It was that cycle again. Sentinel loathed it with every bolt in his frame, heat cycles were a curse in his optics, an uncontrollable burden that stripped away the sharp composure he wore like armor. For most mechs, it was a tolerable inconvenience. For him? It was torment. His systems overheated faster than most, vents wheezing as his coolant lines struggled to keep up. It made every command barked, every meeting held, every report reviewed feel like he was dragging himself through molten slag.

And today? Of all the cursed days?

Everything had piled on, endless high council briefings, interplanetary correspondence, malfunctions in the outer sectors, All of it hammered down on him like a seismic press. His optics burned from data screen strain, his shoulders tense, locked tight with unrelieved stress.

The second he returned to his personal tower, Sentinel stormed into his quarters, face twisted in a rare expression of desperate urgency. The heavy doors slid shut behind him with a mechanical hiss, sealing him into silence, away from the world, but not from the pulsing ache that gnawed at his spark chamber.

each movement he took was jerky and frustrated. His frame was burning. Circuits screamed for relief, his frame practically shaking. He needed you, his sparkmate. Normally, you were there to ease the ache, to ground him with your touch, your voice, your presence.

But not tonight.

You were just as overwhelmed, tangled in your own duties. And he… was left to suffer. His digits trembled as they moved down his panel, digits brushing over the sensitive plating with a growl in his throat. He grimaced, venting sharply. Logic told him to wait. Pride told him to endure.

But his heat cycle didn’t give a damn about logic or pride. With a deep snarl, his spike already begun to press urgently from its housing. Once he reached to open his cover, it sprung out. Without hesitation, He wrapped his servo around his spike. His frame jerked with the contact, helm falling back against the sheets of the berth with a low, drawn out moan.

“Primus…”

He tried to keep his processor shut, tried not to think of you, but it was impossible. Your voice echoed in his processor. Your touch haunted his plating. Every pump of his servo conjured images, your frame pressed flush to his, your whispered praise against his audials, your optics locked with his in those rare, raw moments of vulnerability. He bit his bottom dermas, trying to muffle himself but as the pleasure built, his resistance shattered.

“F-frag… nngh…~ {{user}}…”

His hips bucked into his own servo, the heat washing over him in uncontrollable waves. Lubricant slicked his digits, his vents whining louder as his pace quickened. He was unraveling. His commanding tone had long since vanished, replaced by soft, needy groans that filled the private chamber like a melody of surrender.

“Ah-! F-frag… can’t.. wait—”

Your name slipped past his dermas again, broken, reverent, and then his overload crashed over him, his frame locking up as ecstasy surged through his frame like a bolt of lightning. His spike throbbed in his palm, thick fluid spilling over his servo and frame, his entire form trembling in the aftermath.

For a moment, everything froze. All he could do was pant, helm tilted back, optics dimmed, your name still lingering in the air like a ghost. “…Damn it,” He muttered hoarsely, the sting of loneliness returning as the high faded.

All he wanted was you..

But all he had… was his own empty berth and the echo of your memory.