noiizemaze
weaver's web
by the time this is over, we'll have done something weird to everyone
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BIG stretchy.
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LIVE (nothing wrong with me)
LAUGH (nothing wrong with me)
LOVE (nothing wrong with me)
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{ @trustme-imamedic }
Would that entirely be a bad thing?~
“No, not at all. It would be beneficial. I need the extra nutrients…”
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“I wouldn’t bite you,” Tarantulas says immediately, then revises herself, “I mean, I wouldn’t bite you on purpose. It would probably be a dry bite, anyways. Sometimes things happen. But certainly not with venom. It’s a pain to have to synthesize more of it.” The I like you too much goes unspoken.
The arachnoid shuffles over a little closer to Ravage, leaning down to speak more privately between the two of them. “I can’t kindle. There was some… purposeful Angelmois exposure, during my infancy. But this body can still produce eggs, even though they’ll be null. The eggs can be used for a multitude of purposes. It’s resource-intensive, though, so usually triggered by some excess, aah, spare nutrients.”
"Do I look a little pudgier to you?"
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A fuzzy paw— pedipalp, as Tarantulas insisted, as they were part of her beast mode— brushes against the wheel that makes up part of Prowl’s pede, then just rests there at his ankle joint as her poisonously green visor dims at him.
He is teasing her. She is sickeningly, vomitously sincere when she admits, “It got me you, didn’t it? In the beginning. And Springer. He’s the most important thing I’ve ever played a role in creating. He’s nothing at all like I had hoped for, you know. Isn’t that funny? He’s so much better.”
Tara sighs, and having enough of being a fuzzy tripping hazard, pushes herself up to stand and nudge her pedipalp under Prowl’s chin instead.
“If I was given the choice. I would do it all again, Prowl. All of it. Every agonizing moment of pain and suffering we put each other through, physical and mental. All the anguish and death I caused in your name, and then in spite of it. The Noisemaze. Aequitas. He is worth it to me.”
"You should consider-" (A pause. Prowl thinks.) "-changing professions. There's no practical need for you to be a scientist. Much less a mad one. Not anymore."
Prowl’s little suggestion stops the arachnoid mid-clamber, suspended and awkwardly outstretched between the wall and the storage rack she’d been stretching for. She slides down to the floor with a muffled thump at Prowl’s pedes.
“No practical- no practical need?” Tarantulas struggles, all eight ancillary legs splayed wildly from her slow descent suddenly scrunching in tight to her body. “No practical need. For science? No?”
The thought was unthinkable. Blasphemous, even. What was Tarantulas if not a scientist?
Sitting up feels laborious. Maybe she’ll just stay on the floor. “It’s not- it’s not my job. I don’t get paid. I don’t think I get paid. Did you ever actually pay me? You just— handed me supplies and things. I never asked. But— Science, Prowl. That’s very broad. Do you mean gene editing? Entomology? Fleshcrafting? Chemistry? Baking?”
Her visor seems rather doleful in the low lighting. “What would I do if I’m not doing weird things to everyone?”
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{ @mnemoiisms }
It is just the humidity with your fur.
Color Tarantulas a little disappointed. She paws at her flat undercarriage, mandibles drooping.
"I'll have to try harder."
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"Do I look a little pudgier to you?"
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Art assignment but i made it taraprowl (if you squint)
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"I don't think you get it. I understand. I just don't care."
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“I just want to feel safe,” Tarantulas mutters, carefully laying down more webbing with which to cocoon herself into the upper corner. There’s too much open space. Too much possibility and room for error.
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“You’re all being incredibly soggy cardboard tubes about what humans call ‘plastic surgery’. Fleshcrafting is just, hyeh, a little more rigorous than a corrective rhinoplasty.”
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“Fun fact, sweetspark: I’m already an Autobot scientist.”
Tarantulas isn’t really looming as much as she usually does. In fact, after some consideration she crouches down and offers a fuzzy paw out to Bee.
“Or I was, anyway. I developed much of the disarming and disabling tech employed for nonlethal combat, as well as a fair chunk of medical equipment.”
“…you know, the autobots could really use more happy scientists. Or sad scientists. We already have like, three mad ones. You wanna trade up?”
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"You should consider-" (A pause. Prowl thinks.) "-changing professions. There's no practical need for you to be a scientist. Much less a mad one. Not anymore."
Prowl’s little suggestion stops the arachnoid mid-clamber, suspended and awkwardly outstretched between the wall and the storage rack she’d been stretching for. She slides down to the floor with a muffled thump at Prowl’s pedes.
“No practical- no practical need?” Tarantulas struggles, all eight ancillary legs splayed wildly from her slow descent suddenly scrunching in tight to her body. “No practical need. For science? No?”
The thought was unthinkable. Blasphemous, even. What was Tarantulas if not a scientist?
Sitting up feels laborious. Maybe she’ll just stay on the floor. “It’s not- it’s not my job. I don’t get paid. I don’t think I get paid. Did you ever actually pay me? You just— handed me supplies and things. I never asked. But— Science, Prowl. That’s very broad. Do you mean gene editing? Entomology? Fleshcrafting? Chemistry? Baking?”
Her visor seems rather doleful in the low lighting. “What would I do if I’m not doing weird things to everyone?”
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