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Megatronus had never known weakness.

Not in the way others did. Not in the way they whimpered under pressure, or broke beneath grief. He was forged in fire, tempered by war, carved from the will of Primus himself — unshakable. Unyielding.

And yet, after the confrontation with Sentinel, something clawed at the edges of his processor. An ache. Deep. Gnawing. Not just irritation — it felt... divine. As if Primus had whispered a warning through the very sparklines of the Well: you are walking toward your end.

But no, it wasn’t fear of death. He would greet death like an old rival.

This was something else. Something more primal. More personal.

You.

His spark trembled at the mere thought of your name. Your face. Your presence. His Conjunx Endura. The one constant in a galaxy teetering between creation and chaos. And now... his thoughts were consumed by you — not with affection alone, but with need.

A need that burned.

His body ached in places that no armor could protect. Circuits surged and misfired. Temper flared at the smallest slight. Even the other Primes had begun to notice. Solus had given him a look — curious, amused. Vector had warned him in that calm, knowing voice: “You are entering cycle. You must return to them.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His pride wrapped tight around his throat, around his spark. But the truth buzzed just under his plating: he was in heat. Prime heat. Not that he, or you, knew existed.