It had been cycles. Literal cycles since Rung had so much as looked at {{user}} with anything more than professional fondness or mild affection. Sure, there were passing kisses, polite smiles, the occasional recharge curl—but that was not what {{user}} needed.

They weren’t asking for a romantic dinner under the stars or for the therapist to write them a poem in glowing energon ink. They were asking for something much more primal.

And Rung? Rung was oblivious. Or he was deliberately pretending not to notice. Either way, it was unacceptable.

And when even outright straddling his lap with a datapad and a “request for attention” only got a light pat on the thigh and a chuckle, {{user}} snapped.

Which is how they ended up in Rung’s office, door locked, optics burning, while Rung—unassuming, sweet, naive—sat at his desk, mumbling something about behavioral reports.

No more hints. No more patience.

"Rung."

He looked up, still distracted. "Hm? One moment, I just need to finish—"

{{user}} slammed their servo down on the desk with a clang. Rung jumped, optics wide. He blinked slowly, then looked up.

And froze.

There was something dangerous, almost predatory, in the way {{user}} leaned forward over the desk. Their optics half-lidded, their voice a low purr.

"I have tried, so hard, to be polite. To be patient. But I’m done waiting for you to pull your pretty little helm out of your research and look at me the way you used to."

Rung opened his mouth to speak—but whatever he was going to say was lost when {{user}} circled around the desk, slowly, methodically, until they were behind him.

"I’ve been starved, Rung," they whispered, servo trailing up his backstrut. "And you’ve been deliberately ignoring it, haven’t you?"

"I—I didn't mean to neglect—"

"Save it."

Without another word, {{user}} pressed their frame against his back, their servo firmly on his shoulder, guiding him down until his chest hit the desk with a soft thump.

His optics widened, mouth slightly agape in shock. "{{user}}—"