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The novels read in dark rooms so often described it as falling apart.
It shatters you, breaks you down to individual components.
It was never like that for him.
He went to his leader the first time, whispering “warrior’s comfort” like a prayer; they sat in a hotspring marked hazardous to humans for its heat and its acidity; it was nothing more than a hot bath for them. They bickered, they laughed, they reminisced.
He went to his leader the second time, with a coy smile and a whisper of “warrior’s comfort” on his lipplates again as he watched the Forgotten Leader slam his fist into the stone wall. As granite shattered like glass.
The leader welcomed those aristocratic touches and soft speech in a mother tongue, whispered against plating that hadn’t felt a gentle touch since the sun first rose over a barren and evolving Earth. And Megatron let his helm drop back as he hissed from sensation sweet enough to sting.
The third time, the Leader approached his soldier with a whisper of “warrior’s comfort” as Blitzwing shuddered and wheezed, snarling at any who came to him. As the aftermath of the battle ripped through him and rattled a processor partitioned as an experiment, released as a weapon. As he yoyo’d wildly from one extreme to another.
A hum of “warrior’s comfort” rumbling through a heavy chest as it pressed against Blitzwing’s back and he sagged from a sudden deft touch to the transformation seams over his abdomen. As his back arched and servos scratched lightly over his hips.
“Trust me.”, purred Megatron.
Blitzwing whined, the sound tapering off into a growl as he stopped flipping from face to face to settle once again on the calm, cold persona he preferred. His optic scope hummed as it onlined, whirred as it focused.
His optic cracked open like a magma-filled faultline, burning like hellfire and hatred and all things to set a spark thrumming. He felt Megatron’s free hand press against his chestplate to hold him still, hold him firm-
“Hold me Steady Maegatrun or I might-AH!”
Servos too warm to be a dead space in history, yet too cold to be less than Living Death slid between slim thighs and Blitzwing’s knees went weak and nearly buckled. Blitzwing’s hand went to grab onto Megatron’s forearm as his back arched sharply as servos slipped into him- when had his panels slid away?- and the Northern mech sagged in his leader’s grip.
Megatron purred, a rumble like an oncoming storm as his optics dimmed and finally offlined so he could drink in the sounds Blitzwing made in his clarion-call voice. So he could listen to the concerto of rapture as the mech squirmed, hips bucking and rolling until a thumb pressed against an anterior node.
Blitzwing wailed like a dying prayer.
“Trust me.”, whispered the Serpent to the Fallen, “Trust in me.”
And so wings were stripped of feathers in a blast of sound like dying grace, as Blitzwing choked on Megatron’s name and as his overload was drawn out to shuddering tides of sensation until his processor overclocked and he went limp with a sated sigh.
Gott weiß ich will kein Engel sein.