weavingmemoir

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Well? What am I?

The mongoose I want under the house when the snake slithers by.

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The Lost Light is suffocating. Shadow weaver barely fits in his room, and Ultra Magnus will not let him nest within the Brig.

He just wants enough room to spread his wings with no eyes to pry. Wants to tear down the unnecessary gates with his teeth and preen his scales with the sharp edges left.

Alas, he merely wraps around himself, lets steam fill his room.

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How small, to think of this as anything but a game.

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"Humans practice a form of intimacy called French kissing. Would you like to eat my tongue? I've never kissed anyone before, but to find tenderness in mutilation... does that appeal to you?"

The inquiry causes Shadow Weaver to stop halfway through his notes, slowly turning to look at the much larger mech looming above him. Without his mask, his expressions are exposed— though not much can be seen beyond the brief frown that appears in his face before being replaced by neutrality.

“You would allow me the opportunity to be your first?” The Wyvern’s vessel squints, tilts his head. There are no tricks to the beast’s words— he knows Rampage well enough that he’d sit on his knees and beg, if it meant a piece of him would be taken.

He almost wants to say no. Deny him this simple pleasure, as he’d denied him before. Giving Rampage what he craves is almost as dangerous as Shadow indulging in his own little quirks and pieces. But he looks at the beast in front of him and all he feels is hunger. His hands reach for Rampage’s chin, claws digging into protoform and lowering him down enough so he can reach.

“You are a peculiar little thing, are you not? You find yourself self sufficient, in need of none other. And yet…” His red optics flicker, only briefly. The claws on Rampage’s chin squeeze just right. “… You keep finding your way back to me. Does that not repulse you? Or is that repulsion what you seek?”

He does not truly wait for an answer. One is not expected. Shadow Weaver plants a gentle kiss to the monster’s teeth.

“Open your mouth.”

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ANATOMY (2016)

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Art by Matteo Moni

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Sorrow

Source: †

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inspired by this post

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It shouldn’t have been surprising. Prey shall always fight hardest to win— it was not uncommon for wounds inflicted by a meal to be near deadly. It had not been uncommon for them to have deadly built in weapons, and it had not been rare for them to strike before the predator had a chance to.

The beast wriggles under Rampage’s dominating grip, mouth opening and closing as he attempts to find a spot to bite. His flexible body attempts to wrap around his assailant, his talons attempt to dig where it can reach. One of his horns is damaged; the brunt of the contact breaking it nearly in half. Smoke comes out without something to stop it, and Shadow Weaver can feel the instant satisfaction from it.

The monster’s monologue is certainly something he admires listening. How foolish, for something such as he to call himself a predator! To attack with no logic, to not attempt to learn his victim’s defenses. There is no joy in killing without stalking, no enjoyment in eating without instilling fear from mere presence.

This is why he stops squirming to open his mouth, allow sand to enter his throat as he inhales, and laugh. It is deep and disconcerting and certainly not something he does often— not like this, not in this form. His voice cannot be found within the Wyvern, only within its host. Beautiful speech, he wants to say, mocking, Now do as you promise, and watch my blood drip from my throat. See if it pleases you.

But he cannot say it. The effort to laugh is lesser than that to speak, so he simply lays completely still, only his tail whipping against the sand like an impatient cat waiting for the mouse to come out of its hole.

He is not afraid. Shadow Weaver has never been afraid of death. There is only the disappointment in him that he would not be allowed to taste metal and energon again, only the misfortune of dying to a killer who barely knows how to have fun. His throat bleeds, cracked only slightly.

And he waits.

Shadow Weaver makes no attempt at listening to the other. He merely bites the air twice, as if smacking his lips, and bobs his head up and down, a clicking following suit like a mock-laugh. The scent of fresh energon in itself is poisoning— in a vigorous way, much like how one might feel after taking boosters. The wyvern had known the radioactivity buried within the stranger before he’d even torn open a wound. When the toxicating smell dissipates into the background, Shadow Weaver is mostly disappointed. He cannot understand why he can’t smell it— he is quite certain that he’s broken off a piece of his opponent, and there should have been bleeding of some sort. So he tilts his head to every each side, quills shivering as he attempts to come up with a reasonable answer for the sudden restored leg, which he is sure he just swallowed.

A theory pops in his mind, and he feels all the more excited— it’s been so long since he’d had a taste of Cybertronian, let alone anything close to radium— and to have an unlimited source of it feels like a dream come true. It takes all his energy to not skip on his feet before he takes flight, aiming at his enemy with his claws, like a hawk diving for its fish. Though much heavier, he still digs his claws in, attempting to break the shell, to cause wounds that would heal in an instant before being opened again.

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Shadow Weaver makes no attempt at listening to the other. He merely bites the air twice, as if smacking his lips, and bobs his head up and down, a clicking following suit like a mock-laugh. The scent of fresh energon in itself is poisoning— in a vigorous way, much like how one might feel after taking boosters. The wyvern had known the radioactivity buried within the stranger before he’d even torn open a wound. When the toxicating smell dissipates into the background, Shadow Weaver is mostly disappointed. He cannot understand why he can’t smell it— he is quite certain that he’s broken off a piece of his opponent, and there should have been bleeding of some sort. So he tilts his head to every each side, quills shivering as he attempts to come up with a reasonable answer for the sudden restored leg, which he is sure he just swallowed.

A theory pops in his mind, and he feels all the more excited— it’s been so long since he’d had a taste of Cybertronian, let alone anything close to radium— and to have an unlimited source of it feels like a dream come true. It takes all his energy to not skip on his feet before he takes flight, aiming at his enemy with his claws, like a hawk diving for its fish. Though much heavier, he still digs his claws in, attempting to break the shell, to cause wounds that would heal in an instant before being opened again.

After the small earthquake caused by the other, Shadow Weaver digs his claws against the silty soil and shakes his head: the action feels invigorating rather than threatening, the spark of a memory from deep within the cave systems that were once his home. So when Rampage jams into him, he is mot quite prepared— saying he is ever prepared for an attack would be insulting his opponent. But he stands his ground well enough to simply stumble over and shake his head im a semblance of recuperation as he puts space between the two of them. Shadow Weaver rumbles, and the sensor spines along his head vibrate with the sound of his throat. Being blind is often not so helpful when you have to fight, but Shadow Weaver is six million years old and has had enough fighting in his alt mode for five lifetimes, even if none of them particularly recent. The jab, though strong and unrelenting, awakens a part of Shadow he’d long thought dormant.

With another rumble, this time followed by a loud, annoyed chatter; Shadows thinks himself confident enough in describing his opponents overall size, the natural weapons present within. So he beats his primary wings once, twice, enough that the next attack is dodged— and countered by a jab of the sharp end of his tail, followed by a swift strike at his opponent’s much smaller legs. Shadow secures one between his teeth, locks his jaw, and twists until it comes off. The scent of fresh energon is enough for him to stumble back, biolights flickering erratically, as he stares (or his best attempt at it) at his opponent.

The end of his horns come open once again, releasing much heavier steam this time as he throws his prize just high enough that he can swallow it on its way down.

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Wounds of the Earth

— by xis.lanyx

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♦️can't see straight♦️

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"Do you idolize the creatures of the night so much, dear Weaver?" The monster's voice wraps around him like invisible vines; thorns grasping, snagging, forcing him to look to where Rampage bares his throat cabling in invitation. "Come, drink your fill of me—just make sure you have an antidote prepared."

A chuckle rumbles deep, raspy in tone but soft in nature. Though the Wyvern does not remove his mask, he can see Rampage’s silhouette leaning, can feel him looming. The thought of seeing this, in full detail and in all colors, is almost enough for the former Decepticon to feel the rare urge to remove his visor. Still, he tilts his head, lifts his hand to scrape at the soft mesh connecting the monster’s neck. He digs, enough to feel metal give in, but not enough to draw energon. Not yet. “You’d offer yourself to me, so desperately? I would have hoped you could give me something else, beyond a poison that does not affect me.” Shadow Weaver’s voice is low, bass accompanying it a hint of the much larger animal he can transform into. His touch is careful— deliberately so. He knows Rampage to sick the pain he can inflict, and he is not willing to give it without challenge. His mask does not allow for his expression to be read, but the quills on his arms vibrate excitedly as he digs his claws in, watches energon seep out onto his waiting claw. It takes only a few practiced movements for him to partially lift his mask, enough for his mouth to show, and lick the energon clean off his finger.

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After the small earthquake caused by the other, Shadow Weaver digs his claws against the silty soil and shakes his head: the action feels invigorating rather than threatening, the spark of a memory from deep within the cave systems that were once his home. So when Rampage jams into him, he is mot quite prepared— saying he is ever prepared for an attack would be insulting his opponent. But he stands his ground well enough to simply stumble over and shake his head im a semblance of recuperation as he puts space between the two of them. Shadow Weaver rumbles, and the sensor spines along his head vibrate with the sound of his throat. Being blind is often not so helpful when you have to fight, but Shadow Weaver is six million years old and has had enough fighting in his alt mode for five lifetimes, even if none of them particularly recent. The jab, though strong and unrelenting, awakens a part of Shadow he’d long thought dormant.

With another rumble, this time followed by a loud, annoyed chatter; Shadows thinks himself confident enough in describing his opponents overall size, the natural weapons present within. So he beats his primary wings once, twice, enough that the next attack is dodged— and countered by a jab of the sharp end of his tail, followed by a swift strike at his opponent’s much smaller legs. Shadow secures one between his teeth, locks his jaw, and twists until it comes off. The scent of fresh energon is enough for him to stumble back, biolights flickering erratically, as he stares (or his best attempt at it) at his opponent.

The end of his horns come open once again, releasing much heavier steam this time as he throws his prize just high enough that he can swallow it on its way down.

The Wyvern, for his turn, merely exhales in response. The fog that follows such action rises, mixing with the smoke that leaves from his within horn-pipes. He cannot speak, not traditionally, so he does not attempt to speak words the other would not understand.

The prey is dropped to the floor, this time completely dead. Blood soaks and drips from Shadow Weaver’s jaw, landing somewhere close to his front wings and splattering against pure sand meeting silt and dirt.

With a series of clicks, Shadow Weaver lowers his head all the way to the sand and raises his tail, showing the sharp ends along its tip and spines that follow all along his spine. The display could be seen as a curtesy, a greeting, if it was not for the way his biolights blink in a series of patterns and the louder bellow mixed with a hiss, the attempted communication of a threat might not so easily have been recognized.

However, there is submission within. Weaver cannot fully see Rampage— merely his silhouette within a grid. He can see his claws and can predict the easy manner in which they may clip his wings.

Shadow Weaver is no stranger to being hunted. He knows the dread, and the thrill of it. And he knows how to overpower beings much bigger than himself. Completely confident in his own abilities, Shadow Weaver pins the animal’s body with his claws and tears off its head. He then throws it at Rampage with no ceremony, cocking his head in a manner similar to a bird. Though the growl that comes from deep within his chest is gentle, and no words follow it, his meaning is obvious.

This is a much easier meal.

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There’s something quite… poetic, about vampirism, yeah? Borrowing someone’s life force for yourself. A willing sacrifice of your, hm. Partnership. :)

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Bring a claw close to beaten prey. Watch it dig deep and deep and deep and deep and listen to the body’s song. Pay close attention to the melody of life and death and beginning and end. Let your quills shiver and feel that noise. Let your body absorb it. Carve bone with your teeth, tear metal with your mouth and your glossa and your sharp sharp edges. Feel it’s warmth, it’s coldness, it’s hardness, it’s softness .

Tear it down. Become it. Allow that sound to travel through you. Repeat the melody, best you can. Let all hear the beauty you hear every time a kill is certain. Every time it is just.

Close your eyes, and do it again.