Shadow Weaver

Medic. Lost Light Resident, most of the time. A little feral.

[weavingmemoir]

Transformers OC RP and Ask account

Please beware for themes of Gore, descriptive violence, occasional (usually implied) nsfw among many weird thoughts of a guy who might as well be an entity of sorts.

Character Information

Rules

Follows back from @rodismancave !

[weavingmemoir]

Well? What am I?

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

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[weavingmemoir]

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

[weavingmemoir]

"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.”

[biocrafthero]

ANATOMY (2016)

[bebs-art-gallery]

Art by Matteo Moni

[bebs-art-gallery]

Sorrow

Source: †

[bebx]

inspired by this post

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[sparksavor]

Rampage is oddly silent and still as the wyvern dives at him, distracted by his racing thoughts. Is it possible the beast is immune? Never before has anyone ingested his energon and simply shrugged off the effects. The radiation seething in his lines is so potent, it had brought even the strongest Autobot warriors he'd faced to their knees after a mere taste.

He's snapped out of his reverie as talons scrape over his shell, scoring the thick armor with superficial grazes. The shock is eclipsed by an intense, burning rage; it surges through his frame and ignites the very core of his spark, lending him a turn of shocking speed.

When the wyvern claws at him again, he whirls to bludgeon his tail into his underside. There's no more pretense, no more pulling his punches; a tremor claw snaps shut around the beast's throat, holding him there with as much effort one might expend lifting a petro-rat.

"Wretched, foolish lizard!" he bellows, slamming Weaver into the ground hard enough to rattle his fangs in their housing. "You think yourself the predator, and I the prey? You think to best me at my own game? I am hellfire given form, an inextinguishable fury; and now, I am your teacher in suffering!"

The claw around Weaver's neck tightens in increments; never quite enough to choke off the supply of energon to his brain module, but enough for the threat to be very real. The earth cracks and opens up beneath him as Rampage pushes him further down, as if unconsciously trying to bury him alive.

"Fear!" the monster screams at him, his jaws snapping a few feet from Weaver's face. "Show me your fear!"

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[becomingvecna]

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[sparksavor]

The monster tilts its head forwards and down, deflecting the wyvern's lashing tail in a shower of sparks as it glances off his shell; in doing so he breaks line of sight with his opponent. He hisses as the wyvern's head expertly darts around his bulk, a sound that reverberates and deepens to a growl as he wrenches at the lower joint of one of his legs.

The leg twists and snaps off midway with the ear-splitting sound of metal rending, leaving him with a bleeding stump. Rampage stumbles back reflexively, shaking his head as the shock ripples through his circuitry and makes his spark accelerate.

"Heh." He laughs, choked and shuddering with something closer to pleasure than pain. "Heh. Hahhh."

The disfigured limb twitches, a green energon-lattice spiralling down in the shape of a replacement before constituent mechanisms and plating sprouts from the raw mesh; the regrowth takes seconds, the blink of an optic. The new limb shines, bright and glossy compared to its neighbors.

Rampage slams his tremor claws together and advances once more, still laughing—though his mirth dies when he realizes what the wyvern is about to do.

"I wouldn't—"

Too late. He watches, conflict warring in his spark, as his severed limb vanishes down the wyvern's throat.

"—eat that. My energon is toxic; you have just secured yourself a slow, agonizing death."

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[bebs-art-gallery]

Wounds of the Earth

— by xis.lanyx

[wolfsteax]

♦️can't see straight♦️

[weavingmemoir]

"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.

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[sparksavor]

The monster stretches out its segmented body and bows back, though not out of respect; its own tail goes up, only to slam back down to shake the ground they stand on with unrelenting force. An impatient denial of any proposed submission, one that leaves no room for negotiation. The sound of the earth splintering beneath him echoes for miles.

Protoform X is not here seeking anything other than violence. If the wyvern is set on refusing to communicate with words, he'll let his actions speak for them both. The monster clacks and rattles like a volley of machine-gun fire as he sways side-to-side, scraping his horn against the muddy bank in some parody of an instinctive warning before he charges. The dead thing may have been an easier meal, but now it's trampled into the dirt and forgotten as he launches his assault.

He doesn't intend to kill the other beastformer; the aggression blazing through him is born of curiosity, not hunger as he claimed. The first jab of his horn is purposefully aimed to the side, but then he swings one tremor claw at the wyvern's chest, holding back the full extent of his strength as an afterthought. A delirious cackle bursts from his throat as he pursues, snapping and lunging at his target in a frenzy.

[weavingmemoir]

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.

[weavingmemoir]

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