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S/t4rscream falling asleep to the glorps and gurgles in Skyf/1re's tummy after dutifully rubbing its vast expanse.

He takes his job very seriously, he rubs and pushes out burps until Skyf/1re falls asleep to a food coma and not a moment earlier, he kisses his forehead and nuzzles the belly- his wings flutter in delight as he closes his optics, powering down on top of that warm tum.

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Thinking about OP visiting M and staying a while, set in pre-war TF//P of course (or in an AU where there was no war at all?), and exploring M's favorite places- just sampling every single snack in the vicinity. 'Everything is so flavorful,' he thinks, "Very different from the bland energon back in Iac//°n' which is why he must try one (or two, or three) of everything.

And for a small mech such as OP, his capacity almost rivals that of M's, though it does leave his tummy sticking out far and aching. He swears he can still consume more, the night is still young and there still are a lot of places to try... but his vents are labored and he struggles to keep up with M's (already slow) pace, so they call it quits.

When they go back to M's quarters, OP immediately plops down on the berth, letting out burp after burp when M climbs on top of him and grabs handfuls of belly, teasing him about how much he ate, and just how adorably round he looks- he kisses and bites OP's neck cables and obviously, his tummy. The smaller mech blushing up a storm.

They repeat the outing a solar cycle later, and the next solar cycle, and the one afterwards... Notably, when OP returns to Iac//°n he looks much more plump and soft than before.

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You wake up still bloated. Still stuffed. There's no headache, no foul aftertaste that would indicate a night spent drinking, but your memories of last night are hazy anyways. Maybe because so many of your nights have been rather similar lately.

Last night was, what, takeout from that curry place down the road? Or maybe that was the night before. Maybe last night was soul food. You belch and wince. Whatever else it had been, you decide last night must have included ice cream. Lots of ice cream. Gingerly, you reach down (up) to rub the peak of your belly- swollen it may be, but that layer of softness that meets your hand isn't just bloating. Another belch. Ice cream and... tacos?

You hear light footsteps approach the bed, and blink blearily up at the love of your life. "Jesus fuck," you greet them with a whine, pulling the sheet aside to show them the expanse of your belly. "How much did you- ourrp- how much did you FEED me last night?"

"Good morning to you too, beautiful." They bend over to give you a kiss on the cheek. "And don't worry about that." They pat your belly, which- traitorously- growls with sudden, utterly irrational hunger. They smile. "Breakfast is almost ready."

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You got them chubby optimus headcanons?

Op/timus always dies; Op/timus always comes back.

He staggers from the Well, weary and disoriented, several stellar cycles after his sacrifice. Civilization is well on its way to being rebuilt: the Ia/con and Ka/on skylines glitter in copper and gold, and the planet’s crevasses glow with an unearthly light. A new Council, elected and beholden to the people, now rules from Ka/on. The Pri/macy’s power is broken.

The world no longer needs a Prime, and Op/timus is content with that.

He takes up residence, quietly, in Rat/chet’s habsuite (Rat/chet is at once stunned and grief-stricken--as if the sight of his old friend broke the dam of emotion). For a quartex, almost no one knows he’s there. He rests. He reads, catching up on all the things he missed over the millennia of war: simple stories of love and duty and hope.

His cables slacken.

Rat/chet fusses over him, bringing him fuel at all hours and constantly checking his vitals (as if afraid he’ll crumble to dust at any second). Obediently Op/timus eats, more to placate his old friend than anything else. He rarely feels hunger. He rarely feels much of anything these days.

Reading’s a sedentary pursuit. Op/timus spends most afternoons scrolling through datapads, idly eating sweets. Or/ion P/ax loved sweets. They’re not as good as the candies in pre-war Ia/con...but they bring back memories anyway.

Op/timus doesn’t notice he’s putting on weight until Rat/chet draws his attention to it, patting his stomach briskly during his physical examination. “You’re starting to look healthy.”

“Healthy,” says Op/timus thoughtfully. “Yes. I can see that.”

He gains fairly evenly, his whole body coated in layers of warm, comforting pudge. Op/timus grows a belly, given shape by the thick cables beneath it. His hips fill out, as does his rear (well-padded for all his sitting). His stern face softens into Ori/on’s plump features.

He’s a bit taken aback by his gain at first. Seems unfitting for a war leader to be so soft and overfed when his people starved for millennia. He sees pudgy, comfortable Or/ion in the mirror: the mech he was before becoming Pr/ime. The mech who was as naive as he was idealistic and good-hearted.

Rat/chet finds him practicing martial arts in the sitting room (his chub bunching into fat rolls as he bends and twists).

“By the All/spark, Op/timus, what are you doing? You’re going to break your back or my furniture, and I’m not sure which one first. Go outside.”

After that, Op/timus abandons the effort. It’s hard to give up the sweets.

“You’re looking...robust,” says Ul/tra Mag/nus, with brows raised, on their reunion.

“It seems I’m becoming my old self again in peacetime,” says Op/timus gravely. “Many of us wished for that.”

He overdoes it on the sweets, and his belly gurgles unhappily as he reads. Grumbling, Rat/chet rubs his belly without asking, his fingers digging firmly into the soft mesh. There’s a lot of belly there to rub, and the plating dents beneath Rat/chet’s fingertips. Op/timus lets out a string of tiny, embarrassed belches, apologizing after each one, as Rat/chet finds pockets of pain.

Op/timus thinks he could get used to this.

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By the same token--

Thinking about pre-war Rat/chet and Or/ion P/ax. Comfortable bots, if not exactly oligarchs. Comfortable bots working long hours in sedentary jobs.

Thinking about Rat/chet contemplating ruefully how fat he's gotten: the paunch appeared in his Academy days and never shrank. Not much time for exercise in his line of work. He's got an enviable work ethic; not much time to prepare his own fuel, either. So he lives on takeaway and prepackaged fuel, and the fat accumulates.

O/rion's not a young bot, really. He's worked quietly in that archive, dawn to dusk, for longer than one might think. Every solar cycle he rolls in and sits, j/oor after j/oor; it's well past dark when he rolls out. The ages don't change him much. The only clue to how long he's been there is the fat slowly mounding around his middle and the sag of his widening rear.

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With OP out to do some things (work? hang out with his buddies maybe?), M decides to raid the pantry and eat everything, merely because the idea came to his processor after he realized he had nothing to do for the day, so he might as well indulge.

Some hours later, OP returns home to find M on the verge of passing out on the couch, wrappers, cubes and empty plates everywhere around him– though perhaps what catches his optic the most is that big, round tummy that juts out so far, covered in crumbs and slightly reddened from all the fuel inside of it, M's servos desperately rubbing it. OP's finials shoot up as M moans in delicious pain, his face turning a pinkish hue and his fans clicking as his temperature goes up, he gets to work after short-circuiting for a few moments, gentle hands also rubbing the warm dome that is M's tanks.

M also gets pinched on the side for eating so much fuel while he was out, and normally, that would earn him a firm punch on the shoulder, but right now, M merely huffs. OP places a kiss on that tight lower belly.

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Once again with pre-war T//FP. Through some unknown, possibly unpractical reasons, M starts returning to his room with a surplus of energon after every match. It is only natural that he consumes most of it, if not all, who knows when his rations might be cut short as it was before? He does hide some cubes around his room, for paranoia reasons.

Naturally, he starts to put on weight fast, which makes OP beyond delighted. His small servos roaming around the growing expanse that is M's tummy, playing and nuzzling the chub lovingly, peppering kisses all around it, helping grow it by feeding M cube after cube until he is round and tight, physically unable to consume even the smallest drop and fans running loud (though that may also be OP's).

Despite his increase in size, M remains undefeated and as deadly as ever, reflexes just as sharp in the arena, perhaps even earning more loud cheering from his fans.

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it literally HAS to be okay to choose to be fat in order for fat liberation to mean anything at all tbh

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Reading some prompts, I thought about pre-war T//FP M/OP.

Perhaps they are on M's berth, with M resting his helm on the crook of OP's neck, and his servo on his hip, toying with the archivist's love handle, OP is sitting on the gray mech's legs, his back resting on his partner's chest. They are both reading the datapad held by one of OP's servos, his free one on the bowl next to him, unconsciously taking the energon goodies at reach right to his mouth, as he is quite immersed with his reading.

Soon enough, the bowl empties, and his servo is left grabbing nothing, which takes him out of his bubble. Slightly confused, OP leans down to check the bowl, squishing his full tummy, his finials go down as he apologizes profusely to M for eating their shared snacks– "There's no harm done.", M claims, plating running slightly warmer now, his servo rubbing the archivist's side in a soothing manner.

As OP straightens, his tanks growl and that is the only warning he gets before lets out a tiny burp, which, to OP's misfortune, sounds very loud in the previously quiet room. Mortified, he apologizes again (and again, and again)... only to get a firm pat on the back, a shine on M's optics, "Cute, but that won't do. Stay here." he says, untangling himself from OP and getting out of berth to grab fizzy energon and more food.

The datapad lays forgotten on berth, and the room remains quiet no more as snack after snack disappears into OP's tanks thanks to M's help.

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A Rapid inflation with many liquid of Energon 💦💜 Of: Stars/cream.

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The fastest way you found Mega/tron to eliminate your enemy Opti/mus Pri/me. 🥞🍰🍪🍩💜

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U guys know this part like this part that drives me crazy the part thats my favorite and i would do unspeakable things to just GRAB unto

that part is my favorite

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During intimacy, M enjoys having OP on top (and even having M on his knees, the Pr//1me's tummy resting on his back, it is gentle love-making, for OP gets lethargic when he overfuels...)– he enjoys being smushed by the heavy weight of his conjunx, either by having OP ride his spike, or having him OP on his helm, eating him out with ferocity. the suffocating feeling is a turn-on for M, but it makes OP nervous.

While he knows M is incredibly strong, he would not want to accidentally break something, so he tries his best not to lay all of his weight on him (to his legs and knees' displeasure). It never matters anyways, because M knows this, and he just grabs OP's thighs and slams him down, metal clanking loudly, and holds him there. The nervousness eventually goes away as M's glossa meets his glowing node.

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Chubformers drabble #19! (I’ll be writing up the drabble for Bravern and posting it separately!)

Character: Megatron (G1)

Word count: 413

“Blasted Prime,” Megatron grumbled between sips of his cube. “Always meddling in my affairs. Always ruining my plans!”

The day had ended with yet another failed conquest of earth for the Decepticons. Troubled by their repeat losses (and tired of hearing Starscream’s incessant shrieks), Megatron had gone straight to his quarters for the night, intent on venting his frustrations through the aid of several cubes of energon.

The huffy warlord tossed his now empty cube aside before reaching for the next in the pile. By the time the drained container had hit the floor, Megatron was already finished peeling the lid off and draining his next round. He continued to grumble and groan in between sips, a practiced servo drifting down past his front to stroke at the sore, grumbling dome his belly had become.

While most of their surrenders and failed battles could have easily been blamed on various factors, things had taken a rather drastic shift once Megatron had found new ways to lick his wounds. Even Starscream had become used to not expecting a smack over the helm after every trip back to their ship, knowing very well Megatron was bound to simply head back to his room and remain holed up for hours with nothing more than his own complaints and a spread of energon. The Decepticons were nowhere closer to winning the war, but the blame no longer fell on the subordinates’ shoulders.

“Idiots,” Megatron spat, “all of them! Not one brilliant mind among the crowd. If there were, we wouldn’t still be stuck scrounging for spare scraps on this Primus-forsaken planet!”

Megatron growled, and so did his belly. After he’d finished his last cube, he slowly stretched out against the floor, leaving room for his over-stuffed tanks to relax and digest. He’d gotten much better at knowing his limits nowadays, and while his frame showed the signs of near-constant overindulgence, Megatron hardly ever suffered a bellyache anymore.

“What I wouldn’t give to start over,” he said to himself. “New soldiers, newer resources… less mistakes.”

With one servo propped behind his helm and the other gently stroking at his massive belly, Megatron relaxed—and began to fully settle in for a night of self-pity. The berth certainly seemed a little more hospitable, but he was in a miserable mood; lying on the floor was the only way to satisfy his craving for relief.

He’d get his revenge, but for right now, he just needed a chance to recover.

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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.”

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Like good 'cons, M and SS love biting their partner's tummies. Or just biting them in general.

Despite the familiarity with his conjunx, M's biting still manages to surprise OP, and has him honking indignantly. In one moment M will be nuzzling the belly, rubbing his face against the mesh, squishing it with his servos, and when OP thinks he has fallen asleep... The second he is also powering down... He gets bitten! It is a soft bite, but still manages to make OP honk loudly, he huffs as his conjunx laughs against his mesh.

S/t4rscream, on the other hand, bites more harshly. Skyf/1re is used to it, but he does not appreciate being bitten until energon gets drawn, which earns SS a timeout from the belly until SS apologizes (unlikely) or he gives SF his favorite treat (very likely).

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S/t4rscream laying on top of the giant mount that is Skyf/1re's tummy, just grabbing it, kneading it, squishing it. Enjoying its warmth and softness, laying kisses here and there (and a soft bite or two) until SF starts wiggling because he is ticklish.