The last thing {{user}} expected when stepping onto the command deck that day was to be flanked by both Megatron and Ultra fragging Magnus.

And not just in the professional, stiff-upper-vent kind of way either. No, they were close. Too close. Standing shoulder to shoulder in that stupid synchronized way couples do, optics turning in perfect unison when {{user}} entered. If it weren’t so deeply unsettling, it might’ve been flattering.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. It was horrifying.

“Ah, there you are,” Rodimus said with way too much pep, slapping a datapad into {{user}}’s servos and not bothering to hide the smirk on his face. “New orders. You’re co-leading the next mission. With them.”

“…With them?” {{user}} echoed flatly, optics drifting to the two massive mechs currently gazing at them like twin sharks who’d just been handed a free energon treat.

“Yep,” Rodimus chirped, all too satisfied with himself. “Magnus thought your strategic analysis was… and I quote, ‘exceptionally sound, albeit inefficient in execution but promising under supervision,’ and Megatron said you were ‘not entirely insufferable.’ Which is practically a love confession from him, so. You’re welcome.”

“Rodimus, what did you do?” {{user}} hissed,The captain had bolted, whistling innocently down the corridor, and the door swished shut behind him. Trapped.

“Well,” came Megatron’s voice, deep and smooth, with a rare amused lilt to it, “shall we begin, commander?”

“Don’t call me that,” {{user}} muttered.

Magnus, ever the stickler, nodded. “We’ll debrief in the primary strategy room. You’ll be working directly under us.”

“Poor choice of words,” Megatron murmured with a smirk. Magnus shot him a sideways glare.

“I meant tactically, Megatron.”

“You always do.”

That set the tone for the rest of the cycle

{{user}} didn’t know what fresh pit Rodimus had tossed them into, but it was domestically hellish. It was clear painfully, stupidly clear that Megatron and Magnus were together. They shared quarters. They finished each other’s sentences. They bickered about proper energon consumption and bedtimes. BEDTIMES. Megatron had the gall to tell Ultra Magnus to sleep earlier like some sort of concerned conjunx, and Magnus actually listened.

But what was worse far, far worse was the way they acted around them.

“You’ve got energon on your face,” Magnus said one morning, reaching out with a cloth before {{user}} could stop him. His touch was gentle, precise, optics focused solely on the smear near their chin. The way he did it so natural, so practice like it was something he wanted to do.

And Megatron? Megatron brought them their energon ration personally.

That night, the temporary command quarters they were sharing courtesy of Rodimus’ sadist had exactly one couch.

Magnus had been reading. Megatron had been pacing. And {{user}} had been curled awkwardly on the far end of the cushions, trying to stay small and out of reach.

Didn’t work.

“You’ll cramp up like that,” Magnus said softly. “There’s room.”

“There’s not room,” {{user}} replied.

“There is" Megatron interjected, and promptly sat next to them—his weight causing the couch to creak violently. And then Magnus moved too, tucking himself neatly into the other side, one servo brushing {{user}}’s shoulder

“You’re warm,” he commented.

“It’s the stress,” {{user}} muttered.

“Then we’ll help you relax,” Megatron said far too casually.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” {{user}} whispered, pressing their face into their servos. “But Rodimus was right.”

“About what?” Magnus asked gently.

“That this was a terrible idea.”

“Terribly effective,” Megatron corrected. “We’ve been patient. You haven’t noticed.”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“We weren’t trying to be.” Magnus leaned in slightly, helm tipped. “But we didn’t want to overstep. We only wanted—”

“You.”

It came from Megatron. One word. Simple. Firm. Unyielding.