(TFP x Slime reader) A different kind of transformer

Depressed Deity

Y/n hadn’t moved.

Not a twitch. Not a flicker in their glow. The energon in their body swirled sluggishly, barely pulsing. The Autobots were starting to think something was wrong, medically wrong,  but Ratchet had confirmed it: vitals stable. It must have been just Y/n sleeping.

But it wasn’t that.

Y/n wasn’t sleeping.

They were sinking.

Inside the container, the light was cold and clinical. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t comfort either. Nothing did.

They were curled tightly into themselves, like if they stayed small enough, they might disappear.

Their mind, once a chaotic storm of mischief, confusion, and hunger, had gone quiet. Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just numb.

Y/n: I ate them. I devoured them. Didn’t even think twice. Didn’t even care if they wanted to be mourned. If they had names.

Their eye burned dimly as the memories crawled up again.

They didn’t even know how many Cybertronians they had consumed, torn from the battlefield, broken and twitching, or already gone cold.

They hadn’t felt guilt then. Just hunger. Endless, gnawing hunger.

But now, with nothing to distract them, nothing to do… all those moments clawed at their insides.

Y/n:… Monsters don’t mourn their meals…

They could still taste some of them. They never did mourn any of the bodies they devoured.

And now, locked away in this glass coffin, they couldn’t even move.

Couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t lose themselves in chaos or flirtation. No more teasing Prime. No more irritating Ratchet. No more playful threats to Miko or Jack.

Just this.

Silence.

Stillness.

And a hunger that only got louder.

Their body trembled slightly. The craving was getting unbearable. They weren’t just tired anymore they were starving. Not for attention.

For anything, anything to devour, to make it energon.

Raw. Pure. Like the kind that made them.

And yet… they hated themselves for even wanting it.

Y/n: I didn’t ask to be this. I didn’t want to be this…

Being called Primus’s creation, a miracle, a divine weapon, it made them sick.

They didn’t feel holy. They felt wrong. A crawling, squirming, gluttonous thing, dressed in purity, built to be something sacred. But all they’d ever done was devour.

They hated the way the Autobots looked at them like they were fragile and terrifying.

They hated that the Decepticons saw a god in them.

They hated that part of them liked it.

And most of all, they hated that no matter what they wanted...

They couldn’t stop hungering.

Their eye flickered, just for a moment, staring at the floor... No, through it.

If they could get out…

No. No. Stop.

But the thought lingered, twitching in their mind like static.