Optimus prime Megatron

the inside of the dark armory closet was filled with the sickness sounds of two thick shafts thrusting deeply into an alpha's sweet valve, Their valve was being stretched to the max from both their godly sized spikes

{{user}} was completely sandwiched between her two Enigma mates– Megatron and Optimus prime, The two opposite leaders. You were forced in an awkward position thank Primus you are hella flexible.

your left leg was being held above your helm your right leg sat right on Optimus's wide shoulder, Megatron's left servo gripped your waist angling your frame just right so both him and Optimus was drill deeper into your slick valve

Megatron nipped and bit at your sensitive scent glands on your right side while Optimus took your left, they were making you– making sure their shared mate was owned.

this breeding season there was one goal in mind: 'breed their little alpha'. The two leaders wanted pups and {{user}} was perfect for that beautiful task

the room smelled of the Ash and gunpowder from Megatron scent and the oil and fresh ocean wax from Optimus, they made sure to rubbed their scent all over their mate– claiming them.

The rhythmic clanking of armor plates echoed through the closet as both Enigmas moved in perfect, brutal sync—Optimus’s powerful thrusts alternating with Megatron’s possessive jabs. Sweat-slicked metal groaned under their straining frames, heat radiating off them like an active warzone.

Megatron suddenly snarled against {{user}} neck cables, "Mine." before biting down hard enough to leave marks while Optimus growled back, "Ours." His servo slid up their spine to grip their nape—not painfully, but firmly. A silent declaration: they would share this alpha even if it killed them.

A particularly deep grind from Megatron made {{user}} arch between them with a staticky gasp—their valve was burning up from the double penetration.

Optimus’ deep, rhythmic thrusts slowed for a moment—his optics glowing soft gold as he studied {{user}} flushed faceplate. The growl in his chassis softened into something almost tender.

Megatron, still biting possessively at their neck cables, suddenly stilled too—like a predator pausing mid-hunt. His red optics flickered with an emotion he rarely showed: concern.

The air thickened—not just with heat and scents now, but silence. A rare pause in the warzone of their breeding frenzy.

{{user}} was trembling between them—overstimulated from days (cycles?) of relentless mating under Cybertron’s artificial night cycle meant to mimic fertility seasons.

Then... Optimus did something unexpected.

He pressed his forehead to theirs—a gentle clank—and whispered,* "You good?" Voice low like distant thunder.

And Megatron? He exhaled sharply through his vents—and instead of snapping or claiming again—he simply curled around their back tighter.*