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witchofthesouls · 6 months

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You know what I need?

I need Optimus’s (doesn’t matter which one) Witch! Or Other lineage! S/O, who has witnessed her beloveds constant breakdowns and heavy burden after heavy burden forced upon him, to use some of her voodoo and hoodoo powers and verbal SHRED the original twelve primes along with some of the other members of the prime lineage how contributed to Optimus’s pain and trauma into fucking oblivion for what shit they did (and possibly continue to do) to Optimus, the Thirteenth and unknown prime, the one cursed to be reincarnated other and other again through the ‘wishes’ of Primus and his siblings.

Witch! S/O: You fucking pieces of shit! Look what you did to him, your own fucking brother! You fucking selfish monsters rebuild him and have him torn apart over and over and over again, and for what!? He doesn’t deserve this! No one fucking deserves that fate! Do you know he losses a piece of himself each time he’s reincarnated!? That he looses a piece of his mind and soul each time he comes back!? Did you know and simply not care!? He’s not a martyr! He’s not a goddamn lamb raised for the slaughter! He’s a good person who deserves all the peace and happiness in the universe! so leave him the fuck alone or I’ll fucking make you!!!”

Ehhh, I'm in the camp that the Thirteen are actual deities, so-

✨️ Celestial Horror ✨️

The Realms of the Primes aren't what you expected. It's nothing what Optimus could be coaxed into revealing: you’re not a phantom gripped in a disjointed, piecemeal memory flux of a departed Prime, no incoherent whispering in the corners that flutter like pages, no dream logic in a place that’s bizarre, yet familiar…

You’re standing. The floor is definitely solid beneath your feet. Light blinds you completely, all-consuming in its intensity. Even with your eyes closed, palms pressed tight to your lids, it's searing.

Your face is wet and you can't tell if it's blood or tears in this new hellish landscape where you can see a tower in the distance, haloed in a rainbow shimmer to stand out in the endless blank slate of blue-white, through your boiling eyes and cooking flesh and charring bones.

The tower shifts, and your stomach drops at its attention-

Before you realize it, a hook drags into your navel and pulls you down, down, down into a rendered hole that eats you.

The tower stares from above and its heavy gaze upon you even as you fall so down it disappears from your sight as distant sun.

You're dragged so far down that air no longer whips around, and you make no sound as water takes you completely.

Weightless as your hair flows up and air bubbles escape your lips. There’s no way you can hold your breath for this long eternity, so you don’t.

You drown.

Darkness consumes you with strange bioluminescent flickers of stranger creatures dancing all around. Gossamer filaments and electric scales. Flashes and flickers of indescribable hues before disappearing.

Your body fills with water, but you don’t die. Your chest is heavy, and your stomach hurts, but you don't burst from the immense pressure. In some ways, you're numb. A massive ghost-like jellyfish brushes over your face, and you feel nothing, even when you can see the outline of stingers and glittering hooks -

You're forcibly stopped, slamming hard onto the floor, and it isn't packed sand that cradles you, it's something else: jagged and hard as rock and so cold it steals the heat from your burns. You shudder, freezing, trying to make sense, and you can only see the steaming vent of the volcano deep down here.

A massive body rises from it. Not from within, but the entire structure moves. It contorts to shape the room itself. You stand upon its lap, magma veins oozing throughout its body, eerie symbols carved deep into the metal and rock of the floor and walls, and you fall into the hypnotic trance as those glyphs flow and ebb and spiral into patternless patterns that break and form again and again and -

< You’re very lucky that I caught you in time. My twin has forgotten mortal shells and their constraints. > A deep, masculine voice enemates from nowhere and everywhere at once, and you're ground zero to the massive eruption of the talking volcano. You stumble under its power, trance broken, and it shifts to catch you, jutting out parts of itself. Patient as it watches you with smoldering eyes to bring yourself back into your own head.

Some gods disliked subservience more than they disliked impudence. Optimus is far more… mortal for the lack of a better word, and it made you… forget what he will one day become.

There is only one Prime that claimed to be Prima's twin.

< Hail > your mouth knows the words, throat rippling in a way that’s definitely unknown in human physiology, it isn't just your vocal cords shifting, even your trachea twists, pulling knowledge from elsewhere, bloody air bubbles flow off your tongue -a part distant and underused after so long as you strike something in-between. < The Shadow of the Thirteen. >

< And here I thought my brother burnt out your tongue as well, little spark. > Your bones rattle at the sound, mind trying to translate the crescendo of shifting tectonic plates, icebergs falling into the sea, lightning striking the mountain, and the roar of thermal vents bursting in the abyss. His next words gentled down into a rumble of a river rushing into a harbor, the tide breaking upon the shore, and the languid decay happening beneath a forest’s watchful gaze. < You traveled so far away from a champion’s side. >

The way he says “little spark” is fond with the underlying layering of ‘potential’ and ‘firefly.’ A strange twine of ‘seed lighting,’ ‘kindling,’ and ‘fragment of what was once whole.’

“This is speculation,” Optimus once told you in the privacy of isolation by the virtue of being in the wilderness and away from anyone else. “But based on stricken records and Alpha Trion’s thoughts on its translation, the Fallen may have been, in your terms, the true father of my race.”

The Fallen, the Prime of Chaos and emerged from Prima’s own shadow, had taken Solus, Prime of Creation, who was crafted from the dirt of an awake Primus in his planetary mode. He had taken her upon victory, and from their union came the new generation.

The Fallen of Prima, who was of Primus, and Solus of Primus, so still fits the modern narrative from Ratchet that they descended from the Well of Cybertron as the Well was Solus’ final parting gift. The divine ouroboros of life and death interwoven and continuous by one being eating and rebirthing itself in new shapes…

You’re getting way too sidetracked.

< I’ve come seeking guidance on the behalf of Optimus Prime. The last of your kin. And a way to repair Cybertron. >

He stares and you can't falter here. Not when so much is at stake.

The Fallen slowly blinks, embers stubborn to remain burning and exhaustion is carved deep in the crevices of his face. Metal worn down from time and the raw elements, pitted and warped, but enduring all the same.

Finally, he speaks again.

< An ancient evil stirs again. > The mountainous mech intoned as his face warps, mouth pulling down as it forms a chasm, the glyphs burning to livelier shapes to form a multitude of pathways, crossing and uncrossing as they bend into impossible roads with no clear end, eyes burning brighter as sulphuric gas steams out, the helm crests becoming jagged peaks. < Once forced to sleep, it stirs with the presence of a new champion ordained by my twin and the surging usage of its dark blood by a usurper. >

Goosebumps break over your entire body as you try to will away the ice in your veins that isn’t from the coldness of the Fallen’s realm. Your heart races as you divine the truth in his words.

You wait because your questions go unanswered. Megatronus was known for his madness and titanic, brutal power, not for lies.

< I was not still after all this time. Much like my originator, I carved myself into pieces and etched into the blood and bones of this planet. All fall under my hand, for I am one with all, and all are one with me. >

You shudder at the familiar phrasing: 'Til all are one.

How fittingly ironic that Megatronus Prime had achieved what Prima and his Guiding Hand failed at.

< Are you able to aid us then? >

Because Unicron, diminished as he is, still outmatches them all. And there’s no way none of them are prepared to face a force of the universe as they are: stranded, starving, and so alone. Optimus is a single mortal that's half-way ascended, and Unicron had battled the Thirteen many times.

< Not as I am, little fragment. I've anchored nearly all of my strength into containing the Chaos-Bringer. > You feel him move to sit back, chunks of his frame crumbling down, and the chasm of a mouth sighs < Did the newest champion not question why our ancient foe simply did not crush him by shifting its plates? Why did he use clones instead of breaking open this planet, spilling out like a rotten corpse with too much buildup? Not even question how the artifacts of my > there's no direct translation, a mix of 'home' and 'heart' and 'forge' < -came to be here along with Energon roots well developed? >

Fuck, you didn’t even think about that either. You chucked it as space material mostly claimed by the beings of Elsewhere, not fucking divine intervention and the remains of a Primodial deity sealing away something far more terrible and great.

It’s almost hysterically funny in a morbid way: Earth and Cybertron are distant blood cousins that should have been drenched in their own war. Instead, a child of Earth is dating the last of the Primes.

< And Cybertron? >

You croak because Earth may disappear in the upcoming, end-of-the-world battle between forces, but you came for answers about reviving a dying planet. And to perhaps scream at the Eldest, but you lost your chance against that bastard.

The entire space rumbles at his slow chuckles.

< All according to my > that strange word again < calculations. All shall be well. >

You should feel relieved. Should, is the keyword, but foretelling the future has always been a murky subject. There are too many uncertainties and are always in motion. In some ways, it's truth and history, and it's difficult to divine, which is which.

And when it comes to older forces, there's a blood price to pay.

< There is more than meets the eye to this champion. > The god says cryptically as jagged stalactites of teeth break off and disappear. < Perhaps he may remember himself. Perhaps not. >

< And what can be done to jog that memory? >

The Fallen, once known as Megatronus Prime, laughs, and you're swept away by the new current, rolling and tumbling, unable to sink or swim. < There are many paths one can take. > He cradles you. Even at his most gentle, he's forceful. Inescapable in a terrifying moment. < My little brother must find himself again. Not as champion of Prima or Orion Pax of Alpha Trion, but what he truly was, is, and will be. >

You're carried away, going up and up until-

You wake up, jolted back into your body, and you flail hard enough to roll over. Just in time to retch out seawater, sand, and colorful bits of precious metal. Sludge dribbles down your mouth and your stomach spasms, chest burning, lungs heavy, and limbs uncooperative.

You’re vaguely aware of someone by your side, and they catch you before you tumble into your own mess. You shiver violently, pins and needles deep in your limbs, and frozen as if you were rescued from Arctic waters. You struggle to breathe. Gasping. Struggling to remain conscious.

'Your gods are dicks.' is what you want to say, but your mouth and lungs remain uncooperative as Optimus quietly warms up his servos to reheat your body. You're encased in his palms and you can't help but think at Optimus' own gentleness versus his forebearers' attempts: non existent or overwhelming.

Stranger, impossible things must happen to him to remain calm with someone almost drowning in the desert.

#ask #transformers #transformer prime #tfp #reader insert #prima #megatronus prime #solus prime #unicron #optimus prime #optimus #gods and goddesses #magic #horror #cybertronian culture #creation myth #maccadam #i take canon and build off my own shit

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