Discover Top Posts Tagged with #g1 scrapper

Jun 25, 2025

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.”

#chubformers #g1 onslaught #g1 scrapper #anon man writes #fic: clear your plates

anony-man