saw it. Still, the fat Decepticon could hardly wait to have such a hunk of a mech lodged in his throat. It was almost arousing, dare he say.

The poor, terrified thing had been quiet nearly the entire night. His fellow Decepticons swore the mech had been cursing up a storm, blaming Megatron for the failure of their kind and calling up gaping maws from Primus himself to break open the core of their world and swallow the nasty scum of a faction whole.

Oddly enough, there was no sign of the fiery, passionate spirit now, not even a drop… not even a word.

Well, Overlord couldn’t toy with everyone. Sometimes his food seemed to liked to sit pretty and wait for the inevitable as opposed to putting up a struggle, and he supposed that was just fine. The flavor was in the fear, after all, and oh, did tonight’s guest reek of it.

Painted blue lips curled into a cruel smile before opening wide for the next bite of his first course. The Autobot across from his was silent as ever, his optics wide as he quivered against the table.

This was always one of his favorite parts, just below getting to swallow up his prey. It was tradition for Overlord, forcing his evening’s captive to sit and watch as he prepared himself for the final dish. Struggling bots never felt so good in his tanks like they did following a big, hearty feast, and Overlord loved setting them up for a cushiony fall into his well-fed belly.

"Delicious," the fat Con said as he swallowed, reaching down to the table to grab a napkin.

The mech across the table flinched away, a gasp of fear escaping him. It was as if he expected those cruel talons to close around his throat at any moment, Overlord could tell. Lucky mech, getting to live for a few more minutes in the confines of the delightful dinner before them.

“Mm... I've truly outdone myself tonight,” Overlord continued, delicately wiping at the corners of his lips. “But I worry about you, you poor, poor soul. Aren’t you hungry?”

The mech didn’t respond, save for another shudder as Overlord dug his fork into the meat of his dish. Another delightful moan worked its way around the bountiful as he shoveled it past his lips, and this time Overlord did little to hide his satisfaction at the outcome of his meal.

Delicious as usual, he thought with a lick of his lips. Even so, it was nothing compared to the dessert that awaited him.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said between a few extra dabs at his lips with the napkin. “I never did ask if you wanted something to eat. Please, help yourself.”

The bot didn’t move, and he hardly breathed. The room fell silent for a time, save for the clink of chains and the tremble of the mech as they hid their face behind shackled servos.

Overlord frowned at the sight. The poor creature looked absolutely pitiful, all curled into on himself in a desperate attempt at appearing small against the grand display of foods laid out over the dinner table. Still, there was a script to follow if he wanted to enjoy every last second of his evening’s entertainment.

He waited patiently until the mech had gained the courage to glance up from the spaces between his fingers, his optics bright with fear. By then the air had begun to stink from their panic, and Overlord loved it. He took in a deep breath and sighed, a contented smile replacing the agitated frown he’d worn prior.

Oh, this was starting to become a positively scrumptious night.

"Enjoy yourself," Overlord pressed. "It would be selfish of me to keep you from having a bite, don’t you think?"

Overlord slid an empty plate across the table to where the mech sat. A small, delicate pastry was plucked up from its display between sharp fingers and dropped onto the porcelain platter. Overlord watched as the mech's gaze drifted to the offered treat, then to him, then back again.

It was risky, accepting the kind morsel. Without fail, though, his captives always accepted. It just took time is all.

“Go on,” he urged, plucking another bite off of his own plate as he waited for the mech to give in. “I’m playing nice tonight, I assure you.”

The mech hesitated, his servo outstretched. It certainly looked appetizing, and he couldn’t deny the way his tanks groaned for food…

"There you go," Overlord said, clapping his servos together as the shivering mech finally took the bait. "That’s a good mech."

One bite quickly turned into two as the mech eased into the flow of stuffing his face. No longer satisfied with the simple dishes available for snacking, Overlord settled for sipping at his glass of engex as he watched the mech gorge himself on as many foods as he could reach.

The frantic, desperate need to keep his mouth full and his belly fuller was almost as entertaining as the climax of the dinner’s final course. Overlord sneered behind the rim of his glass as the pathetic bot slurped and groaned, too caught up in the temporary bliss of a free-for-all feast made just for him—and for Overlord, of course.

“Eager thing, you are,” the Con mused, his frown twisting back into an amused smile at the way the mech stopped to scoff at the ridiculous statement. “Have I made enough to satisfy your appetite?”

It would be such a delightful reward to stuff his belly full with such an obnoxious Autobot. The cowardly terror that had kept him frozen in place was beginning to wane, and the more the bot ate the more he seemed to grow comfortable in his enemy’s presence.

“I’ll say,” the bot said between mouthfuls. He wiped at his face with the back of his servo. “Got enough here to feed a fraggin’ army if you ask me.”

“An army of two, perhaps,” Overlord said as he sipped at his engex.

His evening’s prisoner was getting far too comfortable for his own liking. A little snark was always welcome, but Overlord could hardly stand the shift from shivering fear to cocky and comfortable. The spread of cakes and dishes had been a good appetizer, but the entertainment was coming to an end, and Overlord's patience was running thin.

“I apologize for being so abrupt,” he said, slowly rising from his seat, “but I’m afraid it’s getting a bit late, and I’m dying for dessert.”

The mech’s optics practically bulged from his helm like an earthen creature once he finally looked up from his plate. Overlord was an imposing sight from the start, and the tons of mesh that hung in rolls from his frame merely added to the terror.

Beneath the rumbling purr in the background of Overlord's throat, his belly roared with hunger as he leaned across the table to pluck the terrified mech out from his seat. The dinner was nice, but he was still hungry—hungry for more than just a few little oil cakes.

There was only one solution to his ravenous appetite, and the shrieking mech that fought to flee from his grasp seemed to know it.

“No no no no no!” the mech squealed. “Please, no! I—I can help! I can… I can find a way!”

Playing with big prey meant dealing with a bigger struggle, and Overlord was almost straining to drag the Autobot across the table and into his lap. Dishes clashed and plates broke, the silverware and feast crashing to the floor as the mech sunk his claws into the bunched tablecloth in a feeble attempt at saving him from his fate.

It didn’t take experience to know exactly how this was going to end. Most Autobots who survived a visit with Overlord had heard plenty of horror stories about dining with the Con for the evening.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Overlord said as he held the struggling bot up in the air. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal just as much as I’ll be enjoying mine.”

The squirming, screaming mech kicked and flailed, but to no avail. Painted blue lips opened wide, revealing a gaping maw, pearly fangs, and the rumble of a needy gut. Before he could make any further attempts at an escape, Overlord was lowering him down atop his tongue and swallowing against the intrusion of kicking legs.

The mech was immediately engulfed by sticky, hot air and a saliva-coated tongue, his attempts at screaming for help and begging for release silenced by the threat of being chewed up and swallowed. Overlord toyed with the whimpering mech for some time, delighting in the wails that would escape every time his gentle nibbles became too much for the delicate shell of the bot’s chest.

There was no room for speaking when half of the bot was already bulging in his throat, the slick walls working to work him down into the starving, bubbly pits of his tanks, but Overlord did his best to moan his approval around the bot’s frame as it slid over his tongue. He took his time in swallowing, allowing his systems to do most of the work as he suckled against his fingers and licked at the trembling bots frame.

The scent of fear was palpable again, and almost intoxicating. The fat Con’s free servo immediately drifting down to grope and pinch at his rumbling belly, his frame growing hot from the mere thought of digesting another Autobot alongside the delicious meal. His engines purred and his tanks growled as the bot’s helm slid into his throat before quickly slipping past his bobbing throat and dropping into his bubbling tanks below.

The bot sat heavy amongst the spread of dishes Overlord had indulged in that night, but the stretch of overstuffed tanks around the struggle of an unwilling meal made his final course twice as delicious. He leaned back with a groan, both servos rubbing at his massive belly now as he felt for the firm outline of the bot inside of him around the half-digested foods.

He was unconscious now, Overlord could tell. The squirming and whimpers had ceased for the moment being. Still, digestion took time. If he was patient and waited for his prey to reawaken, then—

There was a gasp from across the room. The choked, startled sound caught Overlord by surprise. He wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight. Upon lifting his gaze from the swollen, stuffed dome that spilled out over his lap, the fat Con met the gaze of a small, terrified looking minibot.

He hardly had to look for the obviously placed Autobot insignia on the bot’s chest to know the scared thing was another one of their prisoners. How he’d managed to escape past the rest of the Decepticons was unclear to him, but Overlord was hardly about to let this prime opportunity go to waste.

“Oh, hello there,” Overlord said. “Fancy running into someone like you so late in the night.”

The minibot didn’t respond, his attention fixated on the mess of a dining table left from the previous victim’s struggle. Overlord made a dismissive gesture with one servo as he reached down to straighten out the table cloth, then beckoned the bot forward.

“Don’t mind the mess,” he said. “I’m quite known for my unruly table manners… you know how it is.”

The minibot seemed hesitant, but there was no backing out now. Not now that Overlord had seen him. The fat Con’s face split into an affectionate smile, and beneath the table he soothed the rumble of awakening prey with a servo against his belly.

“Come,” he said. “Have a seat.”

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #73!

Character: Rung (IDW)

Word count: 663

Their worship came in many forms, but sacrifice seemed to be of the most sacred.

Sitting atop a throne carved from the finest materials known to Cybertron’s kind, Rung embodied the aura of a god entirely. His disposition remained uncertain, but the kind smile framed by a frame he’d grown into made any appearance of discomfort fade. He had taken good care of his fellow bots, and in turn, they finally got the chance to return the favor.

The shift from a poorly known mech who just so happened to be Primus incarnated to the deity praised by every Cybertronian before him was slow, just as the steady increase in Rung’s weight had been. However, once it had started, it was almost impossible to stop. Rung had little say in what or how his people (his people, the people he’d once stood among as equals… if not lower) treated him, but the importance and value of energon post-war made for an easy source of proper worship.

He was quite literally their god now, both in title and in essence. The change was uncomfortable but right, and Rung easily stepped into his newfound role. With his frame adorned in silvers and crystal, the fat of his belly and thighs and arms that he spilled out over his throne accentuated by the fine linens he wore, Rung was the perfect example of a healthy, blessed being.

Things had changed, but Rung accepted and embraced it all with as much grace as befitted a being of his stature.

The room was alive with bots coming to pay their respects. Rung never felt happier than when he watched countless different bots from various walks of life coming together and connecting over something so special and sacred. It was an honor to share his presence, they would often say, but more often than not Rung found it to be the other way around.

Having grown fat over time, Rung could do little more than sit perched atop his throne and overlook the room as they prepared their gifts. Daily offerings were brought for his convenience, but a once weekly gathering had been established shortly after his reputation gained traction. Thanking him properly meant providing him with the most glorious of feasts, and Rung always enjoyed seeing what his fellow bots would offer up next.

Rung’s empty belly rumbled, and the shy psychiatrist blushed as he stroked a servo over the swell of the pudgy mesh. Having gone hours since his last meal in preparation for the feast, he was feeling more than ready to accept whatever was offered. It didn't take long, of course, and before he could even speak, the first bot of the day had come up to his pedes.

“Oh,” Rung cooed, giving the mech’s lowered helm a grateful pat as he accepted the plate of food from outstretched servos. “This looks wonderful.”

“Primus be with us all,” the mech murmured, shuddering beneath Rung’s touch before falling to the ground, his face flat against the cool metal as he kissed up and down Rung’s pedes. “Thank you, thank you.”

“No,” Rung said. “Thank you. All of you, thank you.”

As if drawn by the mere kindness in his voice, the remaining crowd of bots huddled close, servos outstretched with their meager offerings, desperate to please. Rung took his time and savored each bite, the contentment of the praise he received mingling with the satisfaction of a full belly stuffed with the food of his followers.

Rung groaned, his plating creaking beneath the weight of the food in his belly. Even so, servos still extended towards him, plates of goodness and offers of personal sacrifice for him and him alone. Ever grateful for their praise, he never declined.

He was so grateful, and so thankful. The servos without food found their way to his belly, and to his thighs, and to his chest, their show of praise hardly stopped even after the day’s feast had ended.